your DVD player, that you tore apart like some…meth head!”
He sighed. It was true, he’d been a little too ambitious there. He’d been curious about the way the five-disc DVD drawer worked, what was going on in there when it did all that whirring and clicking? He hadn’t thought about how hard it might be to put it back together.
“I just wanted to know how it works.”
She laughed. “What, are you planning on being a repairman when you grow up? You’d better spend that energy on your schoolwork, mister. Now I’m going into a very important meeting. Go see if Flora put the roast in.” She hung up.
Matt snorted disdainfully. Very important meeting, right, you and the other Ladies Who Lunch –oh, excuse me, “community leaders” – are gonna have a cocktail or three while you talk about what you’ll wear to the next charity ball.
He looked at his desk and it…hurt. He’d been careful this time, had made notes, drawings, of what went where. This time he could have done it, could have put it back together!
The notes were still there, he discovered – nobody had made the connection between the parts and the drawings, they had just assumed the paperwork was “schoolwork.” They didn’t trust me to do it , he thought. He didn’t realize that it never would have occurred to his mother that it could be done .
Repairman! Mom had invested all her dripping sarcasm and scorn into that word. Matt thought about the men who came in to fix stuff, or, more often, perform the never-ending upgrades to the mood lighting, the home theater, the smart kitchen. They were usually nice to Matt; they let him watch and even answered his questions about plumbing and cabling and wiring, but he knew when he looked in their eyes that they were thinking one of two things – either humor the rich kid , or, more kindly he supposed, what’s the point in learning about this, kid, you’re going to work in an office when you grow up and pay someone to do this shit for you.
Yeah , he thought, maybe I am . Everyone told him it was too late for childish dreams about being a fireman or a plumber or any of the other happy, efficient animals in the Richard Scarry books that were “for babies.” He’d been fascinated with Scarry’s book “What Do People Do All Day,” and had practically worn the print off the pages with his eyes. The characters in that book did stuff , they fixed things and ran power plants and delivered packages – they didn’t sit still and make phone calls all day like his dad. Or boss servants around and talk about “how exhausting it is to manage a household” like his mom did.
Matt checked the roast. Of course it was in the oven; Juanita and Flora never forgot to do anything, but if Mom wasn’t always “checking on them,” what else did she have to do? He went back to his room and shut the door. He took out his guitar, his picks, his copy of “Pumping Nylon,” setting everything up, preparing himself.
Music was the only class at school that was hands-on. The school’s whole focus was “college prep.” He wished there was a class where he could touch stuff, but everything about college prep seemed to be about preparing you for a life where you never touched anything but a keyboard – a computer keyboard, that is.
There were some science classes and Matt had been enthusiastic about taking chemistry, hoping he’d get to make shit blow up or at least watch it fizz. But he’d forgotten how thoroughly the helicopter parents at Worthington had bubble-wrapped their kids against danger. So chemistry was about looking at pictures of molecules, and not having anything in the classroom that Might Aggravate Seymour’s Asthma.
Matt struggled with higher-level math, tried to chase that X around the Y, but it always got away. He knew that if he really truly wanted to know how stuff worked, he should become an engineer, but he just didn’t have
He sighed. It was true, he’d been a little too ambitious there. He’d been curious about the way the five-disc DVD drawer worked, what was going on in there when it did all that whirring and clicking? He hadn’t thought about how hard it might be to put it back together.
“I just wanted to know how it works.”
She laughed. “What, are you planning on being a repairman when you grow up? You’d better spend that energy on your schoolwork, mister. Now I’m going into a very important meeting. Go see if Flora put the roast in.” She hung up.
Matt snorted disdainfully. Very important meeting, right, you and the other Ladies Who Lunch –oh, excuse me, “community leaders” – are gonna have a cocktail or three while you talk about what you’ll wear to the next charity ball.
He looked at his desk and it…hurt. He’d been careful this time, had made notes, drawings, of what went where. This time he could have done it, could have put it back together!
The notes were still there, he discovered – nobody had made the connection between the parts and the drawings, they had just assumed the paperwork was “schoolwork.” They didn’t trust me to do it , he thought. He didn’t realize that it never would have occurred to his mother that it could be done .
Repairman! Mom had invested all her dripping sarcasm and scorn into that word. Matt thought about the men who came in to fix stuff, or, more often, perform the never-ending upgrades to the mood lighting, the home theater, the smart kitchen. They were usually nice to Matt; they let him watch and even answered his questions about plumbing and cabling and wiring, but he knew when he looked in their eyes that they were thinking one of two things – either humor the rich kid , or, more kindly he supposed, what’s the point in learning about this, kid, you’re going to work in an office when you grow up and pay someone to do this shit for you.
Yeah , he thought, maybe I am . Everyone told him it was too late for childish dreams about being a fireman or a plumber or any of the other happy, efficient animals in the Richard Scarry books that were “for babies.” He’d been fascinated with Scarry’s book “What Do People Do All Day,” and had practically worn the print off the pages with his eyes. The characters in that book did stuff , they fixed things and ran power plants and delivered packages – they didn’t sit still and make phone calls all day like his dad. Or boss servants around and talk about “how exhausting it is to manage a household” like his mom did.
Matt checked the roast. Of course it was in the oven; Juanita and Flora never forgot to do anything, but if Mom wasn’t always “checking on them,” what else did she have to do? He went back to his room and shut the door. He took out his guitar, his picks, his copy of “Pumping Nylon,” setting everything up, preparing himself.
Music was the only class at school that was hands-on. The school’s whole focus was “college prep.” He wished there was a class where he could touch stuff, but everything about college prep seemed to be about preparing you for a life where you never touched anything but a keyboard – a computer keyboard, that is.
There were some science classes and Matt had been enthusiastic about taking chemistry, hoping he’d get to make shit blow up or at least watch it fizz. But he’d forgotten how thoroughly the helicopter parents at Worthington had bubble-wrapped their kids against danger. So chemistry was about looking at pictures of molecules, and not having anything in the classroom that Might Aggravate Seymour’s Asthma.
Matt struggled with higher-level math, tried to chase that X around the Y, but it always got away. He knew that if he really truly wanted to know how stuff worked, he should become an engineer, but he just didn’t have
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