The dog pouted when told to remain inside, but Jeremy was tired of getting up in the middle of a thought to let the indecisive creature back in. He needed his thoughts to flow smoothly, and his fingers to be uninterrupted.
He was never an excellent typist, although he had once taken a class and fared well enough. That was all fine and good though. He didn't need sixty words a minute, he just needed the right words.
He had been an avid reader since The Pokey Little Puppy and adored Probe, Scrabble, and any other word game he could find. He would sneak peeks at his grandpa's crosswords, half-filled with scrunched letters. The nondescript ballpoint pen sat atop the paper like a silent guardian. Mostly the puzzles were references he didn't understand, but he listened when adults talked to each other and had picked up some trivial knowledge from before his time. He had never dared sully the clean newsprint squares, but in those times he'd felt empowered. Even playing a game that challenged his grandfather was a victory to the child who loved both games and intellectual challenges deeply.
Perhaps he should have become a game designer, he thought, looking around. I could have made a game about the territorial wars of metropolitan street parking. He couldn't even see his small white car from here. He thought he couldn't, but it's not like the car stood out in a crowd. He'd driven it back from college just a few months ago, but summer was over and so was the romance of youth. There had never been a time in his life when he felt so free a when he was 1,500 miles away at university, and now it was over. Most of his lifelong friends would have to be digital friends now, which he hated. Many of them had settled in a city on a river, but he had returned back to the bosom of his home. He knew he hadn't really had a choice in the matter, but it hadn't gotten under his skin yet. With Mom sick, he needed to be close to family. He wanted to.
Looking for a job in his field hadn't been easy, and he'd had more than his share of good intentions from everyone at family gatherings. Even his neighbor told him she'd heard GM was hiring. In a month he would finally break down and take that job his high school buddy offered him in the shipping/receiving department at Best Buy, but for the moment, his will held. None of the publishers were biting, and the ebook he had released himself remained unnoticed on the virtual shelves.
His thoughts began to hop and flit from one stream of consciousness to another, finally finding a memory of his grandfather at the long table in the kitchen. Many years ago, a throng of children must have clamored around the white Formica. That night he had gathered at one end with Mom and Grandpa to play a variant of Shanghai rummy, but they hadn't gotten around to it yet when Grandpa unexpectedly shared his story. The patriarch was the silent type by necessity, his voice box having been removed with the cancer that had infested it before Jeremy had been born. Nine daughters and a son had seen to the rapid brimming of Vernon and Ann's little pink house on the corner. Family gatherings were no joke, and it was rare that Grandpa got to finish writing before someone would finish his thought aloud. It had always bothered Jeremy, and he made it a point never to read the rapid scrawl until the thought was finished. They had been "talking" about something, and it had sparked a recounting of Grandpa's youth, when he served in the navy. What had they been discussing? He hated when his memory failed him. The minor details didn't really matter, but he felt a swell of panic when he realized that with Grandpa gone and Mom not doing so well, he would soon be the sole arbiter of the memory. He couldn't recall his grandfather ever telling a story like that outside of this occasion. He and some of his buddies, fellow sailors all, went on shore leave with pockets full of spending money. They drank their way through the city and ended the night on an outbound train. When they woke, they were halfway across the country and penniless. They'd hitchhiked back to their ship with little trouble, never knowing it would be the only story his grandson would learn from him. Jeremy always made time for the old man, but their talks had been small. They rarely broke the five-minute mark, and only then to discuss Jeremy's life.
The fingers thrummed against the keyboard in the dark, lit occasionally in a soft orange glow as he took a drag from the cigar. Why hadn't he pursued a deeper connection with the old man, tried to find out out what would have been said if he could speak for himself in the strong, stern tone Jeremy imagined. There had been an error all those years ago, and the doctors had somehow removed the lessons he was supposed to learn from his Grandfather's life.
Jeremy filled in the greater part of the story with his own imaginings, trying to remember the details and failing. He should have kept the little paper squares from that night, and he'd know exactly what had been said. He should have done a lot of things.
He was never an excellent typist, although he had once taken a class and fared well enough. That was all fine and good though. He didn't need sixty words a minute, he just needed the right words.
He had been an avid reader since The Pokey Little Puppy and adored Probe, Scrabble, and any other word game he could find. He would sneak peeks at his grandpa's crosswords, half-filled with scrunched letters. The nondescript ballpoint pen sat atop the paper like a silent guardian. Mostly the puzzles were references he didn't understand, but he listened when adults talked to each other and had picked up some trivial knowledge from before his time. He had never dared sully the clean newsprint squares, but in those times he'd felt empowered. Even playing a game that challenged his grandfather was a victory to the child who loved both games and intellectual challenges deeply.
Perhaps he should have become a game designer, he thought, looking around. I could have made a game about the territorial wars of metropolitan street parking. He couldn't even see his small white car from here. He thought he couldn't, but it's not like the car stood out in a crowd. He'd driven it back from college just a few months ago, but summer was over and so was the romance of youth. There had never been a time in his life when he felt so free a when he was 1,500 miles away at university, and now it was over. Most of his lifelong friends would have to be digital friends now, which he hated. Many of them had settled in a city on a river, but he had returned back to the bosom of his home. He knew he hadn't really had a choice in the matter, but it hadn't gotten under his skin yet. With Mom sick, he needed to be close to family. He wanted to.
Looking for a job in his field hadn't been easy, and he'd had more than his share of good intentions from everyone at family gatherings. Even his neighbor told him she'd heard GM was hiring. In a month he would finally break down and take that job his high school buddy offered him in the shipping/receiving department at Best Buy, but for the moment, his will held. None of the publishers were biting, and the ebook he had released himself remained unnoticed on the virtual shelves.
His thoughts began to hop and flit from one stream of consciousness to another, finally finding a memory of his grandfather at the long table in the kitchen. Many years ago, a throng of children must have clamored around the white Formica. That night he had gathered at one end with Mom and Grandpa to play a variant of Shanghai rummy, but they hadn't gotten around to it yet when Grandpa unexpectedly shared his story. The patriarch was the silent type by necessity, his voice box having been removed with the cancer that had infested it before Jeremy had been born. Nine daughters and a son had seen to the rapid brimming of Vernon and Ann's little pink house on the corner. Family gatherings were no joke, and it was rare that Grandpa got to finish writing before someone would finish his thought aloud. It had always bothered Jeremy, and he made it a point never to read the rapid scrawl until the thought was finished. They had been "talking" about something, and it had sparked a recounting of Grandpa's youth, when he served in the navy. What had they been discussing? He hated when his memory failed him. The minor details didn't really matter, but he felt a swell of panic when he realized that with Grandpa gone and Mom not doing so well, he would soon be the sole arbiter of the memory. He couldn't recall his grandfather ever telling a story like that outside of this occasion. He and some of his buddies, fellow sailors all, went on shore leave with pockets full of spending money. They drank their way through the city and ended the night on an outbound train. When they woke, they were halfway across the country and penniless. They'd hitchhiked back to their ship with little trouble, never knowing it would be the only story his grandson would learn from him. Jeremy always made time for the old man, but their talks had been small. They rarely broke the five-minute mark, and only then to discuss Jeremy's life.
The fingers thrummed against the keyboard in the dark, lit occasionally in a soft orange glow as he took a drag from the cigar. Why hadn't he pursued a deeper connection with the old man, tried to find out out what would have been said if he could speak for himself in the strong, stern tone Jeremy imagined. There had been an error all those years ago, and the doctors had somehow removed the lessons he was supposed to learn from his Grandfather's life.
Jeremy filled in the greater part of the story with his own imaginings, trying to remember the details and failing. He should have kept the little paper squares from that night, and he'd know exactly what had been said. He should have done a lot of things.
He finished proofreading the essay for the third time. No changes necessary this time. Where his memory had failed, his imagination stepped in. Grandpa's adventure was now safely reimagined and recorded. A breeze made the hollow reeds of the wind chime gently collide. It was a good thing, he thought. Even if it wasn't quite right. A fragment of his history would remain. He hoped he wouldn't be called on to remember his mother soon. He couldn't bear the mistakes.
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