Carson K. Smith

My name is Carson.

Obviously.

I mention it because I've also been called Kit.

I was named after Kit Carson, the explorer and illiterate, and before I was all grown up I went by Kit. It was cute.

To think of me as a grown man is wrong. For I am still as curious as Kit. I'm still Kit in the way I laugh and Kit in some of the things I laugh at. Like when somebody's glasses are crooked or all fogged up from steam—that's always funny. I'm still Kit in that I joke, run around, wear sweatshirts with hoods and sneakers.

I am a 34-year old who plays Nintendo.

To think of me as an adult man would be wrong. Because I am also an old man. I wear my grandfather's cardigans and hats. I am set in my oatmeal ways. I go to bed early and tell wordplay jokes like, Fondue? Or fon-don't do fondue.


I'm like an eight year old and an 84-year old trapped in a 14-year old boy's body with a 64-year old man's humor and hairline.

I don't know why but for some people Carson is a hard name to get. It's two syllables, a compound word no less made up of two of the simplest words. But I have been called so many things. Carlson recently. Cameron. Carlyle. Even Conrad.

I like the name Conrad. And for a while went with it as an alias. Conrad McCoy.

I also went by my initials, C.K., briefly, because I thought that was as cool as Calvin.

My wife calls me many things. Something different almost every time. And if I didn't know her so well I'd worry she didn't know who she was talking to.

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