On the promenade in Central Park, my son Nick (who’s almost 2) and I came across three hamsters - two real and one mechanical. The real ones, both tan and white, barely moved. The other one, black and mechanical, whirred and bobbed.
A man playing a flute watched over the hamsters. He wore white pants, a white dress shirt and a white macramé kufi cap. He lowered his flute as we approached.
“Pet this one here,” he said. “It’s electronic.”
“Will the real ones nip him?” I asked, although Nick was already petting the hamsters.
“No, but this black one don’t have no teeth, so I know he ain’t gonna bite your boy. I made him myself with electronics.” With his foot he nudged the mechanical hamster closer to Nick. "Everyone’s afraid of the big black guy. No one wants to touch him.”
I looked up at him and he used his flute to direct my attention back to the hamsters.
(Every so often I post a short parenthood essay, adding a link to it in the far left column of this site's main page. Most are adapted from a series of longer essays I'm working on.)
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