"Good Boy"

The sun beat down unto the concrete like overused phrases on stark white paper. A boy greedily stares at his ice cream cone, a tall tower of cream, with vanilla bleeding out unto his pudgy fingers, making them sticky. His eyes widen as he draws the delectable treat toward salivating jaws. For so long he had desired this prize, and now at long last, here it is, in his hand. So close now, so close, as his tongue slithered toward its prey, now but an inch away.

He has come so close, but it is not enough. The tower of cream wobbles and wilts. It falls to earth with a splat, another victim of the midday sun. The boy stares in shock at the corpse of his delight, visions of the joy that now could never be cascaded across his vision like waterfalls thawed by springtime. His sausage fingers tighten on the hand within his, and his weak arm yanks with surprising force. The heavy, thumping footsteps that resounded off the concrete beside him ceased to do so.

He screams.

He cannot believe it, for so much had be staked on this ice cream, you see.

It had been for so long, the jewel of his perceptions, and like any great prize, he went through so much to acquire it, conditions as it were.

The condition was a matter of title. Yes, he was told that in order to get ice cream, he must be a “good boy”, whatever that means. From very early on, the importance of being a “good boy” had never been understated. It was a very important thing to be, perhaps the most important thing to be!

Now, originally there was (and to some degree still is) a lot of confusion and debate as to what a “good boy” actually was, at least in the mind of our young friend.

After a lot of internal dialogue and real life experience, he finally surmised that while he could not actually explain what a ‘good boy’ was, he could tell you the things that a ‘good boy’ must or mustn’t do, at least if the ‘good boy’ in question wanted to remain a ‘good boy’.

From what he knew, ‘good boys’ never ever track mud unto the hallway carpet, or whine, and they never throw tantrums.
‘Good boys’ always pay attention in class, they are always polite, and they most definitely finish all their vegetables.

It was definitely not appropriate for a ‘good boy’ to get paint on any wall in the house, no matter how delightful and wild the finger-painting was.

Anyone who could claim to be a ‘good boy’ would of course know of the importance of saying grace at the proper times, as well as the other proper table etiquette.

And of course, all ‘good boys’ know that filling the bathtubs and then putting frogs in them must never be done on any circumstances!

Now if you are anything like me, about now you are thinking what a terrible thing it is to be a good boy! How boring and dreadful such a thing must be. So many things must be forsaken, in order to live the life of a ‘good boy’, how could it possibly be worth it?

Our friend had soon figured out that being a ‘good boy’ came with certain perks.

After all, have you ever heard of a ‘good boy’ receiving coal as a gift come Christmas time?

Of course not!

Every ‘good boy’ knows that, as long as you keep being a ‘good boy’, everything will fall into place perfectly. Many problems were inherently solved simply by being a ‘good boy’.

“Good boys’ are shielded from many problems that run rampant through the population.

Things like bad temperament and poor grades and a vegetable free diet were terrible evils that plagued all members of the human race, but not ‘good boys’.

‘Bad boys’ were always in peril from the evils of poor discipline, time-outs, and the dreaded gingivitis, but ‘good boys’ were safe.

Even the dreaded monsters, lurking deep beneath the bed and in the closet, would never ever dare to lay a claw on a ‘good boy’.

Not only were ‘good boys’ immune from these many dangers, but as a privileged elite, they had access to many perks far out of reach of the average five year old.

Mommy always praised him when he was a ‘good boy’. She was always brighter, and happier, when he was a ‘good boy’. Even when she was really gloomy, he would simply present his ‘good boyness’ on a silver platter, and she would cheer right up!

In school, the teachers loved a ‘good boy’. The teachers gave him so many gold stars, he almost didn’t know what to do with them! Almost. He did so well in fact that he got the rarest stars of all, the sparkly ones! He swelled with pride when he looked at his sparkly stars, and was always happy when the teachers praised him.

When he was a ‘good boy’ he got the best toys! Yes sir he did, when he came home from school sometimes there would be a big box on his bed, wrapped up in superhero wrapping paper. He loved all the presents he got, but when he saw the superhero paper his heart would shine like the sparkly stars.

The superhero paper always meant they were special presents. “Good boys” must always remember to read the card before opening their present, but with the special presents he never had to remember.

He excitedly ripped open the envelope. Inside the card was written, in elegant and feminine cursive,

‘See you soon buddy!
Love, Dad,’

Yes, it was miraculous what being a ‘good boy’ could bring you. What couldn’t being a ‘good boy’ accomplish?

But still something was missing, and he wanted it, he wanted it so much. For so long he had begged, and pleaded for that thing, that one single thing. The only thing, he had ever wanted.

When he asked his mother, an awkward expression clouded her face, which he mistook for a small smile. She took his hands into her and asked,

“Have you been a good boy?”

He remembered how he fed his broccoli to the dog the night before, and how ‘good boys’ mustn’t ever lie. He shook his head sheepishly, and his mother sighed with a relief that he failed to notice. She gave him a hug, and said,

“Only good boys get ice cream,”

In sometime he recovered from this set back, and secured himself back into his good-boyness. He questioned his mother again.

Surely this time, he would receive the reward he so deserved?

Several times more, he approached his mother with the question. Several times more, he was denied.

But finally, the woman with sad and tired eyes agreed.

The day was marked on the calendar, the weekend after next. So many white squares between there and now, so much time.
“Good boys are patient”, his mother reminded him. And so, he waited. Every morning he drew a big wobbly X in the next white box, counting down to what would certainly be, the best day ever.

Finally, after what seemed to be an infinity of breakfasts, shaky hands and smelly black marker, the day had arrived.

The tired human that was his mother opened the door, but the man did not step inside. The Good Boy screamed in delight and ran to him. Big arms wrapped themselves around him in a hug that ended all too soon.

The door closed behind them, as small fingers wound themselves through large ones, and gravel crunched under their feet. A stale bitter smell overtook him, as he was safely buckled in the front seat.

The car jolted and sped away to the ice cream shop, the engine yowling like an angry cat.

And this brings us to the fateful moment where cold cream was dashed upon hot concrete. All he wanted, all he had ever really wanted, was to get ice cream with his dad. That’s what was supposed to happen. All the pre-requisites had been met for this perfect day. He had gotten the ice cream, and his father, and he had been a good boy!

The day was supposed to be perfect.

His father halted beside him, and looked at his son wailing and pointing at the desecrated corpse of his delight. He does not bother to check his empty wallet. He sighs with relief, running a hand through greasy hair.

He ushers his son back to the car which reeks of booze, and safely buckles him in the front seat. A few cigarette butts fall out of the overflowing ashtray and unto the floor when he slams the door. He gets into the car, and speeds off. He lazily consoles his son, with tones of relief for a day not wasted which are lost upon the good boy safely buckled in the front seat.

Good boys don’t always get ice cream.