Up from Brooklyn, they came. Actually, they had just come back from an extended trip to China that lasted about six months. It probably felt like two weeks to them seeing how they are retired and floating about. And now, they were camping out in the master bedroom for the week to come.
My father has a strange way of displaying affection in his interest for my abilities. I think he likes to make me feel needed. For the past ten years, he has had me write him a series of computer programs for him to take home and run on his computer. But before doing so, he feels the need to sit down with me for about three hours illustrating exactly what the new program is supposed to do.
This is fine. But please, not today.
I run downstairs remembering that I had placed the paintbrush near the toolbox. Quickly passing my mother, I notice that she hollers at Beejing in Chinese. I imagine Beejing trying to understand Chinese. I laugh. I think again, and realize that he probably feels the same way when I holler at him in English.
Finding the paintbrush, I proceed back up to the study, and realize that the recently purchased can of antique white paint is still downstairs. I begin to proceed back downstairs when my father asks me how to turn on the computer. Wondering to myself if this were a trick question, pointing my finger to the side, motioning pushing a button. It's the same as your computer at home, I mention.
After returning back upstairs, he asks me how to turn the sound on. I motion to him again-push that button. He asks me how to access the floppy drive. I grunt slightly and leave the room decisively to delay the painting until after the carpet cleaning. Noticing that I am slightly perturbed, he held back with any further computer questions. It was a good time for a break. I left the house only to return fifteen minutes later with a rented carpet-cleaning machine.
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