- ▒地球防衛軍▒ⓔⓐⓡⓣⓗLv 67 年前最佳解答
A bee in my father’s bonnet, who knows, maybe embarrassed by the gleaming, pristine tools hanging on the basement wall. He buckles down. Spraypaints a cardboard box silver, cuts arm and leg holes. Rigs a battery and toggle switch so multicolored lights on the chest illuminate at will. A cardboard cylinder for the head, complete with cellophane visor and antenna, all held together by tiny nails. Arms and legs made out of white dryer tubing. Takes half an hour to suit me up and I can’t help but move like a robot when I’m in it. Super-elaborate, and the buzz at school is palpable. Other kids are glad for the cheap plastic Spiderman masks that hide their humiliated and jealous faces. And yet, and yet my robot loses to Boba Fett in the costume contest. Basically one of the taller sixth graders wearing hockey gear and construction paper. My father bristles. He seriously can’t believe it. These are the people in charge of educating my son and yet, and yet, etc. But all the effort pays off later that evening when I’m staggering through the neighborhood, maybe ten percent visibility, arms sticking out, walking like my pants are at half-mast. I fall down maybe every third house, once rolling down a swollen hill to the sidewalk. I’m on my back, in the box, in the helmet, in the tubing, arms and legs flailing, readout lights flickering. I’m not going anywhere, trapped inside the cavernous robot torso. I can sort of make out the laughter from family members and strangers alike, and my father takes his time coming over to help me up. At the candy postmortem I realize it’s the finest costume I’ll ever wear. The miniature Mr. Goodbars don’t have the burnt-almond aftertaste of cyanide.