I Worry About the Chinese

My son is two and a half. Everyone loves him and gives him a truck. Love = truck at this stage in his experience of human relations. Later, love will = food, will = the car keys, will = all sorts of things I can't bring myself to contemplate just yet. I somehow can't picture myself in the place of my acquaintance V, who recently bought her 15-year-old son mint condoms because he asked for them. I was ashamed to ask my mom for Bonne Belle Lip Smackers because I didn't want her to think about me having lips when I was 15. Times change, we all know that. Most of us accept it.

But back to the trucks. Like everything else made of plastic, almost all of Smoochie's trucks are made in China. And almost all of Smoochie's trucks come with a sound track. Before becoming a mother, I would have thought that the soundtrack would be supplied by the little boy who owned the truck; Zoom. Brrrrr. Rrrrrr. Eeeeeee. That sort of thing.

Lief's trucks yodel.

They warble disco tunes. They flash their lights in time to the beat. Honk honk beep beep, a die dee die, die dee die dee die dee die. They sing "baa baa black sheep." "(WHY?)

Which leads me to wonder: why do the Chinese think that trucks yodel? Or is it a whimsical cultural wish: We want North American farm machinery to sing disco. We want it very much. Or a heinous plot: if their trucks sing, they will be lulled into a stupor and then we can offload mandarin oranges that have seeds in them or mass troops on their borders. Perhaps what the trucks are singing is a subliminal message: Shop at Walmart, what's wrong with sweatshops, pass the egg foo yung.

At night I lie awake and wonder what the trucks in the basement are up to. The flood wiped out the last lot in mid-June, but they're back and they're louder and more tuneful than ever.

I worry about the Chinese.