The Impossible Fortress(23)
I knew TRS-80s were famously difficult to configure; I had read all about them in my hobby magazines, where readers disparaged the machines as “TRaSh-80s.” The solution to Hibble’s problem appeared to be “daisy-chaining” the peripherals—basically, connecting the printer to the computer via the stand-alone disk drive. This was not nearly as hard or as complicated as it sounds. But I sure wasn’t going to tell Hibble the secret.
“Maybe Billy could try a programming class,” Mom said. “If we encouraged this interest . . .”
Hibble shook his head. “Limited machines, limited enrollment. I save those seats for our best and brightest. Not kids flunking ninth grade. Not kids who cut class to go to the mall.”
Round and round we went, in a discussion that seemed to last hours. Every time I opened my mouth, I was wrong. Out of nowhere, my mother started sobbing. She’d been awake all night, selling groceries to insomniacs, and this argument was way past her bedtime. Even I was worn-out, and I’d only been awake a few hours. I started agreeing with everything Hibble said. I just wanted to leave. When he finally said, “I think I have a solution,” I nearly answered with Yes, anything, please just get me out of here.
Hibble produced two xeroxed flyers from his desk and gave one to each of us. The headline promised EXCITING CAREERS IN MANUFACTURING TECHNOLOGY. “There’s a summer internship at the Cosmex plant on Route 9. It doesn’t pay any money—you have to volunteer—but I want you to think of it like a foot in the door. If you show up on time, if you work hard and impress the right people, you can have a decent job waiting at graduation. They start full-timers at seven fifty an hour.”
My mother turned the flyer front and back, searching for some missing component. “A makeup factory?”
“A world-class facility,” Hibble said. “The operations manager is my brother-in-law. I’ve taken tours. They can make ten thousand lipsticks an hour. Can you imagine?”
The flyer featured photographs of men and women dressed in hairnets and standing over assembly lines, smiling cheerfully as they pressed tiny mirrors into tiny plastic compacts. The program ran for eight weeks, forty hours a week. At the end of it, I would receive a Special Certificate of Achievement. “Which will look very good on a resume,” Hibble added.
“I’ve never heard of Cosmex,” Mom said.
“They make high-quality generics at affordable prices. Like L’Oréal or Maybelline but half the cost. And Billy would be eligible for the ten percent employee discount.” He winked at my mother, and she pressed her hands against the sides of her head, like she was trying to steady her thoughts.
So there were my choices: repeat the ninth grade or take the internship and advance to tenth grade. And I knew from my mother’s sobbing that repeating the ninth grade was not an option. I accepted a gold-plated fountain pen from Hibble and completed the Internship Commitment form, agreeing to show up on June 28 for a summer’s worth of volunteer work, and my mother countersigned.
Hibble’s eyes followed our hands as they moved across the paperwork. “You’re making the right choice,” he said. “So I’m going to reduce your punishment to a single day’s suspension.”
“Punishment for what?” Mom asked.
“Playing hooky,” Hibble said, gesturing to my brown bag lunch. “Remember?”
Mom spoke very slowly. “You’re sending him home as a punishment for skipping school?”
“Actions have consequences!” Hibble said. “If you don’t beat the cream, Mrs. Marvin, how do you expect it to froth?”
We left the school and drove home in silence. While climbing the steps to our front door, Mom tripped and nearly fell. “I have to go to sleep,” she muttered. “I have to get up for work in three hours.”
She trudged into her bedroom and closed the door. I was glad I didn’t have to spend my suspension sitting across from her. I could easily pass the afternoon reading How to Learn Machine Language in 30 Days. But then her bedroom door opened and she emerged carrying the power box for my 64.
“You really know how to work this machine?” she asked. “You promise you’re not playing Pac-Man?”
“I promise,” I said. “I swear to God.”
She gave me the box. “Then get to work.”
1000 REM *** DRAW PRINCESS SPRITE ***
1010 POKE 52,48:POKE 56,48
1020 FOR PR=0 TO 62:READ P
1030 POKE 12416+PR,P
1040 NEXT PR
1050 POKE 2042,194:POKE V+21,4
1060 POKE V+41,3
1070 POKE V+4,PX
1080 POKE V+5,PY
1090 RETURN
MARY TOLD ME THAT she started work right after school, so I biked over to the store at three o’clock. I didn’t want to appear overeager, but the deadline was looming and every minute counted. I entered the store and the tiny bell signaled my arrival.
Zelinsky looked up from his work desk. He was busy prying apart another ancient typewriter; his hands and forearms were black with ink.
“She’s not here,” he said.
I was so flustered, I didn’t know what to say. I never considered that Mary might bail on me, that her invitation was never less than completely sincere.