Wait. No justification?
Correction, please: Atavistic, true, but partially justified…
Justified.
Entirely justified.
Justi-damn-fied all to pieces!
Why not upset? Months of hopes, anticipations, expections; long, hard trip — for nothing! Nary a clue — not even faintest hint remains to suggest destination, whereabouts.
Some superman…! Inconceivable could go off without leaving note — self-respecting five-year-old human would expect me on doorstep eventually (if alive), leave forwarding address.
But perhaps being too harsh… Should take comfort instead from apparent discovery that certain fundamental behavioral principles transcend interspecies gulf; continue unchanged, intact, eternal; intrinsic to new race as was old. Datum no doubt scientifically fascinating in own right; of great satisfaction to researcher. But frankly, until now never troubled head over whether new species might boast thoughtless, self-centered, imbecilic male twits!
Oh, dear. Just look — ink hardly dry following wallow through well-intentioned (if debatable) solicitude for plight of hypothetical NonScheduled Reader (NSR) and already hip-deep in tirade comprehensible only to proper audience. So sorry; will try to do better. Really.
By now NSR probably wondering what H. post hominem might be. Or Tarzan File. Or perhaps who Peter Bell is. Or Teacher. Or Terry. Or (at very least) me.
All right. Fair questions; deserve straight answers. So shall endeavor to bear in mind possible audience other than intended: Fellow survivor, perhaps — but demonstratedly better at it — someone lacking vantage of orderly progression from Vol. I (left in shelter library beneath address on cover, Index No. 1.1.1). Viewed in that light, however reluctantly, introductions are in order:
Name: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster. (Note: Nothing “sinister” about “bar”; used here proudly to honor adoptive parents together with kin.) Born 11 years ago to Smiths; orphaned ten months later; adopted by Dr. and Mrs. Foster — Daddy and Momma. Been known as Candy since first breath.
Beyond that (briefly): Homo post hominem is new species; originating during great influenza pandemic of 1918-19 through viral recombination of unborns’ genes; apparently immune to all “human” disease, plus smarter, stronger, faster, etc.; discovered accidentally by researchers headed by Teacher (next-door neighbor, genius), aided by Daddy, while hunting for clues identifying genius-level children as newborns; emerging to inherit Earth after H. sapiens eliminated selves in short, efficient bionuclear war. Tarzan File Teacher’s record of said research; identifying, profiling, locating all known hominems. Peter Bell H. post hominem associated with Teacher’s research project; closest of project hominems to own age; best prospect of lot for future soulmate, according to matchmaking Teacher in letter constituting Last Words. Terry is own adopted twin brother (full name Terry D. Foster — initial stands for Dactyll); identical but for mental retardation and being Hyacinthine Macaw. Am myself Homo post hominem. Rode out war in Daddy’s marvelous shelter; now engaged in walkabout, searching for fellow survivors. Of which reader must be one.
There. Clear enough?
No? Complaints — from NSR? Too brief? More confused now than before explanation?
Some nerve! If reader truly nonscheduled, then writer almost certainly dead…!
Wait, please don’t sulk; surely can’t expect sympathy from corpse — should be grateful for simple courtesy… True, could repeat entire background each time begin new journal — of course, volumes soon rival Tarzan File’s bulk even before commencing new entries. But then why bother writing Vol. 1 in first place? So shan’t; have better things to do.
Now: Tarzan File lists names, addresses of all AA, known AB hominems. But specifically, Teacher referred me to Peter Bell — AA superkid, smart as me (intimated might be smarter; hurled gauntlet to prove him wrong). Had told him about me, too. Suggested I get in touch.
Now, current scope of interest in “future soulmate” limited to practical matters: food, shelter, protection, survival — short-term essential stuff; deferring obvious racial continuity issue until puberty, completion of glandular development, make pertinent. (And probably unavoidable — have no valid basis to doubt will be just as tiresomely boy-crazy, once plumbing commences normal function, as next ingénue. But can hope.)
However, long experience (relativistic expression, of course, considering modest life span thus far) amply justifies habit of equating Teacher’s least hint with Revelation From On High. Certainly adequate incentive to make attempt. Phone system still functioning in many portions of country (according to aural evidence: Ring tone obtainable using most area codes, random numbers); so tried number listed in Tarzan File.
No luck. True, answering machine camped on line picked up phone, spouted message for me; but Peter never returned calls.
For two and a half months!
(Oversensitive soul might; by this time, ponder reciprocity of interest. Might even [given modest encouragement] contemplate feeling neglected, unattractive; launch into spate of mouthwash, deodorant changes; file teeth, fluff nails, polish hair, etc.)
Nonsense, of course. Endless possible explanations: Defective answering machine, talking but not recording; phone system itself finally disintegrating (not unreasonably: six months without maintenance — even in system based on hydroelectric power, with computerized call routing automatically diverting calls around trouble spots, time must come when trouble spots constitute norm, system collapses). Perhaps, too — certainly equally likely — Peter simply not home, for own good purposes. No more reason now to wallow in morbid speculation than during months since initial contact attempt frustrated.
Though, granted, too busy then to spare attention for proper moping. Not easy, in only two and a half months, to locate suitable farm convenient to Daddy’s house (and shelter treasures beneath); catch up all chores necessary to improve chances that livestock, structures survive Wisconsin winter’s ravages.
Nor did trip from Dairy State heartland to Peter’s Cornell campus (New York State) residence provide much time to reflect unsettling possibilities, generally inequitable nature of life. Physical fragility of human civilization becoming evident after only six months’ neglect: Road system in sorry state, getting rapidly worse. Trees down here, there; poles broken, lines draped elegantly in inconvenient places; surprising numbers of washed-out culverts, impassable bridges.
Four-wheel-drive Chevy van wonderfully capable, easy to drive — with lifts on pedals to accommodate own modest stature. High ground clearance, awesome traction make easy work of marginal terrain. Solved many blockages simply by driving around — through fences; across fields, small streams; up hill, down dale, etc. — but spent fully as much time on shanks’ mare, cutting, prying, winching, digging, etc., as driving. (Educational travel mode: Really get “feel” for countryside — feel it under nails, in shoes, tangled in hair, embedded in clothing…)
Well, journal commencement, however belated, yielding usual result: Hurt, rage, disappointment discharged on paper; blood pressure lowered, practical state of mind restored along with perspective: Crying over spilled milk null exercise; benefits neither spiller nor spillee.