Reading Boy

My son, at nearly 5 years of age, is big into the whole good vs. evil concept. He loves superheroes, Star Wars, and nearly every incarnation of fictional character one can imagine serving one of the aforementioned roles; good or evil. We played “superheroes” most of the day, Sunday. I was “The Oxidizer,” or “Flame Boy” as Balthazar preferred. Mommy had a lot of work to do, but she was “Shower Girl” before leaving that morning for the studio. The boy is apparently schizophrenic, and went between a lot of different characters and roles. One such role was “Hanger Boy.” It’s not what you think – it could have been a gruesome depiction of a nefarious creature that can perform a lynching with jerking hand motion. But no. “Hanger Boy” had the wonderful power of shooting hangers out of his hands at you. They could hurt you, what with the dangerous hook on the top. His hangers were particularly useful in that their internal dimension was apparently discontiguous with our own. Getting caught by one of these weapons would very likely remove you from this plane of existence. I presume that it deposited you into a random closet throughout the Universe. You could end up in Narnia, a stinky foot locker, or the deniable state of homosexuality. It’s a tricky weapon, really. There was another interesting personality in that little head of his too. “Reading Boy.” Amy was impressed by this one. She thought he might have the power of absorbing Great Expectations with joy and fervor. Able to recite drab poetry into the numbed minds of his foes! Alas, “Reading Boy” was not what we thought. Balthazar says, “I read you, buddy. Do you read me?” with his hand brought to his mouth, Dick Tracey-style.