The Raging Elitist

During the six-and-a-half years I’ve been observing the behavior of my younger son Scotty, I’ve sometimes thought that the boy might end up being well suited for the theater. Never mind the importance he places on school productions, the way he draws pictures of himself performing in the days leading up to such events, the panicked expression that crosses his face at the mention of a potential conflict; even absent this apparent enthusiasm for the stage, he has long had a way about him that’s made me think, “Well look at that. He’s like a little thespian.” As a toddler the boy choreographed a one-man ballet to the hour-long soundtrack of Disney’s Dumbo – I’m talking a step-for-step, down to the second, full-on dancing reenactment of the film;during visits to the playground, he belted songs learned at his preschool, improvising new verses about various animals and the sounds they make while his mother, Cartter and I pushed him on the swing to his heart’s content; and his generally easygoing nature and borderline stoic demeanor have always been punctuated by surprisingly intense moody displays. Even the way he pooped his diapers was theatrical: He used to enter into a fugue state in his room, stomping around wearing an angry scowl and throwing things for five, maybe ten minutes before finally pausing, filling his Pampers, and returning to the world of mortals. I’m telling you, the kid’s destined for stardom.

Lately, Scotty’s natural flair for the dramatic has developed into a penchant for building suspense. Requests for permission now begin, “I have to ask you something. You’re probably gonna say no, but . . .” Likewise, he’s become fond of the phrase, “I have some good news and some bad news.” The effect is attention grabbing. One’s train of thought is stopped dead in its tracks as a quick release of cortisol primes fight or flight systems. Suddenly, one is aware of being a passenger in a commercial jet flown by a skinny, blue-eyed six-year-old who is conducting an emergency landing and issuing casual suggestions over the intercom: “You might wanna brace for impact.” When these moments arise, which is generally just as the kitchen timer goes off on a 400-degree oven or as one changes lanes amid an angry throng of crosstown traffic, it’s only natural to wonder “Who put this kid in charge?”

This past Friday, when Scotty climbed into the minivan at the end of the school day and announced that he had an announcement, his words pinged against my central nervous system like the fasten seatbelt sign turning on ahead of a stretch of turbulence. “I have some good news and some bad news,” he said, dropping his backpack and leaning into the space above the center console between his mother and me. Of course, all I heard was “bad news.” Was I going to end up hearing this news again later from a teacher? What did Scotty do? What did someone do to him? Was I going to have to deal with some other parent? The principal? I really don’t like that guy. Oh God, Scotty! Just land this plane already, and let come what may! “The bad news is,” he continued matter-of-factly as Danyelle and I white-knuckled it in the front seat, “The play was really messed up.” The play? Instantly, my grip on the steering wheel relaxed. As per usual, the bad news appeared to be very minor in nature. This much I could intuit, despite not having any idea what the child was talking about.

Turns out, Scotty’s class had taken a field trip to the historic Dock Street Theater downtown and seen a production of Frog and Toad are Friends. This was the play that was “really messed up.” Now, I have to say that I’m a big fan of Frog and Toad. As toddler books go, the Frog and Toad odd couple stories are about as tolerable as they come. The two protagonists overcome problems having to do with Toad’s hapless curmudgeonliness, like his not wanting to get out of bed or his sadness at never getting any mail, and they do so with a wit and grace that is a lovely testament to the life-sustaining power of friendship. Wonderfully illustrated, never condescending to young readers or their parents, Frog and Toad are Friends is a jewel of a baby book that I read to both Cartter and Scotty time and again. To realize that Scotty’s “bad news” was his displeasure with a production of Frog and Toad was at once a relief and an enigma.

Although my blood pressure was rapidly receding to its baseline, I was held in mild suspense for a moment longer as I eased out of the carpool line, aware of Scotty’s brother in my periphery as I checked the rearview mirror. Cartter was standing with his back to the front passenger seat, slinging his backpack to the floor and sending a cloud of doghair flying into the air before hopping into his booster. He sighed impatiently, clearly having been through Scotty’s presentation already. “Ugh, Scotty,” he said. “Just because you could see their faces doesn’t mean it was messed up.” Cartter was ready for the show to be over, but of course, all he was doing was prolonging it.

“But it was human faces,” said Scotty. “It was just like . . . humans. They were just wearing little hats with little eyes on them.”

“What about their bodies?” I asked. By now the microtrauma of Scotty’s good news/bad news introduction was behind me, and I was content to absorb as much as possible of this little dialogue as I steered the van past all the other cars and SUV’s driven by parents and sitters heading in the opposite direction, inching their way toward their young charges.

“They were nothing,” said Scotty. “They were just human. It was so messed up.”

I smirked reflexively. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, I was similarly dissatisfied by a Dock Street field trip as a child. I don’t remember the show, but I do remember getting up from my seat at its conclusion and being ushered to the back of the house where we were to line up, wondering what all the fuss had been about, feeling that the whole thing had been a waste of time. I sensed that some of my classmates rather enjoyed it, and I wondered if they had been duped or if perhaps, I had just missed something. Maybe if I could try again, I thought. Scotty obviously had no such doubts. The production of Frog and Toad had been badly mishandled. It had failed to inspire anything remotely approaching the willing suspension of his disbelief, and the complete lack of effort by the costume team was nothing short of an atrocity. An injustice had been committed, and Scotty’s judgment was final.

Approaching the stop sign at the edge of campus, watching for the crossing guard to allow me to pass through the intersection and into the weekend, the thought occurred to me that maybe my son had something of the critic in him. Then, just as that thought was forming, the orange-vested crossing guard started to turn to release me, and Scotty reminded me of his true nature, of the fact that he’s always understood better than I the meaning of the words, “The show must go on.”

“And the good news is,” he said, pausing ever so slightly as the guard made eye contact and my foot depressed the brake pedal for one last instant, “I remembered my lunch box.” Curtains. Theatergoers leaping from their seats, barely able to contain themselves. Choked sobs and roars of applause coursing through the crowd. The spotlight shines from above, and the hero returns to the stage to take a bow. Bravo, son! Bravissimo!