Bob Schaefer
Hutchinson High School,
Hutchinson, Minnesota
Junior
As I entered the room, the first thing I noticed was the darkness. A light off to the side caught my attention, and I turned toward it. The dim glow of a computer monitor revealed a figure hunched over his work, cloaked in shadows. I had known him for years, and I knew his style – he would finish his task or die doing it.
He was a young man, of average height. In the dull light I saw his face. In his deep concentration, it was scrunched into a frustrated grimace. Since I had never before seen him at his work, I moved closer. He seemed not to notice me. Now I could see his dark hair, usually so neatly combed, tousled from running his fingers through it. As I watched, he straightened himself from his slouch and rose to his full height.
“Damn you!” he suddenly cried at the machine. He muttered at it, hitting a key. The computer promptly bleeped an indignant “error” message. “Error, is it?” he mumbled. “Take this!” His fingers tattooed a hailstorm on the keyboard. When his attempt to correct the error failed, he threw up his arms in exasperation and turned to me. Startled, I flinched. “Can I help you, Mr. Schaefer?”
I handed him the piece of paper I held in my hand, and winced as his scrutiny fell upon it. “This is late,” he pronounced, tossing it on the already paper-strewn desk. “But I can make an allowance,” he continued. “Besides, only two people were on time.” He then went back to his work, murmuring and tossing in a few oaths for good measure.
I watched him a while longer. At last, he seemed to be getting somewhere. It was magic to watch. His fingers, normally somewhat stubby and clumsy, now leaped across the keyboard. Once or twice he broke into song – a jumbled melody somehow not quite right. As quickly as these outbursts began, they were gone. His dance with the machine grew faster and more elaborate. Then, with a cry of “trailer-court Republican, dammit!” one of his catch-phrases, he was done.
I left him then. But the expression on his face remained with me for a long time. It was a face of relief, no, joy, at having accomplished his task. I saw him, my friend, changed in the harsh light of an IBM. He was at home there, doing the work he both loved and hated. I left him that night, wishing someday to discover his secret – the secret of his joy in his work.
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Ssite, contents, and design copyright © 2002-2006 Robert James Schaefer. All rights reserved.
Last updated Sunday, August 20, 2006.
