An Online Magazine by Bay Area Writing Project Writers!
What Carrots Do
©Jill Allyn Stafford, 2008
When he came home from school, Miguel was not astounded at what he saw. His mother was sitting in the front yard, completely naked, in a clear plastic inflatable lounge chair. Although she was naked, she was not immodest: there were bunches of carrots, complete with green tops, discreetly shielding her most private parts from view. In fact, there were carrots everywhere--piles and piles of carrots, making the front yard look like an ant's eye view of the surface of an orange.
Miguel saw, as he expected, that his mother wasn't alone. Mr. Rappaport was there, of course. He was painting her. Miguel wondered whose idea it was, Mr. Rappaport's or his mother's. They were both rather bohemian, he had come through hard experience to realize, and either one was capable of calling up a truck load of carrots, finding a clear plastic inflatable lawn chair, and deciding that the combination would make for great art, as long as there was a naked lady in the picture.
"Mig!" called his mother. "Over here!" as if she thought she was somehow hidden. Clearly the people who had stopped their cars, the city bus that ground to a halt, and the half dozen bicycle racers who forgot they were racing--all realized that she wasn't hidden.
"Over here!" she waved.
"Charlotte, please not to move!" ordered Mr. Rappaport.
Miguel tried to ignore his mother, but the only path to the front door was right by the clear plastic lounge chair.
"How was school, dear? Tell me something you learned."
"Please not to block my view, Mig-boy," said Mr. Rappaport.
Miguel wanted to block the view, wanted to find a bathrobe for his mother, wanted his mother to wear little aprons (over clothes) and bake brownies (regular ones) for him and his friends when he came home. But he knew that wasn't going to happen, so he stepped aside so that Mr. Rappaport could continue to paint.
"Quadratic equations," he said.
"Did you learn that in French? It sounds wonderful," said his mother.
"No, mother, it's math. Formulas. I haven't taken French since the sixth grade."
"It's that wonderful line from H.M.S. Pinafore, you know, 'and...ta...ta...I...know...ta...ta...things qau...dra...ti...cal.'" On each successive syllable she lowered her voice until on the last one it was a baritone.
"No, it's math."
"Well, I'm very sure you're very good at it. You're my son, after all, and you're very good at most everything. It's in the genes. Your father comes from a smart family, too. That's why you're good at just everything."
"Except families," he said. But she didn’t hear, because she was busily arranging a bunch of carrots.
"Please not to block my view, Mig-boy," said Mr. Rappaport. Miguel realized he had drifted back into the line of fire, and quickly stepped aside again.
"Isn't it wonderful," said his mother. "Lorenz has decided do to a whole series with carrots. It's never been done before. It's all about color, shape, texture. It's going to be a masterpiece."
Mr. Rappaport came to dinner that night. Whenever he and Miguel’s mother embarked on a project, he more or less moved in. “The mood can no be broke,” he would say.
“Still lifes,” said Mr. Rapport between bites of brown rice, “look to them. Peaches, yes. Grapes, yes. Dead bird, yes. Onion, no. Because is so bland. Brown and round. Nothing. But Oranges, yes. Carrots, no. No vegetables. Only fruit. Fruit and dead birds. Ok, rabbit, maybe. But vegetables, no. Why?”
“Lorenz,” said Miguel’s mother, almost in a lather. “I’ve never even thought about it. But you’re absolutely right! No vegetables! How utterly odd!”
Miguel didn’t have to say, “Yes, Lorenz, please tell us why!” because it was inevitable.
“Why is so? Tree is the answer. Fruit is from tree. Artists always look up. Never down. Think all answers in heaven. But not so!”
“Why of course!” said Miguel’s mother. “It’s perfectly clear now!”
“All from the soil,” continued Mr. Rappaport. “But when see a painting of the ground? Not much.”
“But the carrots, Lorenz, what made you think of carrots? Why not potatoes, or leeks?”
“Obvious,” he said.
“But I want to hear it from you!” she said.
“Color, shape, texture. Orange, like oranges. Rough, but smooth. And phallus, ca va sans dire.”
“May I be excused?” said Miguel. “I have homework.” But in fact he always left the table whenever Mr. Rappaport slipped into French, which was not even Mr. Rappaport's native language. Miguel had no idea what that native language was, in fact.
“Of course, dear. You run along. Being a college student demands work! There’s a postcard from Alain on the front table.”
“Good to study hard, Mig-boy,” said Mr. Rappaport. “Lots to know.”
“Goodnight," said Miguel, and went to pick up the postcard. It was of the beach at Bari. “Charlotte and Miguel: Working very hard. Had a shoot on the beach all day, and then to the gym this evening. Food terrible, even if this is Italy. Saw a Rappaport painting in a gallery. Think it was something like 'Pine needles with crab'? Something like that. Wish you were here. Love, Alain.” Alain was Miguel’s father and a fashion model from Paris who Miguel’s mother had married when she was on vacation in Cannes. He had moved gracefully from young in-demand model to older menswear model, still in demand. He rarely worked in the United States, but sent them postcards and called whenever he could. Miguel was familiar with him from the magazines.
The next morning, Miguel’s mother greeted him with carrot juice instead of orange juice. “I’m doing my part for the spirit of the thing. To help Lorenz with the gestalt,” she said. “Lorenz really thinks that this series will be the breakthrough. So I’m going to take a leave from the store for a while. He has asked that I don’t occupy my mind with anything else. Of course I have to honor that.”
“Why?” asked Miguel, whose mood had been soured by the carrot juice.
“Artist and model is a scared collaboration, Miguel. Surely you’ve learned that! The Mona Lisa. Do you think she smiled that way all the time? No! It was a smile just for the artist. A scared moment. A secret, perhaps. Something amusant, je crois.”
“I’ll be late for class,” said Miguel as he picked up his pack. When his mother slipped into French, he knew there were rough seas ahead. Unless she was talking to his father on the phone. Then she moved easily between French and English without pretension.
“Be brilliant, Miguel! Learn things today that you never knew!”
“Bye, mother.”
On his way to school, Miguel stopped at a store and bought a carton of orange juice, hoping to wash away the taste of the carrot juice. On his way home that afternoon, he bought another carton for the morning. When he turned the corner onto his block, he squinted, afraid that the carrots and his mother and Mr. Rappaport would still be there. But there was only the lawn. His mood lightened a little. The front hallway was clear. So was the living room. No noise in the kitchen. Miguel began to entertain some careful optimism. After all, his mother and Mr. Rappaport had aborted projects in the past.
"Charlotte, please to spread your legs more!" Miguel heard Mr. Rappaport's voice coming from the back yard, and his ship of hope grounded on a reef. He went out the back door. His mother was lying—nude, of course, except for the strategically placed carrots, of course—spread-eagle on the ground, rows and rows of carrots radiating from her. Mr. Rappaport had set up a canvas on the top rungs of a ladder and was clinging to the ladder.
"Mig-boy! How you like my birds-ear view?" Miguel never found Mr. Rappaport's mangled idioms quaint.
"Hello," said Miguel.
"Miguel!" said his mother. "What do you think? What does it remind you of? How was school?"
"It was fine, mother."
"But what does it remind you of?"
"I don't know. Bugs bunny's wet dream? You know, carrots and a naked woman."
"No, you silly thing. 'The Madonna' by Edward Munch. But without the hostility."
"Erotic, yes," said Mr. Rappaport. "Sexual, no. Erotic like the earth, like soil."
"Dinner's on the stove, Mig. Will you make some salad and we'll be in soon. Then you'll tell me all about school."
"Mathematics very important for art," said Mr. Rappaport between bites of water-cress. They were eating salad the European way, after the main course.
"Mig-boy, maybe you become artist like mother, like father. Maybe like me!"
"I'm planning on being a statistician," said Miguel, wondering how far one had to stretch the notion of "artist" to include his father.
"You will be the first to bring life to it, then," said his mother. "The world's first statistician with art in his soul! Lorenz and I were wondering how many carrots people eat a year. Maybe you could research it for us!"
"I'll see what I can do, mother."
"Carrot and the earth," said Mr. Rappaport. "Man and woman. Carrot grows down into earth. Pushing down. Forcing way down. Getting nutriment from soil. Growing. Pull carrot from the ground and can hear the earth sigh."
"That's beautiful, Lorenz!" said his mother.
"Beautiful only because truth, Charlotte dear." Miguel had a terrible urge to bite into a crisp carrot right then, just to see if Mr. Rappaport would wince. But instead he said, "You'll have to excuse me. I have a job interview tomorrow and need to do some reading for it."
"A job interview!" exclaimed his mother. "What about school?"
"Mother, I'm graduating in June. I'm a senior, remember."
"My baby! I can't believe it. It seems like just yesterday that you were in Mrs. Parmeter's Pre-School, and now you're graduating from college! And a job! Don't you want to find yourself first? You could go live with your father, spend some time tramping around Europe."
"Louvre, British Museum, Uffizi. All must be seen now. The eyes of youth. You go, Mig-boy. Job can wait."
"I appreciate the sentiment from both of you," said Miguel. "I truly do. But I like numbers. Good night."
The next morning, he drank his orange juice in his room, and hurried through the kitchen on his way out. "Bye, mother. No time for breakfast."
"Good luck today, Miguel. Teach those people at the job interview something they don't know! Here, take some beta-carotene tablets. They'll ward off things!" She pressed them into his hands.
The job interview did not go well. Miguel managed against his will to work carrots into every other example when asked a question. When he got home, things had escalated. His mother was standing on the edge of pile of carrots at least six feet high. She was planting a flag near the top that had a peace symbol (in orange) in the middle. Her hair cascaded down her back. She was naked, of course. But this time there were no carrots for discretion.
"Mother!" cried Miguel. "What did you do to your hair?"
"Isn't wonderful, Mig? I feel like I'm beginning to understand carrots." She had died it bright orange.
"Mig-boy! Today we work on piece called 'Carrots leading the people'!"
"Yes!" said Miguel's mother. "It's about victory over ourselves, and peace. Don't you think it will be wonderful?"
"Very nice, mother."
"Mig-boy, you seem down in the nose," said Mr. Rappaport.
"Mouth, Mr. Rappaport. 'Down in the mouth.' And I am."
"My baby!" said his mother, throwing down her flag and rushing over. "What's wrong!"
"Mother, you're naked!" Miguel yelled as she reached for him.
"Is that what's wrong? You've seen me naked before."
"No, that's not what's wrong, but I'd rather not have my naked mother hugging me just now."
"Mig-boy, is all part of same. Flesh, earth."
"Please, Mr. Rappaport, not now."
Over dinner, Mr. Rappaport and his mother continued.
“Root vegetable, you see,” said Mr. Rappaport. “Basic, draws from the soil. Hidden, but colorful.”
“About eleven pounds per capita per year,” said Miguel.
“What?’ said his mother.
“You wanted to know how many carrots people eat. That’s what Americans eat. Eleven pounds per capita.”
“Mig-boy! Fabulous! Elven pounds a piece! Astonishing!”
“Eleven, not elven,” said Miguel.
“Why, I’m surprised we’re not all bright orange by now!” said his mother.
“Too much carotene will turn the skin orange,” said Miguel.
“Charlotte, perhaps we should turn you all orange over all!” said Mr. Rappaport. Miguel sighed, regretting his complicity in the next step, and wishing he could get a job and get an apartment in the Village. Brooklyn was beginning to seem entirely too avant garde for his taste.
In the morning, when the smell of carrot cake seeped into his REM sleep, his mother was calling him. “Mig! You just had a phone call. Someone named Ms. Weatherford. She said something about a second interview. That’s good, isn’t it?”
He was wide awake immediately. “When did she call? What did she say?”
“She said something about a second interview. I told her you were asleep and that I think it disrupts our chakra if we’re awakened, and that she could call back.”
“Mother!” He started to rant, wanted to explain all of her failings, wanted to explain how the rest of the world operated. But he knew it was futile, and just left it at “Mother!”
He got dressed and rushed for the front door.
“But I baked carrot cake for you! What about Ms. Weatherfield?”
“Ford. Weatherford. I’ll call her from school.” And he was gone.
That afternoon, the painting production seemed to have moved permanently to the back yard, much to Miguel’s relief. But much to his distress, he realized that his curiosity was increasing about what abomination would present itself when he looked outside.
His mother was lying on the grass, green carrot tops for hair. She was painted orange from forehead to toenails. Six or seven naked people—men and women—were crouching around her, some touching her and others taking bites of carrots.
“Mig-boy, please to not talk to Charlotte! Crucial moment. Come see!”
Miguel walked over to the canvas and saw a Rapportian representation of the scene before him, with a large “11” painted in the middle.
“We call it ‘Consumption’! Thanks to you for idea. Imagine, elven pounds a year!”
Miguel’s mother couldn’t contain herself, and lifted her head. Green carrot tops fell to the ground.
“Mig! You did it! You gave Lorenz the inspiration! You breathed life into his art! Mona Miguel!”
“Charlotte, your tops fall!”
“I’m sorry, Lorenz.” But she was getting up, anyway. “Mig, don’t you think it’s wonderful? It’s about getting our sustenance from the earth, but also about how we consume each other. Oh, Lorenz is really a genius. And you are, too. But I’ve always known that about both of you.”
“Thank you mother. I’ll go make dinner. I assume these other people will not be staying?”
“No, no, of course not. They’re just here for the art. Friends of Lorenz.”
Dinner was lentil soup and salad. Between sips of soup, Miguel’s mother said, “Did you talk to Mrs. Weatherby?”
“Ford. Yes. I have another interview tomorrow. It seems as if I made the first cut.”
“Mig-boy. Anybody smart would be to want you. A prize-catch.”
“Yes, you are!” said Mig’s mother. “But of course you’re my son, so they should expect that you are.”
“Carrots were originally cultivated somewhere around Afghanistan,” said Miguel by way of reply. “Did you know that originally there were purple and yellow carrots? They also come in white and red. There are still some red ones grown in Japan and some yellow and purple in the Mideast, India and China, but most in the world they're orange.” He was so surprised by how much he said, how much fodder he was giving them, that he began slurping his soup furiously.
“Purple and red! Imagine! But Lorenz, what does this mean for you? for us?”
“Nothing and everything!” proclaimed Mr. Rappaport, and he popped a radish into his mouth with finality.
“But what about our orange?” asked Miguel’s mother.
“It is art, it is symbol. Purple carrot is nothing—just a long eggplant. Andy Warhol, perhaps, but not art. Orange carrot is earth!"
“I’m so relieved, Lorenz. I just don’t think I’d like to be painted purple! Miguel, your father called. He said he wants to fly over for your graduation. But you must tell me when it is.”
“June 12.”
“But that’s next month! There’s so much to do. A party, invitations. Perhaps Lorenz will design the invitation. Oh, would you, Lorenz?”
“For Mig-boy, I will design.”
“No carrots,” said Miguel. He wanted to say no invitation and no party, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to put a damper on his mother’s enthusiasm. Not that he could have, even if he had tried. “I have some work to do. Good night. Oh, by the way wild carrot is called Queen Anne’s Lace.” And he went upstairs.
Mr. Rappaport called after him: “Invitation worthy of statistical-artist! My mind churns ideas!”
“Dream beautiful things you’ve never dreamed before, Mig!’ said his mother.
That night he did have his first dream about carrots. They were standing around his bed, melting into their constituent parts: starch, sugar, extactine gluten, albumen, volatile oils, pectin, malic acid.
The next morning, he had a headache and his mother was experimenting with carrot pancakes. “Take one with you!” she said as he rushed for the door. “I’ll bet they’re just as delicious cold! I’ll just put it in a bag. Good luck, Miguel! Your father and I are very proud of you!”
“Bye, mother.” When he got around the corner, he took the carrot pancake out of the paper sack and tried to feed it to Mr. Wellington’s dog, who always looked hungry. The dog looked at the orange disc on the ground and growled.
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Miguel. “But she is my mother, and she’s very enthusiastic and good hearted.”
That evening, Miguel was distracted when he walked into the house and headed toward the backyard. But the noise this time was coming from the living room. He looked around the corner. His mother was dressed, if one discounted the exposed breasts, in an elaborate Elizabethan costume, with baby carrots tied all over it in intricate designs. There was a tiara of baby carrots in her hair. She was sitting in what looked like a prop throne from a neighborhood theater Shakespeare play and she was holding a three foot long styrofoam carrot like a scepter. A naked man painted orange was on all fours at her feet and she was using his back as a footrest.
“Hello,” he said. “Let me guess, ‘The Queen of Carrots.’”
“Miguel!” his mother beamed. “No, don’t be silly. Tell him, Lorenz.”
“I thought to be obvious, but maybe not. Queen Anne’s Lace, of course. Death of the monarchy. Subjugation of people and vegetables.”
“Isn’t it the most perfect statement?” said his mother. “Together the whole series is a comment on our modern civilization, and you’ve been a real muse, Mig! Lorenz has said that he was stuck until you joined forces with us. You should be proud! Your father will be thrilled.”
“Mig-boy, is something in your head?” asked Mr. Rappaport.
“On my mind?” asked Mig. “Yes, I suppose.”
“Mig, what is it? Didn’t you get the job? Those people are stupid if they didn’t give the brightest college graduate a job.”
“They did give me the job, mother.”
“Then they’re very smart people! But you don’t seem happy, Miguel! Is there something wrong?”
“Not really, mother. It’s a very high-paying job.”
“Statistics, Mig-boy? What will you doing with numbers?”
“They’re a commodities brokerage. I’ll be an analyst for them.”
“An analyst!” said his mother. “I assume you won’t be a Freudian analyst!” she laughed.
Miguel smiled. “No, mother, not Freudian." Miguel paused. "Carrots."
"Carrots! It all makes sense! But do they need analysis?" asked his mother.
"Not as individuals, no. But as commodities, yes."
"Why carrots?" asked Mr. Rappaport. "Obvious, I know. Earth. Birth. Renewal. But why?"
"They asked me to give an example of how I would track a commodity, and all I could come up with was carrots. I was mortified."
"But they were thrilled!" said his mother.
"Every time they asked a question, all I could come up with was carrots."
"Your father will be so proud!" said his mother.
"They're putting me in charge of the group that oversees the root vegetable industry. Of course I’ll also do parsnips, turnips, rutabagas—not just carrots. Anything with a $300 million or lower gross, because…”
“So much money!” interrupted his mother.
“I begin to have idea, Charlotte, about rutabagas,” said Mr. Rappaport.
“…because that’s what carrots do.” Miguel sighed. “About $300 million.”
©Steve Tollefson, 2008
Steve Tollefson, BAWP 1978, has been teaching writing at UC Berkeley since 1973. He is currently the Director of the UC Berkeley Office of Educational Develpment. His current favorite books are Oil! by Upton Sinclair and Out Stealing Horses by Per Peterson. His email is tollef@berkeley.edu
It is gratifying to see that brother Steve has finally found his niche, veggie fiction. I'm mighty proud.
--Greg Tollefson ( greg@fvlt.org ) from Big Sky Country on 8/25/2008; 1:25:48 PM
Steve, I trust you are going to send this to a print mag as well as to this wonderful digital one. It is brilliant! I want to share it with so many carrots, I mean, people. My salukis, who consider carrots their just desserts, loved it, too, even though they didn't quite understand its statistical dimensions. But where--The New Yorker (after their Obama cover, I don't know whether I would trust them)? Omni? Where????
Fran
--Fran Claggett ( franclaggett@comcast.net ) from In the Country on 8/10/2008; 3:11:04 PM
This Page was last updated: Friday, August 8, 2008 at 3:51:40 PM
Copyright 2008 Digital Paper
Copyright 2008 Digital Paper
This site is using the Default theme.
Theme Design by Bryan Bell.
|