Enough maundering. Time to bear down, flay soul for own good. Being neurotic almost as tiresome as being genius. (Attention archeologists: Clear room of impressionable youths and/or mixed company — torrid details follow:)
Born 11 years ago in small Wisconsin town, only child of normal parents. Named Candidia Maria Smith; reduced to Candy before ink dried on certificate. Early indications of atypicality: Eyes focused, tracked at birth; cause-effect association evident by six weeks; first words at four months; sentences at six months.
Orphaned at ten months. Parents killed in car accident.
No relatives — created dilemma for baby-sitter. Solved when social worker took charge. Was awfully cute baby; adopted in record time.
Doctor Foster and wife good parents: Loving, attentive; very fond of each other, showed it. Provided good environment for formative years. Then Momma died… Left just Daddy and me; drew us very close. Was probably shamelessly spoiled, but also stifled:
Barely five then, but wanted to learn — only Daddy had firm notions concerning appropriate learning pace, direction for “normal” upbringing. Did not approve of precocity; felt was unhealthy, would lead to future maladjustment, unhappiness. Also paternalistic sexist; had bad case of ingrown stereotypitis. Censored activities, reading; dragged heels at slightest suggestion of precocious behavior, atypical interests.
Momma disagreed; aided, indulged. With her help I learned to read by age two; understood basic numerical relationships by three: Could add, subtract, multiply, divide. Big help until she had to leave.
So sneaked most of education. Had to — certainly not available in small-town classroom. Not difficult; developed speedreading habit, could finish high school text in 10, 20 minutes; digest typical best-seller in half, three quarters of hour. Haunted school, local libraries every opportunity (visits only; couldn’t bring choices home). But town small; exhausted obvious resources three years ago. Have existed since on meager fruits of covert operations in friends’ homes, bookstores; occasional raids on neighboring towns’ libraries, schools. Of course not all such forays profitable; small-town resources tend to run same direction: slowly, in circles. Catalogs mostly shallow, duplicated; originality lacking.
Frustrating. Made more so by knowledge that Daddy’s personal in-house library rivaled volume count of local school, public libraries put together (not counting shelter collection, but didn’t know about that then) — and couldn’t get halfway down first page of 95 percent of contents.
Daddy pathologist; books imperviously technical. So far over head, couldn’t even tell where gap lay (ask cannibal fresh off plane from Amazon for analysis of educational deficiencies causing noncomprehension of commercial banking structure). Texts dense; assumed reader already possessing high-level competency. Sadly lacking in own case — result of conspiracy. So languished, fed in dribbles as tireless prospecting uncovered new sources.
Single bright exception: Soo Kim McDivott, son of American missionary in Boxer Rebellion days, product of early East-West alliance. Was 73 when retired, moved next door two years ago. Apparently had been teacher whole life but never achieved tenure; tended to get fired over views. Did not appear to mind.
Strange old man. Gentle, soft-spoken, very polite; small, seemed almost frail. Oriental flavoring lent elflike quality to wizened features; effect not reduced by mischief sparkling from eyes.
Within two weeks became juvenile activity focus for most of town. Cannot speak for bulk of kids, but motivation obvious in own case: Aside from intrinsic personal warmth, knew everything — and if exception turned up would gleefully drop everything, help find out — and had books. House undoubtedly in violation of Fire Code; often wondered how structural members took load.
Fascinating man: Could, would discuss anything. But wondered for a time how managed as teacher; never answered questions but with questions. Seemed whenever I had question, ended up doing own research, telling him answer. Tool a while to catch on, longer before truly appreciated: Had no interest in teaching knowledge, factual information — taught learning. Difference important; seldom understood, even more rarely appreciated. Don’t doubt was reason for low retirement income.
Oh, almost forgot: Could split bricks with sidelong glance, wreak untold destruction with twitch of muscle. Any muscle. Was Tenth Degree Master of Karate. Didn’t know were such; thought ratings topped at Eighth — and heard rumors they could walk on water. (But doubt Master Mac would bother. Should need arise, would politely ask waters to part — but more likely request anticipated, unnecessary.)
Second day after moving in, Master was strolling down Main Street when happened upon four young men, early twenties, drunk, unkempt — Summer People (sorry, my single ineradicable prejudice) — engaged in self-expression at Miller’s Drugstore. Activities consisted of inverting furniture, displays; dumping soda-fountain containers (milk, syrup, etc.) on floor; throwing merchandise through display windows. Were discussing also throwing Mr. Miller when Master Mac arrived on scene.
Assessed situation; politely requested cease, desist, await authorities’ arrival. Disbelieving onlookers closed, averted eyes; didn’t want to watch expected carnage. Filthy Four dropped Mr. Miller, converged on frail-looking old Chinese. Then all fell down, had subsequent difficulty arising. Situation remained static until police arrived.
Filthies taken into custody, then to hospital. Attempted investigation of altercation unrewarding: Too many eyewitness accounts — all contradictory, disbelieving, unlikely. However, recurring similarities in stories suggested simultaneous stumble as Filthies reached for Master; then all fell, accumulating severe injuries therefrom: four broken jaws, two arms, two legs, two wrists; two dislocated hips; two ruptured spleens. Plus bruises in astonishing places.
Single point of unanimity — ask anyone: Master Mac never moved throughout.
Police took notes in visibly strained silence. Also took statement from Master Mac. But of dubious help: Consisted mostly of questions.
Following week YMCA announced Master Mac to teach karate classes. Resulted in near-riot (by small-town standards). Standing room only at registration; near fistfights over positions in line.
Was 16th on list to start first classes but deserve no credit for inclusion: Daddy’s doing. Wanted badly — considering sociological trends, self-defense skills looked ever more like required social graces for future survival — but hesitated to broach subject; seemed like probable conflict with “normal upbringing” dictum.
So finally asked. Surprise! Agreed — granted dispensation! Was still in shock when Daddy asked time, date of registration. Showed article in paper: noon tomorrow. Looked thoughtful maybe five seconds; then rushed us outdoors, down street to Y. Already 15 ahead of us, equipped to stay duration.
Daddy common as old slipper: warm, comfortable, folksy. But shared aspects with iceberg: Nine-tenths of brains not evident in everyday life. Knew was very smart, of course. Implicit from job; pathologist knows everything any other specialist does, plus own job. Obviously not career for cretin — and was good pathologist. Renowned.
But not show-off; was easy to forget; reminders few, far between. Scope, foresight, quick reactions, Command Presence demonstrated only in time of need.
Such occurred now: While I stood in line with mouth open (and 20 more hopefuls piled up behind like Keystone Cops), Daddy organized friends to bring chairs, cot, food, drink, warm clothing, blankets, rainproofs, etc. Took three minutes on phone. Was impressed. Then astounded — spent whole night on sidewalk with me, splitting watches, trading off visits to Little Persons’ room when need arose.