Posts by Jonah

I answered the phone today.

Normally I don’t. At the Myers’, Ken or his wife Kate are there to pick it
up. Out in the studio, Ken always gets it or I let the answering machine
take a message. It’s more efficient than me jotting something down. At the
office in Charlottesville, Jenna, Jeff, Bart, Florence, or Ken will shout, “I
got it.” At the Wallaces, Doug, Joanne, or Alice answer the phone or else I
let it ring and allow voice mail take care of the messaging.

But today Ken went to C’ville by himself, leaving me with a room full of
books to label. He had to leave really early and run around to several
appointments, so it made more sense for me to stay behind. Turned out it was
a good thing I did.

I was sitting at the electric typewriter, pecking out a Library of Congress
number when the phone rang. I stopped to listen if someone would leave an
audible message on the machine. But the phone kept ringing. I decided it
was the home line, since it wasn’t letting up. Ken had promised to call when
he got a chance, and Kate and the kids were gone, so I went into the studio
and picked up the phone with the flashing red light. “Hello?”

“Hello?” It was Ken. “I guess Kate is gone since you answered?” he
surmised.

“Yeah, they went to the library.”

“Ah, well, how are you?”

“Fine.” One thing about Ken is if he’s ever talked to you before, he’ll ask
you how you are the next time he talks to you. Every morning when I walk
into the office, he asks me how I am. I’ve given up on answering with
anything other than the usual.

“How is everything?” he went on, “Any fires, earthquakes, catastophes of that
nature?”

“No, nothing major,” I answered.

“How are you?” he asked again.

“Doing well,” I tried another answer. He went on to give some details about
his schedule for the rest of the day, which I promised to pass on to Kate.
I’d hung up and walked back into my area when the phone rang again before I
could sit down. He’s forgotten something, I thought as I returned into the
studio and picked the phone back up. “Hello?”

It was Kate. “Do you know where Flat Rock is?” she asked.

“No idea.” She gave me detailed directions even though it was just down the
road right past the first traffic light. The family car had picked that
resting spot to die. I was there within five minutes. All the junk that has
accumulated in my car in the past couple weeks found its way to the trunk as
Kate and the two kids piled in.

“It’s a good thing you answered my call,” Kate smiled. “I was going to let
it ring and ring till -somebody- figured out which phone it was and picked it
up.”

In other news, working backward, I got to “C” in the room full of books
organized by author last names. Jonathan was sick with a fever, so I’m glad
they didn’t have to walk back in the hot sun after the car died.

Stalin died in agony. I feel pretty bad about that, but there really wasn’t
anything I could have done, so at least I don’t have “Oh, man, if only I
had…” on my mind.

Ken is going to C’ville by himself tomorrow, so I’ll get the office to
myself. Woohoo.

It was weird because as I was driving to work this morning, something ran out
in front of the semi ahead of me. It was bigger than a mouse but smaller
than a squirrel. A ground squirrel maybe? At first I though, maybe it’s
just a leaf, but then the tires spit out a flattened bit of bloody flesh.
“CRAP!” I exclaimed. Seeing roadkill on the side of the road is one thing.
Watching it happen in front of you is something else.

So I got to watch two rodents die today. Stalin was in so much pain. I
thought about wanging his head on the pavement to put him out of his misery.
But I couldn’t while he still had a chance. “Freak,” I kept repeating to
myself quietly. He actually died a lot sooner than I thought he would. I
guess that’s good.

Stalin, my mouse, died today.

I won’t go into detail. It wasn’t pleasant for me, and I doubt much of
anyone would enjoy reading about it. My last ditch efforts to save him were
in vain. When I’d done all I knew to do, I laid him back in his cage. He
didn’t move all day.

Selecting a spade from the Myer’s shed, I dug a hole beneath their apple
tree. It may sound like a romantic place, but it turned out to be a rather
stupid choice, too many roots in the way. “Well, Bud,” I said through a
tightening throat for the last time as I picked up his tiny, stiff body and
laid it in the shallow hole, “you better be dead.” Then I looked the other
way as I dumped a shovelful of dirt in. Stomping everything down, I walked
back to the shed to put the shovel back, hoping the cat wouldn’t dig him up.

I hosed out the cage and left it to dry. Then I went back to work.

I guess this means I’ll have to redo my webpage.

I was typing up a computer entry for a book card yesterday when I stopped and
started staring off into space. It’s kinda scary when I do that because I’ll
come back a few minutes later, look at the screen, look at what I was doing,
and think, where the heck did I go? I’ve done this since I was 6 at least.
That’s when daydreaming got to be noticeable, I suppose. When teachers
would pass me and I’d be staring, comotose like into a wall.

When I was out in Colorado for a week, I found myself doing this at one point
while typing up a letter on the computer. Wedge, one of Max’s former
roommates, noticed it. I snapped out of it when I saw him watching me. I
brought my eyes back into focus and looked back at him, smiling slightly.
“Where’d you go?” he laughed. “I do that sometimes,” I responded.

This time, I came to, looking at the “Auth” field on the window. Instead of
the next author’s name, I started typing. I typed three paragraphs about
what it would be like to have a conversation with a serial murderer and not
realize it. Then I saved it to a WordPerfect document and went back to
typing in author names.

Cara manned a booth from the Leadership Institute at a home school convention
here in Richmond Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. I came home early on Friday
from work because Ken needed me to Fed-ex something. Cara called soon after
I got home. I agreed to meet her at her hotel in Midtown.

We went out to eat at the Olive Garden at the YLS’s expense. After I put a
guilt trip on her about the tip she left, we drove “in search of a bar” but
ended up at Books-a-million instead. Somehow we ended up in the art section.
“Dali!” I cry, spotting a propped up figure jutting out from a shelf. Cara
makes a face and expresses her disgust. “_I_ like… Monet!” she grabs a
Impressionism off the shelf. We find a common ground in Geogia O’Keefe as
one of the store employees asks, “Can I help you find anything?” “No, we’re
just browsing, thanks,” answers my friend. “Well, we’re closing in a couple
of minutes,” the clerk notifies us, emphatically. We exit the building, give
up on the bar, and make our way back to the hotel. We read USA Today before
going to bed. I forgot my p.j.’s, and I’m out of clean underwear.

In the morning, Cara dresses professionally. I throw on a denim skirt and a
pair of tennis shoes. I flip from Headline News to CNN while waiting for her
to finish showering. We share a paper, eating the complementary breakfest
downstairs. A cure for AIDS is discovered. We check out of the room and go
in her car to the convention center.

We’re early. We sit down in a couple of chairs and talk while watching
people walk by. Whenever someone acts interested, I shut up, and Cara goes
into action, trying to sell home schoolers on the Leadership Institute. Over
the course of the day, people pick the climax of whatever story I’m telling
to appear at the booth. I tell about 20 half stories. I forget what they
are after they leave.

There aren’t too many people wandering by the booth this early in the day.
We leave the booth unattended and go look at book tables. Cara points out
all the Christian romances she read growing up. I get excited at the
fantasies. We return to the booth. Cara had taught given a workshop on
Thursday about instilling leadership in your child. A guy who had attended
it, asks if she’d like to join his family for lunch. He has a daughter who’s
considering going to college when she’s 16 too. He comes back later
apologizing that he has to retract his offer because of scheduling conflicts
but asks her to talk to his daughter anyway. The daughter and mother join
him later. Cara starts talking to the dad and daughter. The mother has by
now sat in Cara’s empty seat. I pull up my chair and talk to her. I tell
her about my experiences home schooling, taking the SAT, ACT, GED, my first
reactions to college life, my advice about math, and generally encourage her.
They eventually leave. The mom thanks me. Cara and I leave for lunch.
“Gosh, I love doing that!” I exclaim to her, “I really love that!”

I eat my fried rice, sweet and sour and cashew chicken exclusively with
chopsticks. After lunch, Cara stops at a photo booth. “You want to?” she
grins. “You,” I observe, “are crazy.” “Oh, come on; it’ll be fun!” I climb
into the tiny compartment after her. I read the instructions out loud while
she attempts to cram a couple of crumpled bills into the money slot: “‘Pick
background.’ What background do we want, red or blue?” “Blue. This one
won’t go in there; maybe this one…” “‘Adjust seat hight until eye level
with green light. Insert money…'” “There! Smile!” The screen ahead of
us explodes in a white flash. “We’ve got to do a crazy one!” Cara insists.
She sticks her tongue out. I cross my eyes. FLASH. I move my hand with
fingers extended into a V behind her head. She ducks. FLASH. We just plain
grin. FLASH. We groan and blindly extricate ourselves from the compartment.
“‘Pictures will be delivered here in five minutes.'” We wait. I treat Cara
to a gumball. Her mouth turns blue. Mine, green. Several minutes later,
the booth spits out four prints. “Here they are! Wait, these aren’t us…”
And they aren’t. There are two photos of a black lady and then two with her
and two kids. Not us. We wait four more minutes by my watch I pull out of
my pocket to check occasionally. Nothing. Cara is bummed. We walk back to
the convention center.

At 5:30, Cara demolishes the booth (her booth, not the photo booth), packs it
into a small plastic container on wheels, and we trot off toward the parking
lot. She drops me off at my car still at the hotel. I get home with only
one wrong turn and two missed ones.