Mordred
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So, this is where I'm gonna post some things that are... different from my usual work. It'll be a mix of different things.
The Book: Non-Fiction
He had laughed at first when I said I’d do it. Said that at my age it’d be stupid to try. That it was written for older kids. I didn’t care; was going to do it anyways, and see that movie. I reached to the then massive bookshelf in the room I shared with my siblings, rummaging for my target. It wasn’t that big in reality; it had been a low-lying, squat thing, only about a foot thick, two feet tall, and three feet wide. It held a not-so-varied assortment of Dr. Seuss books and little else. Nowadays, the white bookshelf with red and yellow Mickey Mouse heads all over it is languishing in the basement.
Clutching my prize, I scurried over to my bed, struggling to climb up the ladder to the top bunk with only one free arm, the other dead-weight with the book in my hand. Upon reaching the summit, I flipped through the pages until I had found where he had left off when reading aloud to my siblings and me. I was fed up of having a single segment read to me each night. It was impossible to wait a whole twenty-four hours or so to advance the story. More important was the need to see that movie, fresh in the theatre. My family usually didn’t go out for movies; just watched them on a tape, or rarely on a DVD. But not this time. He said we could watch the movie after reading the whole book. At our current pace, that meant we’d wait for it to come out on DVD, then end up in a bargain bin a year after its initial release. I couldn’t wait that long, not when all my friends would be talking about the fantastic display of wonder and whimsy at school after the upcoming Thanksgiving, shortly after the movie premiered. I’d be a social outcast, forever left out of the loop.
I delved deep into that book, that first piece of work by J.K. Rowling. Where I had read naught but dainty children’s books up to that point, I was now reading a full novel, without pictures or reading aides. It was a struggle. I remember having to clumber back down the ladder and go up to my dad to ask what certain words meant. He would smile knowingly, thinking these new, difficult words would discourage me. When I kept going back with a few more chapters visibly stacking up on the left side of the open book, he smiled even more broadly, realizing I was going to read the whole book. And read it I did, for before school was off to prepare for Thanksgiving, I had finished that book.
It was a triumph; a triumph over my then skeptical dad, a triumph over my unconvinced friends, and a triumph over the patronizing teacher. I closed the back cover of the book, satisfied not only with the ending of the first installment, but the fact that it was now behind me, ingrained as a fresh memory in my young mind. Everyone had doubted me, because seven year olds didn’t read books of that caliber; they stuck to the reading materials supplied in class, with simple grammar and words suitable for a first or second grade level. I was overcome by a feeling of accomplishment, of sheer fulfillment.
It was difficult to hold it in, at first. I don’t mean the rest of the book; no, I managed to keep my mouth clamped shut for my siblings. I wasn’t going to spoil it for them. What I couldn’t hold back was an insatiable hunger for more. More stories, more adventures, more challenge. I needed to take in more books, to assimilate them into my being. I would later indulge myself in this desire, devouring literature at an astounding rate in the following years. However, I had a more pressing concern at the time; convincing him to take us to the movie itself.
It had been nearing Thanksgiving for a while now. It was either the last days of October, when the last of the leaves began to curl and alight on the ground, or the first few days of November, when the frost began to set in on cold mornings. The rest of my family had made little progress in the book at that point. When I brought the matter up to Dad at first, my big brother, who was listening in to my entreaties, complained.
“We can’t see the movie,” my brother whined. “We haven’t finished reading the book together yet!” Dad just repeated what my brother had said to me. I mumbled something about how I went to the trouble of reading the book on my own time, and how that deserved a reward by going out to the movies.
“We’ll see,” he said afterwards, returning to his work. I knew then not to pursue the matter further at the moment, as that would only hurt the prospects at actually going. What I’d later learn was that his “We’ll see” was more often than not a solid yes rather than a maybe. To my younger self, though, it was a crushing blow, as close to a no as possible without being a no. It would be another week or so before going to the movies was brought up again, when our parents told us that Grandpa was coming for Thanksgiving.
“And we may go to the movies, too,” Mom added. “But maybe not. You’ve got to be good.” From then on, I was on my best behavior on those days leading up to Thanksgiving. Not a dish broken, not a crayon or pencil raised to the wall from me. Grandpa arrived a few days before the actual day, and the mood grew brighter. He had always been a light-hearted fellow, my grandfather. We didn’t see him often, because he lived up in Canada, but he tried to come as often as he could, and would always be telling jokes in his usual prankster manner. Mom always called her father a card. And he always smelled of some aroma when I went in for a hug; I think it might have been Old Spice. Even his leather jacket always smelled of it. Then the day finally came.
It started like any other day, really. A simple breakfast of oatmeal with syrup followed by general activities. Coloring books, fiddling with Legos, listening to Grandpa’s renditions of Grimm tales with no short quantity of comic relief; the works. A reserved lunch of peanut butter sandwiches with homemade bread didn’t change anything up. That afternoon, though, Dad stuffed the turkey; plopped it into the warming oven, and called out “Everyone to the car!” as he removed his oven mitts. Excited at this new adventure, we children readily assented, prepping up for an outing in short order. The whole family squeezed into the sedan. Packed like a sardine, I asked Dad if we were to see the movie, eliciting a simple “You’ll see” that told me more than enough.
The drive itself was insufferable. The roads were bad, and bearing with my siblings wasn’t much better. Worse still was the wait, the anticipation. What was in reality a fifteen minute drive to the nearby theatre felt like a whole day of school to my mind, trapped in that metal box. When we finally arrived at the almost imposing theatre, I was bursting with excitement, unable to contain my energy. I leapt out of the car, ready to take my place in front of the broad expanse of the screen. With children at his heels, Dad led the way inside and bought the tickets while the rest of us stood aside, Mom and Grandpa trying to restrain us all. When he returned with the precious pieces of paper in hand, we were off to take our seats, and were stunned to see how full the room was. Seats were found for all of us, though, and we sat that absorbing the film as good as any sheep entranced by mass consumerism could.
I didn’t take much away from the movie. By the end, I had turned away from the screen at one point, because the visual effects on the antagonist’s second face were too shocking, too frightening for me. I knew one thing, though; that movie paled in comparison to the book. In spite of all of the ties with the book, it couldn’t capture everything in less than two hours of screen-time, it wasn’t the same as the experience of turning over page after page, seeing into the heads of various characters. A good movie, to be sure―one of the best of my childhood―but nothing in comparison to the original. The standard was set for me; books were where it was at. I was forever hooked on reading, because of the challenge it offered me, the deeper insight it brought for me. I grew to become a dedicated reader shortly after, all because of this one book that did change my life.
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