David Palmer - Emergence

After breakfast, again leaning on shoulder, I take quarter-mile hike (once around house, inside — no kidding!) for exercise; then lounge in library, reading while Adam practices piano. (In times past people world over paid money to hear poorer keyboard work than I get daily as private Muzak while enjoying fruits of most impressive book collection have ever seen.)

Adam wakes me when time to return to kitchen for midmorning snack (invariably fall asleep on couch); then back to library for more music, reading (as long as eyes stay open).

And then time for lunch. Afterward we repeat therapeutic hike; following which I nap until afternoon snack-time. Generally manage to remain awake thereafter, reading, until dinner.

After dinner Adam gets serious: Plays the Good Stuff; each work straight through rather than, as in practice, taking run after run at trouble spots. Makes it count. For that I stay awake. Don’t even read.

Evening finally winds up with modest bedtime smackrel (no more than 1,500 calories or thereabouts); and so to bed, perchance to dream (generally of food).

Despite nursing schedule, Adam finds time to keep himself clean, groomed; kitchen spotless; do laundry; as well as housecleaning (dusting, carpets, etc.) for those areas of house I get to see; and still is as conscientious about taking care of Terry as would be myself if able.

Finally, manages — somehow! — to find, prepare that astonishing variety of wonderful food! (Where could he have found those strawberries…?)

And throughout remains uniformly considerate, optimistic “… cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean…” etc. Having person like that around could get habit-forming. (Probably what he’s up to — auditioning [ would make some lucky woman terrific househusband]).

Only, if continue to let him wait on me hand and foot — never mind feeding me like this — in six months will be too fat to move. (Suppose that’s what he’s up to…? Perhaps likes his women ample?)

If so, have long way to go. Only week since coma ended. Been eating, sleeping with remarkable devotion to duty ever since; and condition improving, true — color back to normal, no longer dehydrated, metabolic balance restored — but haven’t begun to gain weight; still pretty puny example of Womanhood in Flower. If had any competition, doubt Adam would give me second glance. No, strike that; would look, but sympathetically: awfully nice person — for adolescent male, of course.

And is adolescent male, let’s not forget. Far from perfect. (I mean — anyone who can be that cheerful in morning…!)

Further, he… No, can’t go on. Quote from breakfast this morning (breakfast, mind you) quite damning enough:

“… was the loneliest summer of my life,” he mused pensively. “Mother was seized by this notion that I should learn something resembling discipline involving areas beyond music. She decided that I should work mornings in her office. She reasoned, I suppose, that this would force me to get up early, which in itself would be Good For Me. Besides, discovering what it meant to work in a proper work setting, earning a minimum wage, would ‘be good for your perspective.’ That’s what she said — I thought my perspective was fine just as it was.

“So I became an office boy. Not just an office boy: the junior office boy — the lowest of the low. I was given responsibility for sorting, storing, and checking in and out the innumerable little IBM type-balls, or elements, of the various sizes and fonts that Mother used in her official correspondence — it was a big office and there was a bunch of them.

“The work was boring and seemed without real value. However, I determined to put the best possible face on the situation and went about my duties cheerfully, earnestly, and doing my best to be nice to everyone.”

Adam smiled, eyes going distant. “In particular, I did my best to be nice to the secretaries; of whom there was a considerable number, and each better looking than the next. True, some were slightly older than I; but that had never stopped me before — I’ve been out with many women in their twenties. In fact, some of my most interesting and, uh, productive dates have been with older, more worldly women. It looked as though the summer was shaping up nicely, apart from the job itself, of course.

“So you can imagine how disturbed I was when, after better than a week there, I had yet to get one of these ladies to respond to anything beyond the most businesslike inquiry: ‘Thank you for returning that Orator-10 element, Miss Peach, and here are your Elite-12 and Italic-12. Have a nice day.’ ‘Thank you, Adam.’ Beyond that — nothing …!”

Had no idea where he was going with this; didn’t particularly care. Good company, diverting conversationalist; lived interesting life to date, related it entertainingly.

But didn’t distract me from food.

“It was terrible,” Adam continued plaintively. “I began to wonder if something was wrong with me: Maybe a postnasal infection had left me with an unspeakable variety of halitosis, of which only I was unaware. Or maybe I had deodorant failure. Or perhaps someone had circulated a vicious rumor that I had herpes — or worse, perhaps Mother had interdicted me…!

“I asked her about that and she denied it. Now, to my knowledge, she never lied to me. She was a fine lawyer and a consummate politician, true; and it was often necessary to listen closely to make sure that the words one heard carried the meaning they seemed to on the surface — but she never lied…

“Well, by the end of the first month I was completely at a loss. I didn’t know what to do; which way to turn. I had discharged my job duties flawlessly. I had kept track of all the elements without error; given them out, taken them in, ordered new ones from IBM; all in the most charming, helpful, personable manner possible — and I am my mother’s son: I know my social psychodynamics.

“All to no avail, however: The ladies simply would not socialize with me, no matter what I did or didn’t. My self-esteem was in shambles; my reputation as a roué was crumbling.

“Finally at wits’ end, I sought advice from one of Mother’s senior advisors. He was a wily old fox, versed in the intrigues of political life — but more importantly, he knew people.

“I told him my problem. He smiled paternally and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Adam,’ he soothed, ‘don’t let it get to you. It’s nothing you’ve done, or can do; it’s your job. ’

“ ‘My job?’ Now I was more in the dark than ever. All I do is keep track of the—’

“ ‘Elements,’ said he. ‘Of course they won’t associate with you. Don’t you understand? You’re taboo, the element boy…’ ”

Silence echoed through kitchen. Froze, glaring, fork halfway to mouth. Adam’s expression a study in puzzled innocence.

Terry picked up vibrations; emitted long, low whistle; said, “How ’bout that.”

After counting to ten, slowly, again became aware of blended aromas rising from feast spread before me. Weighed benefits, liabilities. Carefully. Violence such a transitory satisfaction. Decided to let him live.

But just imagine: If do decide to keep him, will spend whole rest of life never knowing when something like that due again — but positive out there, somewhere. Waiting. With my name on it…

Good night!

Surprise! Adam just asked to accompany us when search resumes for AAs — instead of baldly declaring intentions, per usual practice.

(This, standing alone, offers hope: May be making progress; perhaps housebroken status achievable within foreseeable future.)