A little spec of cosmic dust (Pt.3)

Left Difficulty A, Right Difficulty A

There were shiny parcels of all shapes and sizes. The first few contained clothes: a cardigan knit by Grandma, a jumpsuit with a Space Invaders pattern (this was Uncle Malachi’s gift, he said with a gentle smile), two pairs of pants, a yellow dungaree and some T-shirts. The next ones were books: a dinosaur encyclopaedia, then a thicker and more general one to use for school, and a few novels. Someone who clearly didn’t know me well had given me a boxed set of The Chronicles of Narnia — but fearing it had been my uncle, I said nothing.

There were also some toys — silly, childish toys indeed — and a few records. My brother’s girlfriend had bought me assorted ABBA singles and Mother had taken advantage of my birthday to give me — for herself — the double record of the dreadful musical Cats. In a half-thought, I made the very rational observation that if I ever suffered a nervous breakdown, this last present would be the one to wreck most mercilessly.

Finally, I moved on to a huge parcel with a little lump on its back. Attached to its ribbon was a note. In a very movie-like fashion, I read it out loud in a low, half-whispered voice:

“Dear Chris,” I said, feeling the stinging returning to my eyes as I recognized grandpa’s handwriting on the paper, “since your mother was such a doodyhead — and I don’t want to see you become an airhead — here’s something to whack that brain of yours. I hope you like it, kiddo.”

I looked up only to see Uncle Malachi reading the note over my shoulder. His eyes were still shielded from my gaze by the sunglasses, but I could see his eyebrows and lips twitching. He put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair.

“Wanna see what it is?” he asked, and I nodded. He hugged me and we took the parcel off the table and onto the floor.

Uncle Malachi left momentarily to get the pitcher and his mug and I sat there, waiting beside the box. The gift wrap was gleaming in the late afternoon light and a soft breeze soughed in the quiet living room. A feeling of peace overcame me and I embraced myself. I thought “rest in peace” and caressed the colourful paper as if it were… I blocked the idea before it could hurt me, but an image struck me in its place. I could see his gravestone in my mind, lost forever in a sea of grass nurtured by people-based compost. I tried to erase it the same way I had cut off the trail of the previous thought, but it was impossible.

I closed my eyes and pressed the eyelids shut, pushing my psyche. I was sitting like the plastic Buddha that held the soap in the bathroom — legs crossed, fingers closing in an astral clutch, mind eye wide open. I glared at the gravestone inside my head, trying to read the inscription on the marble slab, but I soon realised that this would only be possible if I relaxed. This was my first encounter with that which my dance teacher would call “The Threshold of Pain” many years later. I felt as though my psyche would break if I fully gave way to this image, but much of the burning in the pain was a result of the resistance I was putting up. I just had to let go, relax the muscles of the mind and everything would flow right into place. I knew it would literally hurt like hell but it was the only way to see it through. Slowly, very slowly, I laid the tension off my eyelids. I felt the warmth of the sunrays trying to take advantage to press their way into my eyes, but I pushed forward. My thumb and middle finger touched and something moved around my shoulder blades. I could see his name and the date, forever closed.

ANIMA EIUS

MICHAEL BAKER

LONDON, ENGLAND, 1918

 NEW OXFORD, LEKISHIRE, 1980

BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER

AND GRANDFATHER

REQUIESCAT

IN PACE

It was a terrible sight, but needful as well. I must have stared into the carved letters — the word mould echoing back into my mind — for about a minute, when the image suddenly shattered.

I opened my eyes and gasped. I felt Uncle Malachi’s hand on my shoulder. He was offering me a cup of tea. I could see the pity in his eyes amid the steam — a poignant emotion he had to share so as to make it only blunt — and accepted his cup.

“Do you know why English people drink tea, Chris?” Uncle Malachi asked, pouring me some. I shook my head as he sat beside me. “Because it forces you to calm down; you have to wait a while if it’s too hot, and even then you can only drink it in small sips — otherwise, you’d burn your tongue and lips. But in the end you feel… soothed. Your mother, being such an out-and-out Lekish, would rather have coffee instead. She takes Valium when she wants to relax.”

I didn’t know what so say, so I simply nodded and felt the steam on my face. The sunrays could no longer reach me, but the gift wrap still shone. I sipped the tea and actually started to feel better. A warm sensation — reminiscent of the Buddha moment I had just experienced — descended down my throat and back. I realised that whatever had been dancing in my stomach was now quiet, asleep. I felt confident enough to open grandpa’s present, and so I did.

It wasn’t as ceremonial as I would like to recall: I just tore its gleaming skin away without much thinking about the transcendental implications of said action. My mind was tranquil — and then a shot of psychic turmoil made me gasp and cover my mouth.

“The Atari V-C-S!” I cried through my fingers. I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I felt through the cardboard. It was real indeed. Uncle Malachi let out a “Wow!” and we started the unboxing together.

Inside we found the owner’s manual, two joysticks just like the ones on the arcades and two paddles (“That’s for Pong-ish games!” I exclaimed). There was also a smaller box inside with the Combat game program, whose content amounted to a staggering number of “Twenty-seven videogames?”, read my uncle in a tone of suspicion. “How much time would playing all those take?” he insisted. He mumbled through a list of variations and told me it required two players.

Finally, covered by a cardboard plate lay the Atari. It had a wood finish on its front and six switches to the sides of the cartridge slot. The ones closest to it read LEFT DIFFICULTY and RIGHT DIFFICULTY and had an A and B position on each.

I took the console out of the box and Uncle Malachi set out to connect it to the telly. I was about to grab the paddles when I noticed something between the heaps of wrapping paper on the floor. I kneeled down and cleared away some of the pieces, finding another videogame. I soon realised this must have been the lump on the box and snorted with laughter.

“ADVENTURE,” read the cover. The art depicted a dragon that was of neither Chinese nor Western design — it was something weird in between — which held a key as it arose from a maze filled with dwarfs. There was also a white castle in the background and a magician’s hand having a go at stealing a crown in the foreground. It promised “3 VIDEO GAMES" and “THREE SKILL LEVELS”, but it was meant for only one player.

I turned to see my uncle plugging in the Atari with much difficulty — “Left or Right difficulty?” I laughed inside my head — and made for the TV, Adventure in hand.

“Want to see how much time trying out those twenty-seven games actually takes?” I asked him, but he shook his head.

“Nah,” he replied as he rose from the floor. “I should telephone your brother and check on your parents in the hospital. Will you be alright by yourself?”

“I think so.”

“Fair enough, the pitcher’s on the table if you want some more tea. I’ll be off then.”

He picked up his jumper and was about to leave when he turned to me.

“I really hope you like it, kiddo,” he said with a melancholic smile, which I returned.

The door closed and I heard the key turning with a roaring noise in the now silent house. I stood with the game program still in hand, unable to move or even think. I wasn’t feeling lonely or anything — my mind had just stopped working. A minute later I recovered and, thinking it wouldn’t make much sense to play a two-player game on my own, I decided to give Adventure a try.