Childhood 06.11.23

The dark-skinned boy walked down the street. His mother would have dinner on the table as always, but he had to pass the test first. By fourteen, he had gotten better at passing. His mother would never let him starve. The punishment for not passing the test would only lead to extra practice after dinner. Over the years of failing the tests as they became harder, he'd become very strong and sharp. He wasn't sure what he wanted to be when he grew up, but he knew he would be the best.

He slowly walked through the door of his home, noticing it was quiet. Too quiet. He set his schoolbooks down on the table by the door and stepped inside, shutting the door.

Something smelled delicious. He smiled; it was his favorite food. His mother's famous garlic chicken parmesan. His smile quickly faded when he realized his mother was nowhere to be seen. She always made his favorite food whenever she had a harder test planned.

He slowly started toward the kitchen, where the delicious smell wafted. "Mama?" he called cautiously. He tensed as he crept forward. His mother had tackled him to the ground before to teach him to be on his guard.

He pushed the door open slowly. His mother was sitting at the counter, already enjoying a plate. He frowned. She never started eating without him.

"Hey, sugar," she said between bites without looking up. She always called him by a pet name like sugar, sweetie, baby, etc. Whenever he'd asked what his name was, she always told him it was classified.

"Hello, mama," the boy replied, scanning the kitchen for booby traps. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. No trip wires, ambushes, ropes, targets, weaponry, obstacle courses, nothing. He became concerned.

"Have a seat," his mother said before shoveling another fork full of chicken into her mouth. She still hadn't looked up at him.

The boy walked over to the seat across from her and sat. He mouth-wateringly eyed the dish longingly, but didn't dare touch it without permission. Finally, his mother set her fork down and looked up at him, lacing her fingers together.

"Smells good?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," the boy replied respectfully.

His mother smiled. "What's in it?"

The boy blinked. "Excuse me?"

His mother's smile faded. "I said, what's in it?" she repeated.

The boy looked from the chicken back to his mother. "In the food? I don't know, you haven't given me the recipe."

He jumped when his mother slammed both hands on the table next to her plate and eyed him down hard. "Now, boy, you listen. You've been trained hard over the years, since you could walk and talk. We've sharpened your sight, hearing, and instincts. Now we sharpen your smell. If you want some of this, tell me what's in it."

The boy swallowed. He had to name every ingredient in the dish. Missing anything would mean another tuna sandwich for dinner.

He decided to start with the obvious. "Minced garlic, parmesan, chicken, fettuccine." He thought for a moment, drawing on his background knowledge of cooking. "Butter โ€”"

"Salted or unsalted?" his mother interjected.

"Salted," the boy responded.

His mother nodded and waved her hand for him to continue.

He studied the dish and noticed little green flakes.

"Parsley." Thinking another moment, he said, "Olive oil," remembering his mother would usually use that when searing chicken to keep it from sticking to the pan.

He leaned forward and took a deep inhale. "Salt," he said, smiling confidently. He frowned when his mother continued to study him patiently, her eyes narrowed.

His mother slowly picked up her fork and scooped more of the dish into her mouth. "Mm-mm!" she exclaimed. "Sure is good. Shame you haven't gotten to taste it yet."

The boy exhaled exasperatedly. He desperately wanted a plate.

"Chili powder?" he guessed. His mother shook his head. "I don't know what else, mama."

His mama frowned again. "You know you can do better than that. You're missing three ingredients. Guess wrong more than twice and you're eating a tuna sandwich instead."

The boy looked back down at the dish and pondered, closing his eyes as he inhaled several times, trying to think of what he could be missing. He perked up as a thought occurred to him.

"Garlic powder?" he guessed. What was a garlic dish without garlic powder? After an affirmative nod from his mother, he closed his eyes again.

"Black pepper," he said, feeling foolish that he hadn't thought of that one already. Another affirmative nod. Okay, he thought, one more ingredient, two more guesses.

He continued to inhale, carefully studying each scent he could detect.

"I can't smell anything else," he said regretfully.

His mother shook her head disappointedly. "Mozzarella," she said sharply. Getting up from the counter, she reached into the fridge and pulled out a pre-wrapped tuna sandwich. She always had one on hand for if her son failed. Putting it on the table in front of her dejected-looking son, she said. "Eat. When you're done, you're spending an hour smelling mozzarella until you can detect it from a mile away."

The boy sighed. "How's this going to help me in life, mama?"

His mama leaned in close to his face. "Having a sharp sense of smell is crucial, boy. By the time I'm done with you, the police will be wanting you as a bloodhound. You'll be able to smell a man's sweat from two counties over. I don't want any lip from you about it. You'll see one day."

The boy exhaled and started eating his tuna sandwich, trying to ignore his mother eating the garlic parmesan chicken with exaggerated exclamations of joy from its deliciousness.

My sense of smell being that sharp feels about as useless as a penguin's inability to fly. Nature's rule-breakers, they are.

โ€” ยง โ€”

Note: In case you didn't catch on, this is Officer X in his childhood.

[Words: 979]