Black Friday (Here there be monsters)
I’m wearing my coat. I have my shoes on. I have my mother’s blessing as I reach for that eye-level knob to the front door, and step outside alone. It’s a beautiful November day in Arkansas.
Time to go hunting.
I know it’s up to me. Mom said we’d have monster soup for lunch, and there’s no better monster hunter than a four-year-old boy.
Outside, I look around carefully. Stalking around the swingset, I investigate every shadow. I have my Roy Rogers rifle at the ready. Made of the finest Asian plastics, it is the best weapon for the hunt. My finger is outside the trigger guard, as I know how lethal that springy “click” can be when pointed at ethereal targets.
After all, not all monsters are to be hunted.
For some time now, I’ve seen the good side of monsters, in my new friends on Sesame Street. They don’t just live in a Big City street, they sometimes come to play with me at the swingset, singing songs and talking about important things like numbers and letters, and “near” and “far.”
But we all know it’s not monsters like Grover who live in shadows under beds or in dark closets - or in the woods.
I carefully cross the gravel street that separates my parents’ one-acre estate from the woods beyond. We live near the edge of this bustling town of 200. I don’t venture very far into the trees before I see signs of monster activity. It’s hard to describe, but when you have the sharp eyes and clear mind of that age, you know. I stalk. I aim. I fire.
This is one of the last great monster hunts of my young life. Months later, I take a girl from next door hunting, and our first date becomes our last as that time, the monsters ambushed us. Little monsters, with stingers, and that horrifying buzz. The Great Monster Hunter learns fear, and never hunts again.
It’s not the last time I eat monster soup. Nearly every year of my growing up, in the days following Thanksgiving or Christmas, Mom would serve that goulash-style substance over rice. The bits of monster taste a lot like turkey, which we coincidentally had a lot of on hand, but a boy knows monster when he tastes it. Where did she get it? I’m sure she had her sources.
I miss the hunt sometimes, even though I have a lot more complex relationship with monsters now. Through the same imagine-nation paths I once took to have snacks with Cookie Monster (or hunt his evil cousins), I have socialized with vampires and werewolves, played dice with dragons and had long philosophical discussions with Cthulhu.
In latter years, on the day after Thanksgiving I hunt bargains. It’s not the same. And they frown on bringing a rifle into Target - ironic, considering the store’s name.
But I sense I may have a second chance.
I went back to my Mom’s house for Thanksgiving. I had to leave before any of the day-after meals, so no chance for monster soup this time. But I got to spend the day with my sisters’ children. One is three, and she and I practiced our stalking skills, playing hide-and-seek with the others. Will she be ready to hunt next year? Possibly, though she may prefer a non-lethal quest for unicorns.
There is another -- a little one, who even at 14-months-old shows promise. The way he grabs bits of food in both hands, I can see him getting a taste for monster. Someday, in a couple of years, when he can handle a click-gun or an appropriately-shaped stick, we will make those dark shadows quake with fear. Then we will feast.
- - - - -
A rare nonfiction entry (as everything that happens in a little boy's imagination is absolutely true) for LJ Idol Season 8, Week 6, Topic: " Food Memory"
Time to go hunting.
I know it’s up to me. Mom said we’d have monster soup for lunch, and there’s no better monster hunter than a four-year-old boy.
Outside, I look around carefully. Stalking around the swingset, I investigate every shadow. I have my Roy Rogers rifle at the ready. Made of the finest Asian plastics, it is the best weapon for the hunt. My finger is outside the trigger guard, as I know how lethal that springy “click” can be when pointed at ethereal targets.
After all, not all monsters are to be hunted.
For some time now, I’ve seen the good side of monsters, in my new friends on Sesame Street. They don’t just live in a Big City street, they sometimes come to play with me at the swingset, singing songs and talking about important things like numbers and letters, and “near” and “far.”
But we all know it’s not monsters like Grover who live in shadows under beds or in dark closets - or in the woods.
I carefully cross the gravel street that separates my parents’ one-acre estate from the woods beyond. We live near the edge of this bustling town of 200. I don’t venture very far into the trees before I see signs of monster activity. It’s hard to describe, but when you have the sharp eyes and clear mind of that age, you know. I stalk. I aim. I fire.
This is one of the last great monster hunts of my young life. Months later, I take a girl from next door hunting, and our first date becomes our last as that time, the monsters ambushed us. Little monsters, with stingers, and that horrifying buzz. The Great Monster Hunter learns fear, and never hunts again.
It’s not the last time I eat monster soup. Nearly every year of my growing up, in the days following Thanksgiving or Christmas, Mom would serve that goulash-style substance over rice. The bits of monster taste a lot like turkey, which we coincidentally had a lot of on hand, but a boy knows monster when he tastes it. Where did she get it? I’m sure she had her sources.
I miss the hunt sometimes, even though I have a lot more complex relationship with monsters now. Through the same imagine-nation paths I once took to have snacks with Cookie Monster (or hunt his evil cousins), I have socialized with vampires and werewolves, played dice with dragons and had long philosophical discussions with Cthulhu.
In latter years, on the day after Thanksgiving I hunt bargains. It’s not the same. And they frown on bringing a rifle into Target - ironic, considering the store’s name.
But I sense I may have a second chance.
I went back to my Mom’s house for Thanksgiving. I had to leave before any of the day-after meals, so no chance for monster soup this time. But I got to spend the day with my sisters’ children. One is three, and she and I practiced our stalking skills, playing hide-and-seek with the others. Will she be ready to hunt next year? Possibly, though she may prefer a non-lethal quest for unicorns.
There is another -- a little one, who even at 14-months-old shows promise. The way he grabs bits of food in both hands, I can see him getting a taste for monster. Someday, in a couple of years, when he can handle a click-gun or an appropriately-shaped stick, we will make those dark shadows quake with fear. Then we will feast.
- - - - -
A rare nonfiction entry (as everything that happens in a little boy's imagination is absolutely true) for LJ Idol Season 8, Week 6, Topic: " Food Memory"