Not perfect, of course: Will be period of adjustment; may require gentle retraining (at bare minimum, driving habits need attention!).
But issue not impending. “Ever after” is long time, and too young now myself for twosome involvement; while boy (implied conquests notwithstanding) hardly year, two years older. Question resolvable at leisure, without deadlines.
Because doesn’t matter now…! Teacher was right — really are other people out there…!
Hominems — my people! Perhaps 150,000, according to Teacher. Maybe more, maybe less — who cares! — numbers immaterial…
Are others!
And we’re going to find them.
Together…
VOLUME III — Part I
Quest
Surprise, Posterity, here I am again…!
Gracious, who’d have thought, only months ago — still alive (knock wood) and everything.
Not crowing, mind you; must admit, have been lucky Quite lucky. Incredibly lucky.
For one thing, ultimate war’s bionuclear efficiency imparted breathtaking new scope to definition of “overkill”; for another, rigors intrinsic to existence in subsequent environment doing much the same for “unforgiving.”
In fact, until quite recently your Humble Histographer brooded over eminently defensible, ever-deepening gloomy conviction that own small self constituted Earth’s entire remaining sapient population. Under such circumstances, “mere” mere survival ranks as clearly epic achievement — whether due in any part to own feeble efforts or not.
No, certainly not crowing. Pleased. And not a little surprised.
But pleasure, surprise, now secondary to almost inexpressible relief: Have found somebody!
Finally — a real live person…! That he happens to be intelligent, able-bodied, sensitive, not unattractive, brilliant musician to boot — all immaterial.
Quite suffices is alive!
For, therefore (ipso facto, and in conjunction with dogged faith in Teacher’s opinions [as set forth in Final Letter], together with own unquenchable optimism), presence of one proves are others, too.
Must be.
Somewhere…
However, have no intention of rushing headlong into romance, even if does turn out to be only game in town. Am only 11, after all. Shall indeed “carry out duty” for species’ benefit when time comes, should ultimate necessity manifest; but much prefer relationship growing from mutual attraction, compatibility, respect.
Not that would be all that difficult (apart from initial strain intrinsic to meeting under present coercive circumstances) to become attracted to new acquaintance. Possesses many good qualities, few (at first blush) unforgivable faults. Not bad specimen, viewed objectively.
Which is not to suggest totally lacks peculiarities, fair number of which would not be missed. For instance: Don’t know his name…! Won’t give straight answer; merely offers sidelong glance, elevates near-side brow, smirks knowingly, replies, “Think of me as ‘Adam.’ ”
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 wheeclass="underline" 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 Bachward 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.