The Resident (part twenty-four)

Chapter Four

An Odd Man Out

(part twenty-four)

Think of an anchor, a memory…

A house moved into, high hopes of August 1990. Or an October collision, of 1988. His life, childhood, schooling, first job, first apartment, seemed sunk in a well, but he knew when Claudie had arrived.

“Oh, that’s a shame. I never get doors, the ones that go out, the ones that go in… That’s weird to you, right?”

“No.” Her chatter made him nervous; talking made him nervous, and he would have said, “It’s all right.” Gathering parts, boxing them again. A foot trodden, or an arm jostled, normally brought, “Sorry. You okay?” and hastenings on.

John Rancilton was the weird one.

But she watched. Then she crouched, picked up a floppy…

And flopped it. Like a child. She felt responsible; he accessed an understanding of that, surprising himself.

“No, it’s not what you think.”

He demonstrated for his students putting the Atari together, having them disassemble it and put it together themselves.

He told her this. Probably a week’s worth of talk, since patent lectures were not John’s difficulty. “I teach PC maintenance, and basic DOS.”

“Hmm. That’s an 80s thing, right?”

Ha, ha, he said. Though his off-putting laugh sounded more like huhhuhhuhhuh. And a trailing huh. “They’ve been around since the 70s.”

“I’ll have to check my notes. Would you recommend one?”

“Maybe…”

The pause was long. Her eyes met his, steady, not bored. “Maybe   I   need   to  know    how       familiar     you are with     ”

“PC you said.”

“Personal computers. Do you use one?”

“Not in this place.”

“So you have some idea…”

“But I think it’s your fingers, isn’t it?” Her fingers played in the air.

“Uh, typing. On the keyboard.”

“Exactly.” Confident. “That’s kind of wonderful. Old-fashioned ways of doing things, right? Lots of charm.”

You win. He told her, “Thanks for your help.”

And she said, “Can I sit in?”

37

Tithonians

The Resident (part twenty-five)

(2022, Stephanie Foster)