Second to the Time

the writer that cannot read

"When a child first catches adults out—when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just—his world falls into panic desolation."

-John Steinbeck

"We were not allowed to crunch bones, you were. We were not allowed to slurp vinegar, you were. The main thing was for the bread to be cut straight; but that you did so with a knife dripping gravy was irrelevant. We had to take care not to let any scraps fall onto the floor, in the end they lay mostly under your seat."

-Franz Kafka

"Son, it's time you started funding yourself. You're eight now—you like two freezies instead of one, you eat a whole sack of beef jerky within ten minutes, and now you snore when you sleep. You know how expensive those things are? It's time you start funding yourself."

"But Father, I don't know where to start!"

"Neither did I when I was your age! But here I am, with this house to myself, and a bratty child like you to take care of. We're reversing that, I'm telling you. Baby steps, Son—baby steps." Father poured himself the glass of water and guzzled it in two seconds flat. "One step at a time, so the task is less staggering as a whole. And because you're not a baby anymore, you can afford to make these baby steps towards improving yourself. For a person who lives in a time when gas is more expensive than groceries, that time starts now."

Slowly accepting his fate, Son ran out of comebacks. Sitting humbly on his chair at the table, his posture lowered though his eyes were still trained on Father. "The time starts now?" he repeated pleadingly. Father nodded firmly and Son gave up. Onto the next phase. "Where do I start?"

"It's your hustle, Son—you pick."

"But I can only do so much."

"That should make it easier for you to decide what to do. Start small first: focus on one skill before trying to juggle all that you can do. Doing so much at the same time tends to weigh on the brain after a while. The more ways you spread yourself thin means the less of an expert you become at a single skill, and so the more you hinder your own progress. Do you need help picking ideas?"

"Yes, please, Father..."

Father sat down at the head of the same table as Son, an imitation Basquiat painting on the wall behind him, the iconic three-pronged crown hovering just above Father's head. Meanwhile, there was no painting or form of art behind the wall protecting Son's back—only a cracked window facing the neighbourhood street, void of curtains or any other form of reassuring protection. "Let's think." Son's heart beat fast as Father clasped his hands together in thought. Father had the power to move mountains when he entered the zone. Son too clasped his hands together. He had never moved a mountain before. "Well. Think of ways you've helped me out. You like to garden, don't you? You've mowed this lawn before, weeded it, even planted a couple flowers for my home. Do you think you could do that for your neighbours?"

"Yes!" said Son giddily, "I could do that! I'm comfortable with that, too."

Father scoffed. "I hardly thought comfort and earning good money went together—more like responsibility—but I forget. You're only eight. This is great! Look at my son, growing up like this. I'm already proud." Son could not contain his grin. He looked away before Father would notice.

"I will get started right away!" said Son, excusing himself from the table.

"Hold on, Son! Enthusiasm is great, but we're not finished here."