Visiting Grandpa

"Geez, the ‘40s were a weird time, grandpa."

"Kit, what are you lookin’ at?"

"Just some old pictures, grandpa. See?"

"Oh good Lord. Where’d you find those pics, son?"

"On an old flashdrive."

"How’d the hell you access it? That’s deadtech. Totally inorganic."

"I found an old tablet at the junk shop in town. Mister Ross gave me a real good deal on it."

"What you doin’ messin’ around with deadtech, Kit? I thought kids these days were all into them squid lookin’ things they walk aroun’ with on their heads."

"I don’t like usin’ the squid."

"Why not?"

"It always leave a bad taste in my mouth when I take it off."

"So you’d rather mess around with PreBio tech?"

"Sure. It’s cool. Kind of retro."

"Uh-huh."

"A lot of my friends are into it too."

"Is that a fact. Well, will wonders never cease."

"Grandpa, can I ask you something?"

"I reckon so."

"What was the Internet really like? We hear all kinds of stories ‘n stuff, but. . . ."

"Well, Kit, to be honest, it was mostly used for porn ‘n e-mail."

"So, it was sorta like the hivemind."

"I don’t rightly know, since I never used a squid."

"Never?"

"Nope."

"Wow. That’s . . . . Wow."

"Heh. Finally impressed you with somethin’, eh grandson?"

"Even mom and dad use the squids."

"I know. I seen ‘em, sittin’ on the couch, holdin’ hands with them things on their heads. They look like a right couple a fools, if you ask me."

"Oh!"

"You all right, Kit? You look like you sat on a tack."

"I’m fine, grandpa. Just realized what time it was. I have to go now."

"All right, son. You say howdy to your folks for me and be careful out there. All right?"

"Yes, sir."

* * * * *

Kit opened his eyes to the all-too familiar sensation of menemopede footsteps tickling his spine. He turned his head and saw an attendant scoop the creature up and wrap it around his neck like a fat scarf.

"Enjoy your visit?" asked the man.

"Yeah," said Kit. He sat up and the attendant passed him his shirt. "I wish I could stay longer."

"Sorry but everybody comes to the Archive on the weekend. And we only have so many mnemopedes to go around."

"I know," sighed Kit. "I wish grandpa didn’t have to live here."

"Happens to everybody eventually," said the attendant, shrugging. "Our bodies wear out and we wind up archiving our minds. It’s better than the alternative."

"Death."

"Yes," said the attendant. "You know about death?"

"I’ve read about it, but I don’t know anybody who’s actually done it."

"And that’s a good thing," said the attendant, smiling.

Kit shrugged and walked out of the Archive.

He’d stop by Mr. Ross’s store on the way home. Maybe he’d find something else really cool to show grandpa the next time he went to visit.

Grinning in anticipation, Kit ran all the way to the store.

Red Lovers on a Rooftop

Cold Bright Day

Sunlight falls,
Bright gold
From a cold, blue sky.

I sit,
Behind glass windows,
Watching,
Waiting,
Shivering.

Where did Spring go?
I pull on long pants,
A fire-red shirt,
Socks and shoes.
The chill lingers.

Sunlight falls.
Bright gold
From a cold, blue sky.

And I wonder
Where Spring went
And when will it return?

Silence

This past Saturday when I came home from the shop, I walked into an empty, silent house. My landlords, a very sweet couple with two kids and a small dog, were gone. 

No, they did not abscond like fugitives. They are moving to Illinois. Their absence was expected.

Still, despite the fact that I knew they would be leaving that day, walking into the house that evening and having them gone was somewhat discomfiting. I’ve been living here a while and have gotten used to the rhythms and habits of the family.

Always before, whenever anyone walked into the house, their little dog, Gizmo, would explode into a fury of barking and rush to meet you. Close on his heels would be the eldest child, three-year-old Ayden, curious to see who was arriving.

This past Saturday, there was nothing. No one met me at the door. Almost everything was gone. The house was dark and still, the light seeping through the window shades did not seem to want to penetrate. I walked into the kitchen and my footsteps echoed, queerly, in the emptiness.

Standing in the kitchen, I realized how used to my landlords’ family I had become. Their absence left me feeling off-kilter and a bit lonely.

It’s been a couple of days now and I’m still not used to the silence of the house. My rhythms are disrupted. I keep waiting for familiar sounds: the muted grind of the garage doors lifting, the choking coughs that accompany Dan’s morning ablutions, the rumble of the shower on the other side of my bedroom wall, little Adli’s high-pitched keens for attention, Ayden’s daredevil whoops as he leaps from sofa to floor, the muted sound of Big Bang Theory episodes being watched endlessly downstairs, Melissa’s patient voice calling Ayden back from the edge of overexuberance.

That’s all gone now. There’s just silence. The soft rumble of the air conditioner. The hum of the cable box.

I miss the noise, and, more importantly, the people who made it.

House 2: Electric Boogaloo!

First of all, ladies and gentlemen, I have to apologize for the title of this post. However, whenever I see a sequel to a film or book, I automatically think of that classic 1980s movie, Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo.  So, I couldn't resist using it as the title of this post.
Please forgive my questionable taste in 1980s cinema. ^_^
So, this afternoon I went and examined the house the realtor told me about.  It's not a bad house. It's got good bones. The location isn't bad; it's in an older, more settled neighborhood close to two Interstates and a popular shopping center.
Yes, the chocolate brown rug would have to go. So, too, would the linoleum in the kitchen.  Then the walls would have to be painted. The back door would need to be replaced. The back yard would need to be cleaned (It seems to have acquired a vast collection of deflated soccer balls, etc.) then attacked with a lawn mower.  The bathroom ceiling would have to be patched.
As I moved through the house I made a mental list of things that would need to be done to make the place livable.
And it's certainly doable.
If I had the mechanical skills, it probably wouldn't cost me much to do it myself.
However, gentle readers, there is a reason I let someone else change the oil in my car. There is a reason I don't tinker with hot water heaters or anything connected to propane/gas/etc.
Basically, the handyman genes have totally skipped me.  While my mom can put together a functional greenhouse using castoff plywood, plastic sheeting and holiday lights, suffice to say that I can plug in a heat lamp and that's about as do-it-yourself as I get.
By this point, the tally in my head had hit the red line.  Outside, the neighbor's dogs were barking up a storm as they had been since our arrival. 
And that, gentle readers, was when I knew this property was not for me.
Sure, it was in my price range. Sure, I could find a contractor to do the fiddly, mechanical bits. But I don't want to move into a new neighborhood and be That Guy; the one who complains about the dogs and kids and noise, etc.
So, I'm not making an offer on the house.  I shall let it slip away, into mist and dreams of what could have been.
I shall wait and see what comes along next.
Who knows?
Maybe it'll be something better.