That'll be three-fifty."
What if he didn't remember me?
What if this was only an absurd fantasy?
His hand was out for the money, but I made no move toward my wallet.
He had to remember me. He had to know me.
But no—of course not—and as I felt the sour taste in my mouth and the sweat in my palms, I knew that in a minute I would be sick.
But I didn't want that in front of him.
"Hey, you all right?"
"Yes… just… wait…" I stumbled into one of the chrome chairs and bent forward gasping for breath, waiting for the blood to come back to my head. My stomach was churning.
Oh, God, don't let me faint now. Don't let me look ridiculous in front of him.
"Water… some water, please…" Not so much for the drink as to make him turn away. I didn't want him to see me like this after all these years.
By the time he returned with a glass, I felt a little better.
"Here, drink this. Rest a minute.
You'll be okay."
He stared at me as I sipped the cool water, and I could see him struggling with half-forgotten memories.
"Do I really know you from somewhere?"
"No… I'm okay. I'll leave in a minute."
How could I tell him?
"What was I supposed to say?
Here, look at me, I'm Charlie, the son you wrote off the books?
Not that I blame you for it, but here I am, all fixed up better than ever.
Test me.
Ask me questions.
I speak twenty languages, living and dead; I'm a mathematical whiz, and I'm writing a piano concerto that will make them remember me long after I'm gone.
How could I tell him?
How absurd I was sitting in his shop, waiting for him to pat me on the head and say,
"Good boy." I wanted his approval, the old glow of satisfaction that came to his face when I learned to tie my own shoelaces and button my sweater. I had come here for that look in his face, but I knew I wouldn't get it.
"You want me to call a doctor?"
I wasn't his son.
That was another Charlie.
Intelligence and knowledge had changed me, and he would resent me—as the others from the bakery resented me— because my growth diminished him. I didn't want that.
"I'm okay," I said.
"Sorry to be a nuisance." I got up and tested my legs.
"Something I ate. I'll let you close up now."
As I headed towards the door, his voice called after me sharply.
"Hey, wait a minute!"
His eyes met mine with suspicion.
"What are you trying to pull?"
"I don't understand."
His hand was out, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
"You owe me three-fifty."
I apologized as I paid him, but I could see that he didn't believe it.
I gave him five, told him to keep the change, and hurried out of his barbershop without looking back.
June 21
I've added time sequences of increasing complexity to the three-dimensional maze, and Algernon learns them easily.
There is no need to motivate him with food or water. He appears to learn for the sake of solving the problem—success appears to be its own reward.
But, as Burt pointed out at the convention, his behavior is erratic.
Sometimes after, or even during a run, he will rage, throw himself against the walls of the maze, or curl up and refuse to work at all.
Frustration?
Or something deeper?