The Optimal Solution

by C. Dan Castro

This story was originally printed January 4, 2023 in “SEEDS,” a newsletter by the Texas Gardener group.

The basement door squealed open, Dad arriving in time to prevent a family riot.

“Dad, I need—” I said.

“Whuh about muh—” Billy said.

“My life is over—” Laura wailed.

“SILENCE!” Dad said, sliding his safety glasses into his yellowed lab coat’s chest pocket. He motioned to Laura. “One at a time.”

“The play, Dad. A week from Monday?”

“You’re playing…Ophelia?”

“I’m the set designer!”

“Ah, that play.”

“I have to create a jungle. We need green paint.”

Dad looked at me. “Pumpkin, is there budget for paint?”

I looked at the worn kitchen table covered with “Past Due” notices. And issues of Plant Genome Magazine.

“Not exactly,” I said. Although only twelve, I’d been in charge of paying bills since Mom died. When Dad paid, the inevitable result was the electricity getting shut off. Not good for the basement laboratory, much less for us.

“I’m ruined,” Laura whined.

“Nonsense,” Dad said. “Simply need a better solution to your paint problem. Hum. What about you, young man?”

“We still buildin’ the soapbox dewby wace-uh?” Billy, eight, was missing many baby teeth after his “adventure” with a grocery cart and Deadman’s Hill. Entering him into a soapbox derby race, even putting him near those coffin-like racers, seemed a dubious parental decision.

“Pumpkin, budget?”

“Wood’s expensive.”

“Hum. Could repurpose two doors. Can’t spare the front, back, or lab. And certainly not the bathroom door.”

“Teh-uh off mine!” Billy said, always happy to destroy.

“That’s one! But for a second…Pumpkin? Laura?”

“Not it!” we said simultaneously.

“Let’s come back to the racer. What do you need, Pumpkin?”

“Carrots.”

“For…?”

“Carrot cake.”

“Story checks out. Wait, why are you making carrot cake?”

“Home Ec,” although I stretched it into “Home Ecccch!” I didn’t mean to sound snobby, but I’d rather do basement experiments with Dad. After years of disappointment, his accelerated cellular division research was showing promise. And his Plant Genome Magazine article backed it up.

“Ecccch indeed. Let’s see. Carrots. Carrots. Pumpkin, you’re in luck.”

“We can get groceries?”

“Better. I’ll grow carrots.”

“I need them a week from Sunday.”

“No problem.”

“That’s eight days.”

“Better get planting.”

* * *

Our home sat on a half acre, all land around the house serving as garden space. Currently nothing but weeds grew on what Dad called our “External Laboratory.”

The neighbors, with perfect green lawns, despised us.

Dad fired up Ol’ Bessie and drove the aerator/seeder/don’t-get-run-over-by-apparatus in concentric squares around the house.

I watched from my window. Maybe a babysitting job would come Friday? I could earn carrot money.

But Friday came and I had no takers. School over for the week, I cranked out biology homework involving plant genetics, Green Day blaring on my little stereo.

 “Impressive, huh?” Dad asked loudly at my doorway.

I turned down the stereo. “Green Day’s okay.”

“Wha—no. Not the music. The garden. See ’em?”

I looked out my window and saw the dirt that neighbors thought should be our lawn. Except for a few errant weeds, it was brown, brown, br—

No, not quite. Here and there, tiny green spots stood out, like polka dots, our property resembling the ugliest dress fabric ever.

“That’s great, Dad. But Sunday’s in two—”

“Remember those cell division calculations we did? The power of exponential growth?”

“Yes—”

“Patience, Pumpkin. Patience.”

* * *

Saturday. I woke and looked out my window.

Carrot greens.

Big.

Leafy.

Everywhere.

I ran outside and pulled one. A long, fat carrot, hairs tightly clutching flecks of soil.

I brought it in, cleaned it, and gave it a chomp.

“Ow!” The carrot might as well have been an orange stalactite.

“Hey, what are you doing? Oh, Pumpkin, you okay? These aren’t eating carrots.”

I stared, stunned, tongue probing my teeth to confirm none shattered.

“Not yet, anyway,” Dad added. “It is only Saturday.”

* * *

Sunday. I’d been up late, the family watching “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.”

Dad’s muffled voice floated through the door: “Wake up, Pumpkin. Carrot time.”

“Gimmeeaminutetofindmy…” I mumbled, stopping as I became more awake. I heard Dad tromp down the stairs, and I squinted out my window.

And gasped.

Carrots jutted from the garden, but like none I’d seen. Six-foot-tall orange pillars. I doubted Billy could wrap his arms around them fully. And greens on top added another six feet of height.

I ran downstairs, crashed into Billy and Laura, and we stumbled outside.

Dad turned toward us, raising his arms to indicate the forest of carrots. “Behold. The optimal solution. Just takes considerable genetic manipulation, some chloroplast concentrating, a bit of cell wall modification, and voilà!”

Careful not to trip over a chainsaw he must have brought out, Dad turned to one giant carrot. He shoved it.

It fell, its base having extended only six inches into the ground. They could withstand a mild wind, but not a determined scientist.

I knocked on the rock-hard vegetable. “Still not an eating carrot.”

“Ah, the phenotype hides something. Stand back.” We did, all wary whenever Dad picked up his chainsaw. He slipped on safety goggles, and with a single cord pull, got the chainsaw to roar to life.

Dad chopped off the greens before splitting the orange body in half lengthwise.

He killed the chainsaw, then waved us over. “The shell is hard, true, but the core is soft. And we have tons of greens,” he said, handing a pile to Laura, “so you can craft a very realistic jungle set.

“Billy, we’ll carve the shell into your racer.”

“Awe-some!”

“And Pumpkin, we’ll need to scoop out the center to make Billy’s racer.”

“And the scooped-out center’s pulp,” I guessed, “is eatin’ carrot.”

Dad smiled, not just in joy, but in relief. His first in a long time. “The carrots can be used for food. Ethanol. Maybe building materials, depending on shell durability.” He looked at me. “Should pay lots of bills.”

“The optimal solution,” I said.

Bio:
Dan Castro enjoys writing fantasy, mystery, and crime stories. He’s been published in Sherlock Holmes Magazine (UK), Particular Passages (Volume 4), Thrill Ride the Magazine #1 (“Honor”), and more! Additional works have been accepted by Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine (U.S.), and Mysterical-E. He lives in Connecticut, where he’s making a final polish on his first novel, a middle-grade fantasy.