A Cautionary Tale

        Here waits a six-year-old boy. Oliver sits in his living room cross-legged on the carpet in front of the “brand new” coffee table his father has brought home from his latest storage auction. His father paces, nervous, by the door. His mother glances out the window during commercial breaks. It is early afternoon and Oliver hasn’t eaten since the morning, his stomach growls. His mother tells him he’ll have to wait until after, that he burps after eating and that would be off-putting during the interview. His father agrees with a nod. Oliver remains still and wonders what it is exactly he is meant to be waiting for. What could possibly have his parents both so stressed? He doesn’t know, so he waits. Here waits a six-year-old boy.

              In what feels like hours to Oliver but is, in reality, only minutes, a stout man in a dark suit is welcomed through the door by his father and his mother stands to greet him. He, the man, asks to see “the boy.” Here is the boy, at the coffee table. His parents instruct “the boy” to greet the man who has introduced himself as Dr. Gagnon.

              “Hello Doctor Gagnon.” Says Oliver. The boy wonders if he’s sick and hasn’t realized it, his only experience with doctors being those of the medical-type. Dr. Gagnon nods and smiles, revealing teeth too small for the mouth they sit in, and says something Oliver doesn’t understand to his parents. Something about a gifted program, an interview. Non-traditional. Oliver isn’t old enough to know what makes something non-traditional – What are traditions when everything is new? His parents, mostly his father as his mother has become distracted by the television once more, ask nervous, probing questions about the interview: What do you need from him? Can we stay and watch? Dr. Gagnon insists there is nothing to fear, everything is perfectly safe and normal, that he does this all the time, that the kids who do pass the interview and gain acceptance into the program have no problem passing the interview. It is the ones who struggle in the interview who face difficulty.

              “Isn’t that always the way?” His mother asks his father who says nothing, but bites his nails. The doctor checks the time and then insists, implores, that he be allowed to conduct the interview, he is on a very tight schedule and cannot deviate from it. Gagnon takes the parents’ silence as permission to continue, kneels before the coffee table opposite Oliver, opens his briefcase. With care he removes five items and places them in front of Oliver. The items are (from left to right): pocketknife, tarnished brass telescope, H key from typewriter, faded letter, expired military ration.

              “One of these objects belongs to you, Oliver.” At this close distance Oliver notices the man’s bulging eyes and caterpillar eyebrows, his absurdly pushed-up nose and small, thin mouth, the teeth seeming smaller still. The man’s breath, which smells of deli meats, makes Oliver’s stomach rumble.

              “What do you mean, belongs to him? I thought this was an interview not some deranged experiment, a giveaway! If I knew you’d be putting a pocketknife in front of my boy, who by the way has no history of violence but I’d rather not try our luck, I’d have told you to stuff it at the door!” His father says.

              “I understand your confusion, but please allow me to explain to your son what is expected of him. The test is mandatory for entry into the program.”

              “And you’ve laid them all out directly on my brand-new mahogany table! Couldn’t you have laid a towel, asked me for a blanket, a placemat?” His father says.

              “It’s not brand-new, don’t lie to the man. Don’t make him think the scratches and nicks and grooves that were there when you brought the table home are his fault. He’s under enough stress as it is, I’m sure.” His mother says.

              “I know it’s secondhand but it’s new to me!”

              “Please may I continue the interview?” The doctor asks.

              “Yes yes, go ahead. He won’t interrupt you again.” His mother says.

              “Thank you. Now, boy, Oliver was it? One of these items already belongs to you. Now, this is not a gift. One of them is yours. Not all of them, just one singular item. All I need from you, kiddo, is to select which item belongs to you already. Feel free to touch them, pick them up, get a feel for each item. Try to remember which one is yours.” The man finishes and eyes Oliver with an uncomfortable intensity. The boy looks between his mother and father who nod encouragingly.

He starts on the left, with the pocketknife, and his father flinches but manages to say nothing. As he lifts the tool the blade swings out, its joint having failed long ago. Carefully, he examines the red handle and turns the tool in his hand while the blade lolls in and out of its protective shell. He considers touching the blade but the look on his father’s face, eyes wide and lips tightened to the point he almost no longer looks like himself, tells him not to. He sets the knife down, the father exhales.

              Oliver takes the telescope in his hands and stares blankly. Already the task has become boring and he would much rather go outside or eat lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich hopefully, or even study as his parents so often seem to need him to do. He brings the telescope to his eye and jumps at the horrid, magnified image of the doctor’s tight nostrils. He drops the telescope onto the table – a loose screw rolls away.

"Not on the table!” His father covers his mouth and gives Oliver’s mother an apologetic look.

Oliver moves on. An H key? He’s never heard of a typewriter. In fact, most of his typing experience has been on a capacitive touch screens, the modern keyboard, and he had minimal experience with any analog devices in his short life. Something about the shape of the H stirred a feeling in him though, the contours of the key maybe, or the texture of the H. He moves on. He flips the letter over and tries to make out the words. No luck. Oliver’s best guess is the letter is something like one thousand years old, though his sense of history hasn’t had much time to develop. The paper is stiff even now and reluctant to lay flat. It smells faintly of meat – perhaps the same meat which lingers on Dr. Gagnon’s breath? Setting the letter aside, he moves on.

              He reaches the final item, the expired military ration. He knows about the military. His great grandfather had been a part of it, he’d heard. The ration is inside a tin can, the same kind that holds beans and soups, weathered by rust and time. Was this what great grandfather had eaten, during the war? He doesn’t know much about the war, only how his grandfather took on a sullen look and his father puffed out his chest if ever it was mentioned. The lip of the can is lifted slightly and he can almost make out its contents. His stomach aches, his mouth waters. What kind of food did they eat? The label is worn and he can only make out the letters A-T-O-E and S. He hasn’t eaten lunch, of course his curiosity is piqued. With subtle movement he pries the lid open further, trying to get a glimpse inside.

“Please try not to damage the objects, Oliver.” The doctor says. Try not to damage them? Isn’t one of them his already? Who is this man, this doctor, allegedly, who thinks he can come into Oliver’s house and tell Oliver what to do or not do with Oliver’s own things? There is a sudden crash from the television which draws the attention of his father, mother, and the doctor. When Dr. Gagnon returns his attention to the boy, the test, his bulging eyes bulge further. He gasps.

              “Oh my God! He ate it! He…” Dr. Gagnon leaps to his feet his hands now raised.

              “Son? What did you eat, son? Spit it out now, okay? Son?” His father moves to his side. “How old was it? Expired, surely. Will he get sick? Oh, boy, spit it out, spit it o—” He inspects the can and notices the congealed mass inside remains fused to the can’s bottom. He looks at Oliver, then to what’s laid out on the table. From left to right: pocketknife, telescope, letter, ration. Oliver smiles in the face of horrified expressions.

              “He ate the H! He ate it and he’s smiling! He’s smiling about it! What is wrong with that boy?!” Gagnon’s eyes look as if they might fall out of his skull. Oliver laughs – or gasps - and, in the act of laughing – or gasping – accidentally swallows, sending the H key out of his mouth and down into his esophagus. He begins to cough.

              “He’s choking! That’s not smiling, it’s a grimace! He’s in pain! My sweet boy ate the H!” His father brings his hand down hard on Oliver’s back, hoping the shock would eject the key but only succeeding in hurting him. His mother comes over, calm, and pushes his father to the side.

              “You told him to get a feel for it, you told him it was his. What else would you expect from a six-year-old? That he wouldn’t eat it?” His mother says while gently tapping her son’s back.

              “I told him to feel, not eat! I’ve never seen this happen! No child has ever… ever! Eaten! Anything!”

              “Go on Oliver, spit it out for mommy, go on. You can’t leave that sitting in your throat, okay sweetie?” Her gentle taps are soothing, a type of affection he thought he was now too old to receive from his mother. His muscles relax and his throat opens. The sharp, awkward shape is painful going down. His father lunges forward, fingers searching the boy’s mouth for any sign of the H, unaware of the futility. The H key descends, becoming acquainted with his digestive system.

              “I… I don’t… This is insane, absurd! What kind of child is this?” Gagnon hurriedly collects his remaining items and throws them into his briefcase, closing the latch to ensure their safety from the impulsive child. He stands stiff and adjusts his tie. “Never have I seen such a display. Such a horrible, terrible display! What have you done to this boy, raising him in such a way that he would eat such an unappetizing item? Do you starve the boy? Is this a cry for attention, boy? For help?”

“We haven’t had lunch yet.” His mother says as though it is a satisfying answer. Dr. Gagnon shakes his head and grumbles something to himself that Oliver can’t quite hear. Then:

“When he passes the key, I expect to hear from you. Send it to my office. Goodbye.”

              “You’re leaving?” His father asks.

              Dr. Gagnon does not reply as he opens the front door and steps out into the world where the sun warms his chilled soul.

              “Wait! Dr. Gagnon wait!” His father calls after, bringing Gagnon to a stop. He turns, his face inviting the father to speak. “The interview, test… did he pass?”