Wil Wheaton recommends, Otis’ son mildly traumatized

My new shirt came in the mail yesterday. I’m wearing it this afternoon.

Today at lunch, the boy looked at me with the same, innocent and quizzical eyes. “Who are those guys, Daddy?”

I looked down at my shirt. Two crayons sat on my unimpressive chest. “This is Mr. White and this is Mr. Orange,” I said.

Wil Wheaton (a guy who will occasionally refer to himself as West Coast Otis), tipped me off to the shirt a few days ago. He and I occasionally get into the same things. This shirt was one of them.

“Is Mr. Orange a baby?” my son asked.

My wife sensed that I was struggling to accomodate my son’s curiosity without telling the whole story.

“He’s crying like a baby,” my wife said. I half expected her to say, “Hey, just cancel that shit right now! You’re hurt. You’re hurt really fucking bad, but you ain’t dying. Say the goddamn words! You’re gonna be okayyyyyy!”

She didn’t and I could tell my son was still in need of an explanation–if not also a minor spoiler. “Mr. Orange is a police officer.”

My son’s face twisted up as he munched on his nuggets. The orange crayon didn’t look like a lawman.

“An undercover police officer,” I clarified.

My son shook his head, like a dog trying to get water out of its ears, or a pulp anti-hero shaking the sight of a dying man from his conflicted brain.

“What happened to him?” the boy asked.

Now I was stumped. I mean, what do you say? Do you tell a three year old kid that Mr. Orange worked his ass off to get his act down pat, worked his way into a notorious gang, got set for a huge job, and then somehow got popped by some ansty lady with a gun in her purse? I just didn’t think it would translate, even with a crayon involved. It was just too cruel, not to mention disappointing. So, I sat silent.

My wife picked up. “He’s melting, buddy. In the sun.”

“Melting?” The boy wanted to buy it. He wanted to buy it so bad. It would certainly help him wrap his brain around the sight of an organge crayon in a black suit writhing in a near-death rattle.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s melting all over the white leather seats of this car.” But he’s not dying. Say the goddamn words.

Thanks, Wil. Love the shirt, but I’m going to have to reserve it for days the boy isn’t around. Last thing I need is him recreating the scene with his Crayolas on the new carpet.

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