David Palmer - Emergence

Now, not prude, nor naïve, don’t mind entendres, of whatever multiplication factor, but that’s old! Bet Eve thought so, too.

(Wonder, sometimes, why always seems necessary to make so many allowances when dealing with 12-, 13-year-old boys [approximate real age, silly straight-faced assertion of 18 notwithstanding]. After all, I’m 11 — is it so unreasonable to expect from boys of comparable vintage demeanor at least as balanced, reasonable, logical, dignified?)

Secondly, is genuine maniac behind wheel: Ambition, prior to End of World, was to become Grand Prix driver; campaign through Europe, world; win World Championship. Even days, that is; on odd days wanted to join NASCAR circuit, tour southern U.S., bumping fenders with “Good Ole Boys” at 195 miles an hour on superspeedways in Grand. National stock cars — which nearly describes how we met: at downtown Baltimore street corner — avoided collision by hair’s-breadth.

(What? Regard unlikely only two people in city would “meet by accident”? Think again — better still, ask neighborhood insurance-history buff about famous 1902 claim wherein only two cars in entire state of Ohio involved in intersection crunch.)

Adam’s third peculiarity is he… he…

No. Can’t say it. Excerpt from conversation at breakfast first morning posthibernation sufficiently illustrative.

Were bringing each other up-to-date on life stories. Adam had distinct advantage of me: Read Vol. II while I lay in coma.

(Another indication of quality of boy’s brains, incidentally: To decipher contents, necessary to teach himself Pitman shorthand theory — did so in single day [took me two!]).

Have, of course, exacted blood oath not to exercise newfound skill by violating this journal; thoughts immortalized in diary constitute — must be regarded as — privileged communication between writer, History.

Anyway, since my knowledge of Adam then quite meager (sharp as tack, clever at EMT work, good cook, brilliant pianist, and drives like mishap studying to become catastrophe) boy necessarily carried bulk of conversation. Was filling me in on high points of existence prior to Armageddon:

Parents unlikely pair: mother state senator, all-around busy, important person; father music director of Baltimore Symphony. Adam divided time between studying Muse, eavesdropping on Moving Shaking within state government.

Determined early on art more fun than politics. And magnitude of talent soon emerged: genuine prodigy on piano; first public recital, age seven. “Father was so proud; mother, too. And I was tickled by all the adulation — amused, really, that something so easy should generate so much attention.

“But it didn’t go to my head; I didn’t have time for such foolishness. I was obsessed with perfecting my skill and committing to memory more and ever more selections. And while I did try to devote equal attention to all the great masters, I gradually found myself spending more and more time studying the works and methods of one in particular. In a remarkably short time I came to be known not so much as a prodigy but as a Bach ward child.”

See…? Down through centuries we women have put up with menfolk who caroused; stuffed faces without thanks; missed baths; littered floors with cigar butts, ashes, smelly socks; nobly marched off to war, leaving us to fend for selves (brought home loathsome diseases, often as not); beat us; and, not infrequently, simply abandoned families altogether, because responsibility proved too much trouble.

Okay. Can cope with that. If absolutely must. One way or another. Possibly with diplomacy; more probably to detriment of male in question. But can cope.

This, however, another matter entirely! Lad inexhaustible font of misused words. Delights in puns of every description, lower the better; also in perverting familiar constructions to own depraved ends: Assembling engine is “mantling”; accumulation of scattered components is “persion,” competent person is “ept,” etc. When I made mistake of suggesting words existed which did job more precisely, without requiring listener to perform involuted dissection, analysis, Adam replied was fond of Bach -constructions.

Truly is: Can dredge up Bach-related adjectives to mis-fit any occasion; more inapt or strained the usage, happier seems to make him. For instance, past girl friends’ phone numbers listed in Little Bach Book; smug about Bach porches, his Bach-alaureate, skill at Bach-gammon; swimming Bach-stroke in Bach-waters during laid-Bach vacations at cottage in Bach-woods, etc.

But peripheral consideration; usually unexpected, often funny (sometimes over head), only occasionally irritating. A plus, generally. I think.

However, further problem exists, presenting complications of another order of magnitude entirely: Adam interested in initiating repopulation project. Immediately or sooner. Wants to get me on my Bach. (Actually, “obsessed with” probably more accurate descriptive than “interested in.”) If, at given moment, somehow fails to be in midst of straightforward proposition, is hinting. Broadly. Constantly.

Initially broached (figuratively speaking) subject while describing rigors of growing up rich (still at same first breakfast — as I sat there, hardly 16 hours postcoma; barely alive; pale, thin ghost of former self):

“…so even after both the grand jury and congressional committee absolved me of responsibility, the school withdrew permission to park the Lamborghini in the student lot, I had to be driven to class every day, everybody knew, it was terribly embarrassing, how long will it be before you’re recovered enough to sleep with me?”

Paused; glanced from corner of eye, then quickly away; waited for reaction. And waited. And waited…

Because object of affection having difficulty making mouth work. Reaction complicated: First, was dumbfounded; totally unexpected conversational turn, straight out of blue. Second, genuine no-foolin’ proposition something with which, at my age, have had little — oh, all right! — no experience. Third, blasé expectation — nay; cavalier assumption — of automatic assent quite took breath away — haven’t even decided to keep him yet…!

Went from startlement to shock, directly thence to offended feminine sensibilities; but hesitated momentarily, reflecting before venting feelings — all in space of single breath. Concluded, after brief deliberation, probably not Adam’s fault. Entirely. From wrong side of tracks, after all; can’t be expected to behave like normal person. Besides, is young, healthy; puberty in full cry, bursting with urges. Doubtless views me as Heaven-sent solution; perhaps even hard-won prize, considering effort invested in saving life — of which notion shall promptly disabuse him…!

(But consider parallel situation: If, when puppy does Terrible Thing in house, is immediately shot, replaced; is owner likely to end up with properly housebroken pet? Ever? Similarities existed here. Adam entitled to benefit of doubt during probationary/training period. Decided to let him live — pending…)

So closed mouth firmly; took deep breath, released deliberately; declined, with thanks.

“Oh, come on!” he coaxed heartily. “We’re both healthy young adults…”

(Histographer’s Note: Actually said “ adults.”)

“…we like each other, and it’s just not healthy not to have a proper outlet for our tensions.”

Now, recognize would be considered “old enough” in certain (now departed) cultures. Granted; not disputing point (no implying that was reason departed). Further, addressing question from purely mechanical perspective, am very probably “big enough” as well.