Rain, Rain, Go Away! Little Johnny Wants to Google

I wasn’t going to pay two bucks to get beaten in chess. No way. Especially by some little kid. I don’t care if she is some kind of freaking chess genius at age 8. I’ve got better things to do with my money than spend it on losing to a little girl.

These other idiots though, they just keep lining up and giving her their cash. What does she give them? “Lessons,” she says in her piping little girl voice. Lessons? Bah. Maybe a lesson in losing their money and their pride at the same time. I mean, just look at that old guy she’s playing right now. He’s probably been playing chess since before that kid’s parents were even born. Yet she’s kicking his butt all over the board. What kind of lesson is she teaching him? That all those years of chess matches haven’t made him good enough to beat some kid who doesn’t even have to wear deodorant yet. That’s a really valuable lesson, isn’t it? That’s the kind of lesson that’ll make a person pack up all the chess pieces and shove them way back in the closet. He started out laughing and shaking his head, but now he won’t even look at her. He just keeps staring at the pieces he has left like they’ve betrayed him somehow.

And the girl? The chess master? She’s all bouncy and happy on her side of the board, just like you’d expect a little girl her age to be. She’s laughing and smiling at people who stop to watch, even striking a cheesy pose for some fruit loop who wants to take her picture with his digital camera. What’s her deal? How can she act so hyper, like she’s about to fly out of her seat, and then move so quickly when it’s her turn? And it’s always a good move, too. I’m no chess expert, but whoever she’s playing always sits for a really long time before picking up another piece.

Nah, I’m not giving any of my money to that kid. She’s some kind of alien, or maybe it’s some kind of scam. Where are her parents anyway? And why’s the mall let her set up in here anyway? This is the food court, not some casino. Bah. Enough of this. I’m going to go get some ice cream.

Not Easy Being Googled

Rollin Great-Granma out to the porch wasn’t hard, but sittin with her was a chore that I didn’t look forward to.

Now don’t get me wrong. I loved Great-Granma, and I never once complained or even thought about makin some excuse for Mama to make Brother sit with her instead of me.

He wouldn’t do it right. He’d just sit and sulk, or worse he might whittle on that lump of wood he said was goin to be a bear once he was done and ignore Great-Granma completely.

No, he wouldn’t be good company for her. Not at all. So I never complained. I just let Mama think that I enjoyed the time on the porch every morning. And I made myself sit still and I made myself watch her. From time to time I made sure to ask her how she was or what she thought about the day, just like Mama did when she fed her meals. She’d just breathe kinda ragged or flutter her eyelids, so I’d ask again or tell her something Brother had done or some news Daddy brought back from the store. Sometimes if I felt real brave I’d reach over and hold her clasped hands, gently though and not for too long. The skin felt so smooth and thin that I feared it might split if I held on too hard. Doin that always made me shake inside, made me tremble like her hands used to when she’d reach out to kiss my cheek when I was little. She never did that anymore, but I always made sure to kiss her on the forehead when the sun got too hot and Mama called for us to come inside.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved Great-Granma. I just didn’t like sittin with her on the porch every morning. It was a chore, just like pullin weeds or feedin the dogs. It was something I dreaded, but I went out to the shed and cried that day when Daddy tied that chair up beneath the barn loft.

Something Google This Way Comes

The glowing screen was his campfire, and like the ancient hunters, he stared into its light, seeking stories, searching out meanings for the world that slept and moved outside and around.

He though was not moving. He was still, silent, and sitting closer to the light than he needed to. He sat closer than even was comfortable. A real fire would have blistered him, pushed him back a little, but the glowing screen pulled him. It kept him close, kept him connected, kept him crouched over the keyboard as though he watched over something valuable and secret, something that he feared losing if it slipped outside of his sight.

The ancient hunters had the crackling embers, the chirruping crickets, the wind beyond the walls of hut or tent. Even the cave dwellers of Plato’s tale had the voices of those passing to and fro in front of the firelight. But he had only the clicks and scrolls of his mouse and the gentle hum of an unseen fan that cooled circuits so that his fire would not burn out.

Sunrise or sleep would break the fire’s gaze for those ancient hunters too afraid to close their eyes, and even those in the cave sometimes broke their shackles and ventured out. This modern man, though, had no need of those things. He could stare into the glowing screen indefinitely. It stretched on forever, regardless of sun, moon, shackles, or passers-by. He had an artificial night that surrounded him, never-ending shadows of text and images that danced on the screen in front of him, and a glowing light that led him farther and farther away.