“Have you shopped here?” I said to my friend Amy when we ran into each other beside the salad stall at the farmers’ market. “It’s really good stuff, I’m hooked on their lamb’s tongue lettuce.”
“Eww!” said her son Lucas, who is five years old and not short of an opinion. “Lettuce made of tongues! Gross! Ewww!”
“It’s delicious,” I told him. “All stringy and meaty and slimy. Yum!”
“Ewww!” he retorted.
“Yum!” I riposted. Your head could swim at the sophistication of it all.
Lucas is a particularly nice little boy, and, since we were talking about salad greens, it occurred to me that he might enjoy helping me feed our neighbor’s tortoise, the whimsically named Mr. Bonkers, now just emerging from his winter’s hibernation. In defiance of his name, Mr. Bonkers is a stately gentleman of some 113 summers of accumulated wisdom, who spends his day peacefully wandering the perimeter of our neighbor’s yard, and maintains a discreet and gentlemanly understanding with our little tabby cat, Hildy, with whom he will sit for hours in contented and companionable silence when she’s not busy chasing lizards. Perfect truth to tell, Mr. Bonkers doesn’t have a very great deal to offer in the way of conversation; but children are often intrigued by him nevertheless.
“You should have your Mom bring you over sometime,” I said, “to introduce you to Mr. Bonkers. He lives next door to us, and he’s just waking up round about now.”
“Mr. Bonkers!” shouted Lucas.
Amy frowned a little: she is a delicate soul and worries that Lucas doesn’t always remember to use his indoor voice when he’s not actually indoors.
“I think you’d like him,” I said to Lucas. “And I know he’d like you. He likes little boys very much.”
Lucas preened a little.
I looked down to give him a discreet once-over.
“And what he especially likes,” I continued, then, “is a little boy wearing a yellow shirt.”
Lucas looked down too, and his mouth fell open.
“I’m wearing a yellow shirt!” he marveled. “My Mom told me I shouldn’t because I have purple pants and she says the colors don’t match but I told her they do so, and now I’m wearing a bright yellow shirt!”
“It’s a very yellow shirt,” I agreed. “Mr. Bonkers would be very pleased with you, wouldn’t he, Amy?”
Amy was still frowning. She appeared not to be altogether happy with this exchange; but then in her own wardrobe, she has always preferred a more muted color combination.
“Yellow shirt!” rejoiced Lucas. “Yellow shirt! Mom, I’m wearing a yellow shirt, and Mr. Bonkers likes yellow shirts! Can we go meet him now?”
Amy was looking at me with an expression of some concern. Apparently today was not a good day to take Lucas visiting.
I winked at her, reassuringly.
“I don’t think it’ll work out today,” I said. “But how about next weekend? We can go to his house and take him some food because he likes eating. He likes lettuce even if you don’t – he likes all kinds of lettuce and cabbage and kale.”
“And yellow shirts!” Lucas reminded me. “He likes yellow shirts too.”
“He does like yellow shirts,” I confirmed. Then, because Amy was now looking decidedly alarmed, and I had, after all, no idea of whether or not the yellow shirt might have been in her laundry schedule for this time next week, “But he does like other colored shirts too. He likes red shirts and green shirts and orange shirts and all colored shirts. I’m sure that whatever shirt you wore next week, he’d love to meet you.”
“I have a green shirt,” said Lucas. “And a blue shirt and a checked shirt.”
“Any of those would be fine with Mr. Bonkers.” I said. “He likes any little boys wearing any colored shirts, really. He’s a lot of fun, is Mr. Bonkers.”
“Mr. Bonkers!” said Lucas. “Mr. Bonkers, Mr. Bonkers! Can we go meet Mr. Bonkers next week, Mommy? Pleeeese?”
“Well, before we go any further,” said Amy, “I have a question to ask.”
“Sure,” I said. “What is it?”
Amy gulped just a little, and her voice rose just a fraction of an octave.
“Just who is Mr. Bonkers?” she said then. “And exactly why would he care what clothes my son is wearing?”
Which somehow put a whole different slant onto the conversation.