Read Online A Hologram for the King by Dave Eggers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dave Eggers
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heâd seemed stronger than he had in decades. His face was ruddy, his eyes gloriously alive.
âLook at that mutt, Ron said that day.
They would be on the porch, drinking Scotch, watching Ronâs dogs, three of them, all garrulous and filthy. His favorite was an Australian sheepherding type who never stopped moving.
â That is a mutt for all ages, Ron said.
Ron lived on a farm near White River Junction. He kept pigs, goats, chickens and two horses, one that he rode and another he boarded for a friend. Ron knew nothing about farming, but after he retired, and after Alanâs mother died, he bought 120 acres in a soggy valley near town. He complained about it constantly â This fucking place will kill me â but by all accounts it was keeping him alive.
Alan had grown slower with time, was patched up and scarred, but his father had somehow become stronger. Alan wanted a less adversarial relationship, and was that too much to ask? He could do without the taunts. Alan, you hungry ? He loved to needle him about the Hungary debacle. Ron had been a union man. They made fifty thousand shoes a day at Stride Rite! heâd say. In Roxbury! You couldnât get Ron to shut up about the place, all of its innovations. First company to provide day-care to its workers. Then eldercare, too! Heâd retired with a full pension. But that was before the company ditched the unions and moved production to Kentucky. That was 1992. Five years later they moved all production to Thailand and China. All this made Alanâs role at Schwinn even more disagreeable to Ron. That Alan had been management, had helped scout a new, non-union location for Schwinn, had met with suppliers in China and Taiwan, had contributed not insignificantly â Ronâs words â to all that undid Schwinn and the 1,200 workers employed there, well, it made communication difficult. Most subjects led to their differing ideas of what ailed the nation and thus were off-limits. So they talked about dogs and swimming.
There was a small lake that Ron had dug and in which he swam every day, from April to October. The water was cold and full of algae and Ron smelled of it always. The bog man , Alan called him, though Ron hadnât smiled.
âYou want to help me kill a pig? heâd asked.
Alan declined.
âFresh bacon, kid, he said.
Alan wanted to go into town for a real meal. Ron was playacting, to some extent, all this Farmer Ron stuff. He knew a good deal about French food, wine, and now he was pulling this meat-and-potatoesschtick. In town, Ron leered at women on the street. âLook at that one! Bet sheâs got a great snatch.
This was all new, acting the part of caveman. Alanâs mother never would have stood for such barbarity. But who was the real Ron? Maybe this was him, the man he was before his wife, Alanâs mother, refined him, improved him? He had settled back to his natural form.
The phone stopped ringing.
âHello?
âHey Dad.
âHello?
âDad. Itâs Alan.
âAlan? You sound like youâre on the moon.
âIâm in Saudi Arabia.
What had Alan expected? Astonishment? Praise?
There was silence.
âI was thinking of the Shuttle, Alan said. That trip we took to see the launch.
âWhatâre you doing in Saudi Arabia?
It sounded like an opening, an invitation to brag a bit, so Alan gave it a shot.
âWell, itâs pretty interesting, Dad. Iâm here with Reliant, and weâre pitching an IT system to King Abdullah. Weâve got this remarkable teleconferencing equipment, and weâll be doing a presentation to the King himself, a three-dimensional holographic meeting. One of our reps will be in London but it will look like heâs in the room, with Abdullahâ
Silence.
Then: âYou know what Iâm watching on TV here, Alan?
âNo. What are you watching?
âIâm watching this thing about how a gigantic new bridge in Oakland,
âLook at that mutt, Ron said that day.
They would be on the porch, drinking Scotch, watching Ronâs dogs, three of them, all garrulous and filthy. His favorite was an Australian sheepherding type who never stopped moving.
â That is a mutt for all ages, Ron said.
Ron lived on a farm near White River Junction. He kept pigs, goats, chickens and two horses, one that he rode and another he boarded for a friend. Ron knew nothing about farming, but after he retired, and after Alanâs mother died, he bought 120 acres in a soggy valley near town. He complained about it constantly â This fucking place will kill me â but by all accounts it was keeping him alive.
Alan had grown slower with time, was patched up and scarred, but his father had somehow become stronger. Alan wanted a less adversarial relationship, and was that too much to ask? He could do without the taunts. Alan, you hungry ? He loved to needle him about the Hungary debacle. Ron had been a union man. They made fifty thousand shoes a day at Stride Rite! heâd say. In Roxbury! You couldnât get Ron to shut up about the place, all of its innovations. First company to provide day-care to its workers. Then eldercare, too! Heâd retired with a full pension. But that was before the company ditched the unions and moved production to Kentucky. That was 1992. Five years later they moved all production to Thailand and China. All this made Alanâs role at Schwinn even more disagreeable to Ron. That Alan had been management, had helped scout a new, non-union location for Schwinn, had met with suppliers in China and Taiwan, had contributed not insignificantly â Ronâs words â to all that undid Schwinn and the 1,200 workers employed there, well, it made communication difficult. Most subjects led to their differing ideas of what ailed the nation and thus were off-limits. So they talked about dogs and swimming.
There was a small lake that Ron had dug and in which he swam every day, from April to October. The water was cold and full of algae and Ron smelled of it always. The bog man , Alan called him, though Ron hadnât smiled.
âYou want to help me kill a pig? heâd asked.
Alan declined.
âFresh bacon, kid, he said.
Alan wanted to go into town for a real meal. Ron was playacting, to some extent, all this Farmer Ron stuff. He knew a good deal about French food, wine, and now he was pulling this meat-and-potatoesschtick. In town, Ron leered at women on the street. âLook at that one! Bet sheâs got a great snatch.
This was all new, acting the part of caveman. Alanâs mother never would have stood for such barbarity. But who was the real Ron? Maybe this was him, the man he was before his wife, Alanâs mother, refined him, improved him? He had settled back to his natural form.
The phone stopped ringing.
âHello?
âHey Dad.
âHello?
âDad. Itâs Alan.
âAlan? You sound like youâre on the moon.
âIâm in Saudi Arabia.
What had Alan expected? Astonishment? Praise?
There was silence.
âI was thinking of the Shuttle, Alan said. That trip we took to see the launch.
âWhatâre you doing in Saudi Arabia?
It sounded like an opening, an invitation to brag a bit, so Alan gave it a shot.
âWell, itâs pretty interesting, Dad. Iâm here with Reliant, and weâre pitching an IT system to King Abdullah. Weâve got this remarkable teleconferencing equipment, and weâll be doing a presentation to the King himself, a three-dimensional holographic meeting. One of our reps will be in London but it will look like heâs in the room, with Abdullahâ
Silence.
Then: âYou know what Iâm watching on TV here, Alan?
âNo. What are you watching?
âIâm watching this thing about how a gigantic new bridge in Oakland,
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