This story was written in 2006 when I was 24 years old. Today an traffic cone was left outside our home, and bringing it inside I realized I had never properly shared it. So now that history has come full circle, I’m reviving it here so it can live forever.
Prologue
The following story is commonly referred to as the day that single-handedly ruined my entire childhood. Of course, that’s just line that runs over and over in my head. But, in reality, it’s become quite the opportunity to embarrass my father at family gatherings. Enjoy!
The Story
Act I: The Final Dawn of Innocence
A child’s mind is like an organic garden. Ripe with freshness. Clean with anticipation. A slate upon which amazing things can happen. As such, the mind of a child is also fragile. A rain drop in the desert or a flower in a hurricane. This particular child had such a mind. A mind blinded by the expanse of his own creativity. And this story is the representation of the day the hurricane came.
I remember the day as if Stephen Spielberg had been following me around with huge camera , a crew of hustling grips and studio executives. I remember every cloud in the sky the morning I woke up to this infamous ending of my innocence. Luckily for me, I had no comprehension of the loss I would receive that day. I suppose it’s for the better, giving me a few hours to enjoy what’s left of my childhood. On the other hand, some preparation would have allowed me one last dance in my mind. Akin to a convict on death row ordering his last meal. But, under the digression of fate, I was to remain under the guise of a normal day.
The morning progressed as any summer morning does in a child’s home. Morning cereal, perhaps a light cartoon schedule. Lego’s were the mainstay of my creative thinking. I was building a moon rover vehicle that morning. I remember searching for the right color of grey to match the hue on the actual NASA rover (matching the gold tin foil was impossible, for all intents and purposes). It pains me to recall the detail in this day, but eventually I assembled the rover, only to destroy in a great explosive catastrophe later know as Event 23.
Daily lunch rituals assembled the non-bread winning portion of the family. My sister joined us for typical peanut butter and fluff sandwiches. Glasses of red Kool-Aide lined the island counter top. Billy Joel was playing lightly in the background, via a local radio station. Lunch was uneventful in retrospect, but it simply signaled the calm before the storm.
Act II: Building Dreams
The afternoon was filled with Disney Channel original shows. A practical puppet rendition of a public service announcement played tribute to learning in the summertime. I pondered the possibility of a shooting star crossing the stage at the commencement, but the pyrotechnics of the day didn’t allow indoor charges. The sun was falling further into the Massachusetts skyline, casting a hue of orange and yellow onto the calico forests colorful from fallen leaves. The moment, now known as zero-hour, was upon us.
A jubilant father burst through the door of our home, unusually energetic after his workday. He yelled as he entered, gathering the family. We could see his excitement as we formed a circle around him, anticipating his announcement. His tone was full of excitement as he looked at me and said, “I brought you something very special. You’re going to love it, but you can’t receive it till after dinner.” The idea of waiting seemed almost cruel—a significant test of patience for any child excited about a surprise.
Act III: When Dreams Fall
Dinner appeared as a blur. I can’t even recall the food group, let alone the entrée. My mind was already racing. I had checked out of every conversation. I was categorizing the “very special” gifts I could be receiving. Of course, the first thing to enter my mind was a complete Lego set. I quickly ruled out everything in the practical category, as “very special” things couldn’t have a practical use in this world. It had to be something unimaginable.
I focused on my most thought about fantasy—a human-sized, walking, talking, and possibly fire-breathing robot. The more I envisioned the robot, the more real he became.
Dinner was ending, and the sunlight was dwindling, but I was about to inherit a robot with night vision, so the sun didn’t matter. I could feel the tension growing, awaiting the final word from the dinner table so we could receive my prize. We finished quickly, and Dad gave the word. As we rounded the corner of the door, heading outside, my eyes adjusted to the lighting. Dad had prepared for the demonstration.
Sitting in the middle of the driveway was a bright orange road cone, not a normal one, but a commercial grade, high-quality, durable piece. I assessed the cone, assuming the robot to be bigger than first imagined, possibly over seven-feet tall with significant fire capabilities.
We gathered around the cone, giving it room. Dad, empty-handed, walked toward the cone with a big smile. “What do you think?” he said. The crowd laughed. A look of disappointment crossed Dad’s face. “What? What do you think of it?” His attention was solely on the cone. I threw in another laugh, but then he started explaining the road cone seriously.
I dropped to my knees and screamed. How could this happen? My mind was unwinding all the dreams and ideas placed inside, looking for any connection to a road cone. My father then said, “You can ride your bike around it… and stuff.” We struggled to see the use. I picked myself up, brushing off my knees, and we retreated indoors. I quickly slipped into bed, my thoughts now focused on practical matters. I never again had such an imagination to conjure up a complex fantasy. As I fell asleep, I realized I had grown up.