Wisps

NextGen

Roscoe was a successful man in a successful time. The war was over, the Allies had defeated the Axis, and the economy was booming. Roscoe's hardware business was flourishing, and his youngest son was starting to learn basic skills so he could help his brothers when his father retired. Life was good.

"Hey there, son," Roscoe called one morning as he walked into the store. "You almost ready to open up shop?"

"Just about," Roscoe's son, Jeconiah, replied from behind a huge shelf. "Just straightening up these boxes - "

"Hurry up, then. We need to keep on schedule." Roscoe turned and walked out of the store, pretending not to hear a sigh of adolescent exasperation from his son.

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At the end of the evening, Roscoe picked up Jeconiah from the store and drove him home. "How was the day?" he asked.

"The usual," mumbled Jeconiah. "It's kinda boring, honestly. I can't believe I'm actually looking forward to the end of winter break."

"Don't talk like that," said Roscoe sharply. "It should be an honor to work there. It was passed down from my nephew, from my grandfather, from my great-grandfather before him..."

Jeconiah startled. Of all the countless times his father had begun this speech, this was the first time he had mixed up the words. "Uhhh....don't you mean father, from grandfather?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, don't know where my tongue went off to." Roscoe fell silent. Of all the countless times he had delivered his speech, this was the first time he had nearly given away the truth. Well, it wasn't quite the truth, but he was so used to referring to his late father as his nephew that it almost could have been true.

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After dropping off Jeconiah at home, Roscoe drove to Harvard for his college reunion. His days at Harvard were filled with fun and merriment, and he made some wonderful friends. However, he dreaded going to this reunion for some reason as yet unknown to him. Roscoe could faintly hear some popular big-band song he had never heard playing from inside the building. Fear weighting his heart, he stepped through the front door.

"Heyyyyy, Roscoe!" A portly, gray-haired man greeted him at the entrance. He must be one of those classmates who was vaguely aware of his existence. "You came!" he said joyfully. "Come, look at him! He's still young and handsome!"

A group of men and women, all about the same age as Roscoe, looked at him curiously. He noticed that all of them had gray hairs and wrinkles and whatnot. Of course, that was to be expected of a middle-aged man, but Roscoe had somehow managed to look years younger than all his friends. Suddenly, he jerked upright.

Oh God. Is it hereditary?

In his mind's eye, he pictured a photograph of him from fifteen years before, when his oldest son was the same age as Jeconiah. He could see his face, identical to the one he had now, but with slightly deeper wrinkles and a bit of a receding hairline. There was no doubt about it. Roscoe felt hollow - all that work to separate from his past, to fix his family's reputation, to build a normal life for himself...futile, null, and void. Overruled by stupid genetics. Roscoe made an excuse, left the party early, and went home.

Roscoe picked up a faded picture on his mantlepiece. It was himself, all right - older looking perhaps, but the same Roscoe that stood there in the living room fifteen years later. He put the picture down and rooted through the cabinet for a particular photo album. There it was - a photograph, even older, from after the Great War, as it was then called. Two young men stood frozen in time there, almost identical. Roscoe and his father. He put the picture back in the album and closed the cabinet door. Roscoe's father had died before Jeconiah was born, at the ripe old age of 72. Seventy-two years old, a red-faced mewling newborn.

How did the curse begin? How long will it end? Will it manifest itself in his sons, in the only chance he has of carrying on the Button name? Does he want to keep the Button name at all, with all its notorious history? Roscoe lay on his bed, the thoughts swirling in his head. Inefficient, he thought. It's all so inefficient.