I perpetually keep a bag of baby carrots around.
They’re on the periphery, mind you. I see them very little. They own space in my fridge, that bottom drawer where broccoli and bell peppers rub shoulders, and it’s as good as exile. They stay there for eternity.
I’m a normal guy, which means I have limits, especially concerning baby carrots. Sure they do great for your eyes, but the world still blurs into a scary haze whenever I lose a contact. Plus, these suckers slime. Which is why I leave them languishing, uneaten in the fridge, awaiting the fateful day when a fresh-faced batch arrives full of life to send the old package down a trash chute.
It’s a cruel world out there so we hear, and dark-suited strangers in shades and hats come along every now and then to whisper in our college-insulated ears, “Hey baby (carrot), let me show you what’s real.”
I wanted so badly to see the world, but the world gets old so fast and I got older faster. The stranger, it turns out, was an old hippie with a briefcase full of bug spray and fake business cards. Now I’m shooting tequila with cinnamon and oranges and waking up next to a grapefruit.
It’s a terrible thing to wake up next to a grapefruit, because then you think God is telling you to eat more grapefruit.
“Why, God, why?” you query.
“Because you need your antioxidants,” he says.
He has a deeper voice than you imagined. Now I’ve been here so long, I can barely remember what it feels like to be on top.
“That’s where the milk and eggs live,” the voices around you whisper. “If you were milk or eggs, you’d be loved, too.”
It’s a cold, cold refrigerator.
Make no mistake, my baby carrots know where they’re headed. It’s the same place the ones that came before them went, and the ones before them. In the same way, I’d like to think you and I know where we’re headed.
I’ve been hitchhiking some lately, and I often ride with the elderly, the only ones wise enough to recognize that not every hitchhiker murders people. I can’t say I’ve influenced their lives. Once you have 60 years down pat, the little variations in your day don’t make much of a ripple.
Somewhere in this story is a baby carrot. I can’t see that trash chute yet, but I know it’s there, and every drink I knock down brings me closer ““ which is why I’d advise you to shoot some whiskey with your elders, and take no guff otherwise.
Finally, my heart goes out to Jessica Lum, my editor, colleague and friend. She suggested I join the Daily Bruin four years ago, and I have her to thank for my time here. Get better.
Liu was a 2007-2008 assistant photo editor and a 2006-2009 staff photographer.