Live-In: The Show

Kyle moved in with us. And if you don’t know who Kyle is, then you’re missing out. 

As my childhood friend Heather always liked to point out, usually with exasperation and mild confusion when I was telling a story, we actually have three Kyle’s in our family: Neighbor Kyle, Brother Kyle, and Friend Kyle. They’re all pretty phenomenal characters in their own rights, but this time I’m talking about BROTHER Kyle.

Kyle is one of my three brothers. He’s single and childless and has a vision for a reality show called “Live-In.” Which is kind of what he’s living right now. I haven’t spotted a camera crew yet, but if I‘ve learned anything from MTV’s The Real World, it’s a camera crew’s job to blend in.

Anyway, Kyle has two bachelor’s degrees, a contractor’s license, a bartending license, a real estate license, and is a culinary school graduate. I know, valuable skills.

In Kyle’s reality show, he would move in with a family and complete a home renovation while cooking meals for them. And for extra drama, he’d get involved in the goings-on of the family. He might coach one of the kids through a friendship drama, counsel the couple in their marital issues, or teach one of the younger children to read. Ideally, he’d clean, too, but that might be asking a lot.

And essentially, that’s what he’s doing for us. Tighe’s converted our playroom into his office, which means the mounds of toys that reside in our house need a new room to clutter up. So, we’re finishing the basement and tossing all the toys down the steps.

And that’s where Kyle comes in. He’s been here almost a month, framing, moving ductwork, hanging drywall, flipping omelets, grilling wings, smoking pork butts, chatting with Tess, teaching Sam how to multiply three and four-digit numbers, and showing Lou how to use a circular saw.

When I pick Tess up from school in the afternoons, after the initial “how was your day? What did you do?” her first comment is, “I wonder what Kyle’s doing.” Upon entering the house, she dutifully hangs up her school bag and her coat and tucks her pink unicorn mittens into her hot pink fleece hat, and calls down the basement steps, “Kyyyyy-llllee! I’m home!”

She daintily tip-toes down the steps, one foot, then two feet on the steps, always leading with the same foot, until she reaches the bottom, where she throws both arms behind her in the shape of a T, smiling her biggest, cheesiest smile, as if her arrival to the basement is a long-anticipated gift. 

She praises Kyle’s progress, asks how his day has gone, and then inquires about why he hasn’t moved her pink princess castle down to the basement yet. That will be the finishing touch.

And then Nate and Sam get home. They burst through the kitchen door, like a noisy explosion, tumbling over one another in an entanglement of coats and backpacks and masks, which they discard all over the living room and dining room floors—all places they don’t belong. They pound down the basement steps and pace around the dusty concrete floor, digging their fists into Cheez-it bags or snack-sized Pringles cans or some other dangerously delicious after-school indulgence from Costco, as they tell Kyle about their days.

Nate, believe it or not, does most of the talking. He starts with his football stats from recess that day. Recess is only 20 minutes, but somehow Nate manages to rack up 8 sacks, 3 batted down passes, 6 interceptions, and 9 touchdowns.  And then there’s the inspirational halftime speech he claims to give every single day that fires up even the dullest of third-grade boys. Next he updates Kyle on any funny things his friends said or any of the boy-girl drama that’s starting to develop in his grade. Kyle just nods, periodically pausing Nate with the hum of a saw or a drill and peppering the soliloquy with some thoughtful “uh-huhs…” 

In the reality show/90’s sitcom version of events, Kyle would seize this moment to teach Nate about the birds and the bees and give him some advice on respecting women. I think we have to pay extra for that. 

When Nate runs out of things to say, which can take a while, Kyle starts with a list of questions for Sam. By this time, Sam has usually woven his lanky body in between sheets of drywall or stashed himself in some make-shift hiding place, like above the freezer or on one of the storage shelves, so his one-word replies are a bit muffled. 

But we all know what he’s going to say anyway. He’s a smart-ass. And he’s elusive. So when asked how his day was, how his spelling test went, or who he played with, his answers are all the same, “Chick-fil-A sauce” or “Jimmy.” Even though Jimmy’s not in his class this year and the nearest Chick-fil-A is a good five miles from his school, nor does he actually eat Chick-fil-A sauce.

As the camera zooms in on Sam’s face, Kyle asks him about his feelings and coaxes him to express what’s really going on inside his brain, thus warding off a future homicide.

Then Lou wakes up from his nap. He always puts both hands in the air, palms up, inquisitive, as if to say, “where are my people?” His first stop is the top of the basement steps, where he leans forward, like an adrenaline junkie, and calls out “Hi!” repeatedly. When Kyle appears at the bottom of the steps, he leans backwards and waves, his arm in the air as high as he can reach and his whole hand hinging at the wrist. 

Kyle hustles up the steps to meet him at the top, picks him up and gives him a progress report. Little incriminating footprints dot the basement floor, showing where Lou has tried to pick up tools or hidden screws or just stood to point at the new recessed lights that Kyle’s installed.

“Kyle!” I call out, “Are they bothering you?” I mean, I enjoy the relative quiet in my kitchen hideout, but I also want Kyle to eventually finish the job, so I feel like I have to clear the obstacles for him.

“Uh… I mean, I could get more work done without them,” he calls back, too nice to actually tell them to get out of his way. 

They march up the steps and through the house, a trail of drywall dust behind them, to work on homework, get ready for basketball practice, play outside with friends, or in Lou’s case, empty the contents of all the kitchen cabinets onto the floor.

As dinner approaches, Kyle wraps up his work for the day, Tighe emerges from his new office, and everyone meets up on the couch for a few Baywatch segments. Like a true 90’s sitcom.