PINOCCHIO
It was diabolical, however he got there. He never did me any kindness, but then, of course, he wasn't a real person. But, somehow, in my imagination, and for the purpose of this essay, let's say he became a real boy.
All day long he sat in his favorite chair in the corner of my small, rather dark, bedroom. The muted tones of browns, reds, and yellows swallowed him sufficiently so that he was not immediately visible. You had to know he was there, otherwise he might surprise you with a hard poke of his wooden nose when you tried to sit in that chair. He never made room by scooting over so that you could sit comfortably with him in that child-sized, padded rocker.
He had teeth. You could stick your finger in and feel them, almost sharp, inside. And a tongue too, when you kissed him on the mouth. His big ears stuck out and didn't bend when you brushed by them. But what was most impressive about Pinocchio was his shiny black hair that was never out of place, and his wide-open eyes, blue and never blinking.
As long as you stayed up there, with the head and the face, you were safe. Safe, that is, unless you happened to catch a glimpse of it from the crib when it was almost dark and that wide grin assumed a more malevolent aspect. As soon as you began to explore his large body with your fingers however, you were in trouble. He seemed to bite no matter where you grabbed him. The worst punishment was meted out when you tried to pull him apart, for his joints opened up and then snapped shut when you let go. Getting pinched there was no fun!
He wore a black bow tie, that was soft and silky, but his shiny white collar and all the rest of his clothing, bright red shorts and yellow shirt, were molded and painted on his strong but hollow body. Arms and legs were articulated like a medieval knight's armor, and standing alone was just as difficult for him as it must have been for an unhorsed jouster. That's why he spent so much time in his chair.
I don't know why but I was constantly falling over him. He was unyielding, pointy, snappy, and when he hit you it hurt. Who would ever have thought of him as a playmate? I tried stuffing him in the toy chest but couldn't close the lid; he was too big. So that's why he spent most of his time alone in the corner. I never used the rocker myself any longer.
In later years he was the perfect smiling patient for my sister and me to welcome into our medical office. No matter what we did to him he grinned. Operation after operation failed to change his personality so we finally tired of him and discharged him as hopeless. He probably bummed around homeless for many years afterward. I ran a search for him on the Internet and did come up with a picture of him, and his friends. He hasn't aged a day.
All day long he sat in his favorite chair in the corner of my small, rather dark, bedroom. The muted tones of browns, reds, and yellows swallowed him sufficiently so that he was not immediately visible. You had to know he was there, otherwise he might surprise you with a hard poke of his wooden nose when you tried to sit in that chair. He never made room by scooting over so that you could sit comfortably with him in that child-sized, padded rocker.
He had teeth. You could stick your finger in and feel them, almost sharp, inside. And a tongue too, when you kissed him on the mouth. His big ears stuck out and didn't bend when you brushed by them. But what was most impressive about Pinocchio was his shiny black hair that was never out of place, and his wide-open eyes, blue and never blinking.
As long as you stayed up there, with the head and the face, you were safe. Safe, that is, unless you happened to catch a glimpse of it from the crib when it was almost dark and that wide grin assumed a more malevolent aspect. As soon as you began to explore his large body with your fingers however, you were in trouble. He seemed to bite no matter where you grabbed him. The worst punishment was meted out when you tried to pull him apart, for his joints opened up and then snapped shut when you let go. Getting pinched there was no fun!
He wore a black bow tie, that was soft and silky, but his shiny white collar and all the rest of his clothing, bright red shorts and yellow shirt, were molded and painted on his strong but hollow body. Arms and legs were articulated like a medieval knight's armor, and standing alone was just as difficult for him as it must have been for an unhorsed jouster. That's why he spent so much time in his chair.
I don't know why but I was constantly falling over him. He was unyielding, pointy, snappy, and when he hit you it hurt. Who would ever have thought of him as a playmate? I tried stuffing him in the toy chest but couldn't close the lid; he was too big. So that's why he spent most of his time alone in the corner. I never used the rocker myself any longer.
In later years he was the perfect smiling patient for my sister and me to welcome into our medical office. No matter what we did to him he grinned. Operation after operation failed to change his personality so we finally tired of him and discharged him as hopeless. He probably bummed around homeless for many years afterward. I ran a search for him on the Internet and did come up with a picture of him, and his friends. He hasn't aged a day.
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posted by David at 7:52 AM
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