Boyhood Folly

Scrappings From Before Silicon

Before we get to the machinery, we have to establish the baseline. I wrote this dispatch years ago, at twenty-one, in a panicked rush for a university deadline. I am publishing it tonight entirely unedited from its original form. It is overly ambitious, slightly naval-gazing, and structurally bruised. But fully human. In an internet flooded with synthetic, frictionless slop, this is what actual friction looks like. This is what can't be aggregated.

Here the smell is insurmountable. The musk of freshly-cut, dewed lawn. Along with an omnipresent veneer of sweat, over time the locals accept it with serene melancholy; it fades into obscurity, white-noise. I was never accustomed to it: I could never truly call it home.

Summer vacation be damned—I was up at dawn each day. I wasn’t obligated—being seven and jobless—yet the suffocating humidity forbade late-risers.

There was another reason for my punctuality: my great-grandmother was living there with us, and I could not let her get the morning paper before me. You see, in the papers, there was always a crossword. A good-natured competition had formed between us: the first to get the paper would then try to have the crossword completed before the other was out of bed. An unspoke of thing it was. I’m not sure what about it drew me so strongly. Even in my youth, I was never very competitive; I suppose I didn’t see the point in it. The crossword itself was always of no substance to me: I found it fruitless and easy, something to entertain my eyes while the rest of me breakfasted. I didn’t realize that for my grandfather’s mother, being in her eighties, it was the daily highlight of mental stimulation. Forgive my youthful ignorance.

She was a good sport, knowing I was only a boy. I was not. On a miserable to-be July day, I was up before the sun. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my shorts and shirt (in that sweltering peninsula, sleeping in anything more than my Superman briefs was a death sentence), and went into the common area.

My grandfather was in the kitchen; a wave of sizzling sausage hit me and the pit in my stomach throbbed. Grandpa was sixty-one then, the throes of dementia long down the road. When you’re seven, life passes slowly, and every adult seems ancient. He was a strong and smart man, fiendishly addicted to living. And I was wholly ignorant that his boyish playfulness would not last forever. Neither would he.

He saw me over the counter and smiled. “Well, good morning, buddy.”

“Has she got it?” My priorities were steadfast.

“Nope. Don’t even think the mailman’s run yet.” He must have seen the look of disappointment on my face. “You hungry? Eat and I’ll let you know when it runs.”

It sounded just fine to me. “Alright.” I tried not to sound nervous. Despite being a child, I was strangely embarrassed by all my childish fantasies. I knew there was no sense in taking a crossword so seriously, as if it were a matter of life and death. But shit, it was fun; it excited the mundane summer. I sat at the table and waited for food.

My breakfast was fried eggs and sausage patties, with a side of toast, still a favorite of mine to this day. I’ve always eaten slowly, lost in thought as if the act of chewing transfixed me into a rudimentary meditation. My plate was nearly clean and I heard my grandfather call out. He had been washing dishes, being my lookout. “Looks like he’s here; best go on and get it. She’ll be up soon.”

Didn’t I know it; it was a quarter till eight and her internal clock would alarm soon. I ate the rest ravenously and fell over pulling my shoes on. I was halfway down the driveway before I heard the screen-door slap back. No point in being quie

I tucked the paper and other post under my arm and jogged back to the house. I tossed the bills and such on the kitchen counter and sat down at the table with the paper. Within five minutes the crossword was filled with my gnarled chicken-scratch. You see, the most fun part of the game was pretending you had done nothing and letting the other person be disappointed once they unfolded and saw for themselves. Therefore I quickly tucked the paper back together and slipped it into its plastic bag, positioning it casually with the other mail.

I felt victorious and went to the couch to watch TV. In the 2000s, early-morning Animal Planet was a gold mine. Fauna was my earliest passion and I spent boyhood fascinated with wildlife. Sadly the program was some Jane Goodall nonsense. Well, let’s check the Discovery Channel. Mythbusters reruns. No matter–they would do. I waited.

It seemed Great-grandma was sleeping-in: the minutes ticked by slowly, time stuck in mud. Eventually, Grandpa went to check on her, concern contorting his joyous disposition. I had yet to experience a family member’s death; I was a bright kid and knew these days would come. Only I assumed I’d be a man before dealing with that sort of loss.

My mind raced. Life felt queerly transparent, like a fading illusion. The lack of sound was maddening. If something was wrong, he’d call out. But would he? He might withhold sorrow just to spare me. I considered going to check myself.

Then around the corner came them both. Beads of sweat lined Grandpa’s forehead. His mother was ghostly white. Seeing me they seemed to pull their act together, pretending all was well. Oh, how infuriating that was. What was the point of telling everyone how smart your grandson was and yet thinking something so simple would fool him? I said nothing. They both smiled.

Grandpa broke the silence with a question and I ignored him, turning back to Adam and Jamie. I had forgotten about the paper. And I was too late to fix it. Great-grandma sat at the table and went for the yellow bag. Whatever had happened, she was probably happy to lose herself in the crossword.

I remembered right as she turned to the page. I shot up off the couch in time to see her disappointment. There was nothing victorious about it now. Stammering, I tried to work out an apology.

“You little sonofabitch Clarkie,” she said, forcing a loving, playful smile. There she goes with my dad’s name again. Whatever had happened, I had no way of knowing, and thus shouldn’t feel bad, her smile said. It didn’t work and I never got the newspaper again.

That November she died. It wasn’t tragic: with all that’s happened since, a loved one living into their eighties was a blessing. But it was my first loss. And no matter how childish and nonsensical the thinking, I’ve always felt bad for doing her crossword.