The Gay Uncle was minding his own business, having a big gay brunch with his boyfriend at a dumb outdoor café in L.A. this weekend, when a nice-looking straight couple walked by, pushing their toddler in a stroller. Gunc is not exactly sure what happened next–he didn’t see a measles innoculation, an inorganic soymilk tetra-pack, a pile of Phthalates, or priest anywhere in the vicinity–but all of the sudden, the Bugaboo the pair was propelling sort of…went off, and started producing a deafening siren. And it wasn’t any ordinary noise–and it strangely wasn’t coming from their child, whose mouth was closed. It was a glowing, penetrating, electronic shriek, something like a cheap car alarm, but much, much louder, and more shrill. “Excuse me, but what the fuck is happening,” the G.U. asked, looking around, in case Los Angeles was or collapsing into a chasm, or falling victim to a Botox recall alert, and this stroller was the coal mine canary. But absolutely nothing was going on. Nothing at all. Just a bunch of people trying to eat mediocre omelettes, and roasted heirloom potatoes with homemade catsup. Eventually the nice mother and father found some way to make their child’s wheeled conveyance stop its piercing wail, and they strolled by as if nothing had happened–no apology, no explanation–moving toward Trader Joe’s (a.k.a. Parent Mecca) at a leisurely pace. The Gay Uncle looked at his boyfriend and shrugged, as if to say Isn’t this just like life: loud, mysterious, and ending abruptly. But then he glanced briefly over at the couple sitting next to them on the sidewalk: a 70 year-old woman, and what he assumed to be her husband. Catching his eye, the old lady shook her head. “Fucking Breeders,” she said with disgust to her compatriot, revealing themselves to be a cranky old lesbian and her gay-best-friend. “They think they own the sidewalks.” “You should see them at the Farmers’ Market, or the coffee place,” he spat. The woman squinted at Gunc and Tal. “What was that siren all about anyway?” Her brunch-mate shrugged and looked generally befuddled, as did G&T, and soon enough, everyone went back to eating. But as the G.U. found himself mulling over the question, he realized that the weirdest part wasn’t that he didn’t know the answer; the weirdest part was that the kid didn’t seem to flinch at this cacophony, as if the deafening alarm went off all the time. The Gay Uncle believes that–unless his parents are training him to sleep through nuclear attack, or to be a soldier in the endless Afghan occupation–this can’t be very good for his development.
2 Replies to “Stroller Siren”
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Uggh — this happened to me on the subway the other day; this kid in a stroller didn’t appear particularly unhappy as she played with some sort of ring-toy, but every ten seconds or so, she let loose with an eardrum-piercing wail of feedback that literally knocked the wind out of me. As with you, the only good to come out of it (besides some pity for who I assume was the mother) was a brief moment of camaraderie with some of my fellow passengers; it was understood by all that it was either a laugh-or-cry type of moment, and we managed the former before thankfully reaching the next station, where the door opened and we all rushed out, saving us from the latter.
Remember when it used to be polite to let children and older people go to the front of auditoriums? Now the parents can’t let the little darlings out of their sights (with good reason–not arguing that), so they think they should be able to come late and push their way to the front with their offspring. I watched an elderly man and woman who had waited an hour for a Christmas tree lighting leave after a 6 foot man came in at the last minute, put his toddler on his shoulders and blocked any possibility of a view. What happened to basic politeness (much less teaching it to your children)?