Year One

Year One Robert Yune (bio) Mendeleev made another set of predictions that were even more dramatic. His periodic table contained a number of blank spaces. Mendeleev declared that these blank spaces must correspond to elements as yet undiscovered. —Gregory N. Derry, "Nature's Jigsaw" He is six years old, watching his grandfather read the newspaper. This is their summer routine: Jason in Batman pajamas, grandfather in a wool suit, even in August. The oscillating fan, seemingly straining through the thick air, turns to sputter another weak breeze. Jason's grandfather is a retired geology professor. As always, he has efficiently gathered his morning together: a coffee mug sits near his right hand like a loyal pet, and his breakfast—a perfect rectangle of shredded wheat—sits centered in its bowl, soaking up milk. Laid atop the bowl, the newspaper soaks up the old man's attention. This means Jason can watch without being seen. He's drawn to the way his only grandfather purposefully strides through the world. Somehow, his stocky frame, frown lines, and wispy white hair draws smiles from women: waitresses, nurses, joggers in the park, Jason's mother and grandmother. There's something unusually expressive about the man's face as he lays the paper beside his bowl and begins the crossword. During this silent duel of wits, his white eyebrows dance a symphony of bewilderment, fury, and begrudging praise. "Pattern recognition," he occasionally mutters, and Jason nods solemnly. The old man's efficiency extends to language. When Jason shows off his athletic skills in the backyard, his grandfather exclaims the same word. Ball rolled through your legs? "Finesse!" Frisbee sailed onto the roof? "Finesse!" To date, repeating the word has yielded minimal effect. To date, Jason has not thought to ask what the word means. Soon, though, when Jason decides to listen, he'll understand finesse before he can define it: by then, the repetition will be bolstered by the old man's examples, pantomimes, metaphors. Decades from now, Jason will realize his grandfather was one of few adults who held the full memory of their childhoods—not just the events, but how it felt to be that young. The smallness, the fear rising up through the wonder. That's why the man lets his grandson watch him, uses the newspaper as a window and not a curtain. To six-year-old Jason perched at the edge of a stool in the sweltering kitchen, the news is upside down—or at least the headlines are. The articles themselves are too distant to read. Even if he understood each word, the outside world would remain huge and terrifying. But knowing his grandfather can track the grand design of things—that's why the boy watches so carefully. The knowledge just might rub off. Call it wisdom through osmosis. Later that evening, Jason seizes the newspaper and tackles the word search. His grandfather helps. "Pattern recognition," he mutters in approval when the boy circles a new word. For Christmas, Jason [End Page 92] receives a telescope and his grandfather teaches him the names of constellations. Jason's dad promises a visit to the planetarium, but they never go. _____ He is seventeen years old and finds himself stranded on a strange island called college. His peers seem excited to be here—in this city, on campus, in this freshman orientation. Nobody seems interested in comic books. Nobody mentions Firestorm. Surely, Jason thinks, someone leading an orientation at Columbia tells the freshmen that Spider-Man took classes there. That seems like a legitimate brag. What would his peers at the University of Pittsburgh think if they knew that one of the most powerful superheroes in the DC universe is enrolled here? At least in the comics. Firestorm's costume is a bright yellow tunic emblazoned with an exploding atom. His hair is flames, as are his fists. In real life, the closest thing to a superhero is the version of Jason that appears in his college application essay. That Jason is impeccable, an alchemist who turned guidance counselors into cheerleaders. Jason—the real one slumped in the back of the classroom—can't shake the feeling that any moment...