They were watching the Lawrence Welk Show. You could see it on their glasses, reflected images flickering, as though projected by their eyes. They didn't move, or sway, or ask each other to dance. They were watching dorky singers, Lawrence Welk keeping time, they almost smiled when the trumpet player kept standing, finishing his bit.

All I wanted was for them to see, that all of this was stupid. That Lawrence Welk was stupid, that his time had passed, and no one cared about Big Bands. The show was "from Hollywood" and Lawrence would acknowledge the artificial clapping between each number, conveying, just a little, that he hoped you wouldn't catch on to the lie. I wanted them to see that the singers were dressed up like dolls, like you'd expect them to be if they been thawed and spruced up, made to be cheery, and sing a song for you. Matching suits, matching dresses, hair you see on politicians, colors you won't see anywhere. 1965?

All they wanted was to watch the Lawrence Welk show. Babysit me just a few more hours. Get through their evening, Go to bed. All I did was complain about it, make them wish I wasn't there.