Carrot Head

I hit him over the head with a carrot.

That was our introduction, the squeaky bonk the plastic carrot with the smiley face made the first words, in effect, I ever said to him. The first he ever said to me came in the form of a long, loud wail, enough to rattle the windows of every home in the neighborhood. We all laughed at this - myself and the slightly older kids I managed to impress with my half hearted torture of the little newcomer - as we watched him peddle off, still crying, down the street on his tricycle.

Later on, as we aged, there were other forms of torture - worse ones, like being excluded from the experience of the movies. Not that we went that often but we knew that it was harder for him; that, being younger, it would take a lot more begging to see things with guns and car chases and girls.

Then there was that legendary late afternoon in his garage where his father attacked his mother, and his mother implored him to grab a mop and to hit his father repeatedly so that he'd stop hitting her repeatedly.

I'm sure it created a long, dark hole inside him, one he went on feeling for a long, long time. I'd like to think that as he grew, he flirted with replicating his father's behavior, realized he had a problem, and sought help. I'd also like to think that he is now a model human being, kind and appreciative towards all.

And that whenever he hears of a movie that he'd like to see, he goes.

Or, if he remains full of hurt and rage, that he goes anyway, and that it is his one form of escape and triumph over those armed with carrots, mops, and denial.