Short Story: The Laptop

Short Story: The Laptop

The fifteen-year-old boy rode his bike with skill, down the street whilst avoiding cars, people and dogs. He obeyed the traffic lights, and ignored the greetings of people who knew him. He was angry. He had never been so angry. He just wanted to change his name. His mother was so unrelenting that he wanted to hit her. But God said to honor his parents, so —

"Your name is Oswald, and that is final. People just don’t appreciate good old names," he mimicked in a high voice as he followed a Greyhound bus for a couple of blocks. "If anyone ridicules you, tell them it means ‘divine power’ and they should respect what your family has named you."

The bus stopped, and so did Oswald. "Divine power," he snarled. "No way. Not me."

The bus started up. He followed behind for few more blocks then made a quick right turn down a short street, onto a dirt road that soon brought him away from the town to the sign that read City Dump. Nowadays in big cities they called it Waste Management Area, or Recycle Center. Here, it was a dump. It was situated so that prevailing winds carried the odors and smoke away.

Because of the ridicule, Oswald, who preferred to be called Hal but never was, had become somewhat of a loner. His father thought he spent too much time doing whatever it was that Oswald did. He wanted him to play at sports. To Oswald it seemed he did not understand why no one wanted him. When you have an odd name, they treat you worse than they would a Martian on a quick trip to earth. And when you are big and clumsy, it is worse. He suspected some of the jocks at school would like to open his guts to see if he was like them. There was no way he was going to give them that chance. He had learned how to close himself off to them, and to the silly girls that dared each other to touch him, like he was some talisman that would bring luck.

Oswald spat to one side, went through the chain-link gates and down the main road in the dump. He veered off from the trash and went toward a more orderly looking area that contained old electronics, stoves, refrigerators, washers and dryers, and even a couple of televisions that listed to one side in the debris. He passed a big man in dirty clothing and red baseball cap who nodded and watched him wend his way through this stuff. Oswald wasn’t sure what he wanted to discover, but when he spied a couple of computer shells, he became interested, got off and checked them out. They were empty.

Never mind that his khakis were clean and his mother would yell if he got them dirty; he pushed some things around, then spied it. A small case, dusty, undamaged. Darned if it wasn’t a Laptop Computer. He reached out to pick it up and was so excited to find it intact that his hand began to tingle at the touch. His fingers closed on the handle and he lifted it up, brushed the dirt off and dropped himself to a squat so he could put it on his lap. A shadow loomed over him and he looked up.

The man in the dirty clothes said, "Have to charge you a buck for that, young snapper. Don’t know if it works, but maybe you can get it going again. Kids nowadays are good with this electronic stuff."

Oswald stood up, hefting the case, weighing it. Seemingly all there, he saw no damage, just dirt. "I’ll take it," he said, extracting a dollar bill from his pocked. He paid for it and climbed back on his bicycle. He left with it under his left arm, guiding his bike with his right hand and whistling a tune he made up, as he raced away.

At home, unseen, he got down to his basement bedroom. He immediately changed clothes for soiled jeans, tee shirt and sneakers and went to find some rags in his mother’s cleaning closet. He started with the outside, not wanting the dirt to get into the works if he could help it. So he still had not opened it when they called him to dinner. But it looked like new as he slipped it under his bed. He was not going to sit at the table and answer questions about his whereabouts this afternoon and what he planned to do with an abandoned Laptop. They might even accuse him of stealing it, as he couldn’t tell them he had been to the dump.

After dinner, he hurried to the Family Room, to the desk where he had to do his homework as the family watched and waited. They read newspapers and books, his mother sewed on buttons and the Television remained silent until he was done. Then he was free to go to his room, which he did with all speed tonight. He failed to see the questioning look his dad gave him as he breezed out the door and down the steps to his room.

He pulled the Laptop from under the bed, turned the case over and saw the little battery door and, beside it, the engraved plate giving serial number and accessory requirements. Opening the little door, he saw the battery — rechargeable. Thinking it would need a charge, he looked for the cable used to hook it up to DC, but that was missing from the little compartment on the side. He wrote down the numbers and closed the door. Setting the computer aside, he went to find his cellular phone. He looked up the phone number for Radio Shack and made his call. When he hung up, he was sweating. He would have to get money out of his savings account to buy a new battery and cable. Nearly one hundred dollars! Looking over at the bed, he was suddenly sure that he would do it. Without his parent’s approval.

The next morning Oswald did his Saturday chores and took off for town. He cleared the bank early, pocketing a roll of cash. At Radio Shack, he made his purchase, put the package in his bike basket and went down the street with the PC under his arm. He headed for Baxter City Park. There were convenient benches where he could put in the new battery if he wanted to.

Placing his bike in a rack provided by the city, he locked it up and went over to a bench near the street corner, overlooking Main Street, he settled himself in the center and placed the Laptop on his lap. In no hurry, he watched a few minutes to see who was stirring around town.

Recognizing no one, presently he ran a hand over the clean case, and opened it. A bright light flashed in his eyes as he gasped. The battery was working, he needn’t have spent that money . . . The screen was like sunlight, but he got used to it in moments and waited. Where are the Desktop icons . . .? Suddenly a black, bold question filled the yellow screen, What Do You Want to Do?

He almost dropped it, pulled it back to his lap and was about to type in his request when a city bus pulled up to the curb a few feet away. A lady was running down the street waving her ticket, she stopped in front of the door. Oswald was surprised to see it was his math teacher, Mrs. McConckle whom he disliked because she hatefully called him stupid in class. The bus door thumped opened and, at the same time, the light in the Laptop changed and it was like looking into a camera that framed the teacher and the bus for a photo. When he looked again, she was getting on the bus, the door slammed shut, and with a roar the bus eased out into traffic and was gone.

The Laptop was back to the yellow screen. Oswald looked all over the case to see where the camera might be but saw nothing but the port for the recharge cable. Slowly, he laboriously, with one finger, typed in, "le&s g0 t o th* cCan)dy stor." Nothing happened, so he closed up, got on his bike and headed for the confectioner’ shop just down the street. He racked his bike and went in, carrying his Laptop under his arm. He got a small basket and began shopping for candy bars —all his favorites, when the proprietor came over and said, "Kid, you got money to pay for all this?" He is one big dude, thought Hal.

"Sure," Oswald told him. "I’d never cop nuthin from you, or anybody."

"Show me."

Oswald pulled out the change from the purchase and quickly put it back in his pocket —two tens and a twenty. He was astonished when the old man grabbed him by the arm. He dropped the basket as he was dragged toward the back of the store, but hung onto his Laptop, "Hey, what are you doing? I didn’t do anything," cried the boy. He was thumped down in a chair in the office, and told to stay, like you would tell a dog, as the proprietor called the police. Oswald began to sweat. What was going on? He clutched the case until his knuckles were white. He had never stolen a thing in his life. His dad would kill him for this!

An officer arrived after a stressful twenty minutes. During that time Oswald wanted so badly to go pee, but he had to hold it, and wait. Eventually it was all cleared up, because Oswald had his bank book and identity card. Deciding vigorously that he would never go there again, he left, following the officer out. Now he had a new problem. The policeman was going to have to report this to his parents and it would all come out, he would be grounded forever.

There was a bench beside the bike rack and he sat down to cool off in the slight breeze, as he watched the officer fill out his report while standing beside the police car.

Oswald opened the Laptop, again the bright light, and again it gave him a scene, this time of the policeman who finished his report, got in and drove away. Then suddenly it was back to the yellow screen. He closed the PC, got his bike out and went down the street whistling. It must be a camera, that was all he could think.

Two blocks down he spied four of his nemeses dribbling a basketball up the street, headed for the city park to practice shooting baskets. He veered away, but too late. The catcalls followed him. Deciding quickly, he made a U-turn and went back to see what they were up to, from a vantage point that screened him from them. They stopped in at the confectioners, came out sharing a big chocolate bar; then when they reached the park, laughing and slapping their thighs, they each retrieved from their padded jogging suits candy bars of every know brand.

Continuing unseen, Oswald got off his bike, squatted down and opened the laptop. Maybe the pictures he had seen on it were still there somehow and he would get this bunch . . . sure enough, he had them centered, easily identified, and waited. They gobbled a couple candy bars each, then took up the ball and headed into the park for the basket court. The screen went blank. He could no longer see the four.

It was time to get home. He had to cut his grandmother’s lawn today, so he had better get it done. Replacing the Laptop under his arm, he bicycled home, and spent the afternoon at his beloved grandmother’s house. He told her he had found the Laptop at the dump for a dollar and swore her to secrecy. She was the only one in his life who understood about anything he told her. He loved her and hoped she would never die. After eating his favorite fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and salad with tomatoes and radishes, he ate one more of her fab biscuits and honey, and washed everything down with a glass of milk. He kissed her on the cheek and went home.

As was their custom on Saturday night the family watched favorite shows on television, always the evening news on CBS. It was boring, but Oswald was happy tonight, they had all called him Hal today, except his mother, of course. He decided once he ought to take a picture of her and show her how ugly she looked when she told him about his name. But he couldn’t chance it. So, he would, instead, go to his bedroom to study for Sunday School tomorrow.

Before Oswald could move, the TV news was showing a picture of Mrs. McConckle and that got his attention. He listened: "In unrelated incidents today, six people simply vanished to no one knows where. Mrs. McConckle who is a middle school teacher at Wyndham Middle School in Baxter City was last seen getting on a bus. She never got off, was not on there at the end of the day, and no one has seen her since. The second person to vanish was a Baxter policeman, Ronald Bridahl, who had been called to Hart’s Confectionary regarding questionable circumstances with a young man who, in the end, proved to be an upstanding citizen. The police car was found parked six blocks away, keys in the ignition, and with no sign that the officer has been found."

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," he went on, "the third incident involved four young boys who headed into Baxter City Park downtown to shoot some baskets. They were seen by an elderly man who noticed them as they dribbled the ball down the street, because they seemed to be heckling a fifth boy carrying a briefcase. The boy with the case watched them sprint past and rode off on his bicycle."

"Strangely," the newsman concluded, "the ball was found resting against the pole under the net. No trace of the four has yet been found. If you know anything —"

Oswald closed his eyes. The Laptop? Was it the . . . oh, no, it couldn’t be that. Devine Power? His mother said that is what his name meant. Had he somehow been responsible for the disappearance of these people? Did he have the power? He slapped his hand over his mouth and ran for the bathroom.

His dad said, from the doorway, "What’s up, Hal? Supper didn’t agree with you? Well go to the kitchen, mom has something to soothe an upset stomach. Then get to bed and you will be good as new for church tomorrow."

Oswald brushed past his father, went directly to his room, and when his mother called after him, following him with a glass of something to drink, he shoved the Laptop under the bed and sat down, shaking.

"You were at your grandmother’s house again. What did she feed you this time? You always get sick on that rich food. I have told you time and again —"

Oswald tuned her out, What do you want to do? filled his mind. If only it could be possible. But he shuddered, the thought went away and he drank the last of the dregs in the glass. He burped, and his mother finally went out and shut the door.

He got out the computer and opened it. This time there was no light. He pressed the on button and nothing happened. So, tomorrow he would have to put in the batteries. He sat quietly wondering.

The Laptop couldn’t have been responsible for all those disappearances. Could it? If not, that left only — divine power!