Tucked beneath a Long Island home lies the most magical place in the whole wide world. Written and Illustrated by Jenna Gutierrez
O
ur basement was a mecca for the children of Taft Drive. A winding staircase transported visitors from the main floor down to the bottom. Half of the floor space was run entirely by my twin sister (who I have only ever called Sissy) and me. The stairs divided the basement into two juxtaposing areas: the “kids’ side” and the “adults’ side.” They were unified, however, by school bus yellow walls with orange and lime green moulding. Sissy made signs written in Sharpie on the wall to label both areas—for newcomers, of course. For the rest of our friends who came down, it was muscle memory. Keep left for the kids’ side and stay away from the right. That was the rule if you wanted to play at the Gutierrez House: never, ever go on the adults’ side. We didn’t need to though—our side was enough. The monument of the kids’ side was a colossal 1995 Hitachi TV, with all other toys and games surrounding. It was covered in thick dust and could barely budge when we needed to move it forward to re-plug the Wii into the wall. Sometimes it didn’t turn on. When it did, we chose between Guitar Hero and Super Mario, and if we broke out the guitars, Mom would sometimes come down for a song or two. Up against a bunch of seven-year-olds, she shredded the tiny plastic guitar to Kiss and Alice Cooper songs. After our defeat, she would proudly walk back upstairs with her nose in the air, not to be seen again for another few hours when everyone was sent home for dinner. On the many days when the blank TV screen mocked us, we got creative. Sissy and I had all the typical toys. Yes, the used-up Barbies, the Polly
8
SQUARE 95 • FALL 2021
Pockets, the countless birthday party Build-a-Bears. But imaginative play, play that we conceived out of nothing at all, was what we did best. We liked to pretend most of all—pretending to be singers or parents or, most notably, maids. “French Cleaning” was what we called it, dreamt up by my sister and me along with the Lefkowitz twins next door. A bunch of eight-year-olds cleaning for fun. The Hairspray soundtrack blared from Mom’s boombox, Sissy on her hands and knees to scrub under the craft table. Imagining Link Larkin singing back to me as I sang all of Tracy’s verses, I wiped down the vandalized, homemade chalkboard dramatically, as if he was lovingly watching me. Everybody sang. Everybody knew all the words—I made sure of it. “French Cleaning” was unexplainably fun. It felt mature in a way, like we were growing out of something. But the next night was the debut of my performance of Lady Gaga’s “Alejandro,” where I squeezed into Sissy’s red leotard from one of her recitals and provocatively danced and lip-synced for the parents and kids of Taft Drive. It was a smash hit. Mrs. Murphy next door peed in her pants. Performing never got old in the basement, we just slowly seemed to. “If you play ‘house’ with us, you can be a celebrity,” my neighbors and I would beg Sissy. The prospect of fame in our performances became the only way we could get Sissy to play pretend with us past age ten, and we really tried our hardest to lure her in. “You can wear the Hannah Montana wig today and our kids can be fans!” Maggie exclaimed, kneeling over a pile of doll clothes. But Sissy rolled her eyes and confidently crossed over to the adult’s side, disappearing into the giant
couch with her brand-new iPad. With such ease, Sissy shattered the rule that shaped our childhood playground. As if we could have just walked over there all along. A great wave of shame smacked the kids’ side, flooding our wonderland. The dolls and the dress-up and the dancing suddenly became shameful, a vice I had to keep hidden from my now seemingly older twin sister. So, I waited patiently for Sissy to go to dance class for the night, knowing I would have a few hours to indulge peacefully.
Keep left for the kids’ side and stay away from the right. That was the rule if you wanted to play at the Gutierrez house: never, ever go on the adults’ side. And to the kids’ side I went, savoring the last moments I knew I would have in the make-believe. We all eventually followed Sissy, though, slowly making the switch to the adults’ side. Accompsett Elementary to Accompsett Middle School. Hanging on the yellow walls was a taxidermy swordfish that my dad and brother caught, its eyes still glassy and alive. The monument of the adults’ side for many years. My mom hated it.
