(prelude here, I’ma start this one off with…)
Gordon’s last gift to his older brother was a pamphlet listing a variety of hand and wrist exercises, in an effort to help stave off the carpal tunnel syndrome that’s probably just about inevitable, considering all the typing his brother does. Of the five of them, John and Alan are the only ones who spend any time at desks any longer, and though it doesn’t happen often, occasionally John ends up with idle time on his hands, nothing to do while he sits at his desk. Come Christmastime, it becomes apparent that he’s been putting this time to productive use. It’s not clear if he’s used any of this idle time for the provided wrist exercises.
Apparently one of the other dispatchers had taught him the basics over the course of a couple lunch breaks. Apparently she’d gotten him started with a spare pair of needles, and an old skein of yarn that she’d meant for him just to practice with—by her standards, the colour of it was too bright and gaudy for anyone to reasonably want to wear, bright, chunky, golden rod yellow—but John’s a fast learner and a perfectionist, and by the end of a few particularly slow weeks, he’d had a respectable four feet worth of scarf, garter stitched the whole way through.
John says it’s nothing much, and that he won’t mind in the least if Gordon doesn’t wear it. He doesn’t even know if it’ll be particularly warm, being made of cheap acrylic yarn, nothing like high quality wool. He’d made it just to make it, after all, it was only supposed to be for practice. And anyway it’s out of regs, as far as the uniform goes.
Gordon doesn’t care. Gordon loves it. And he wears it from the depths of December, right up until the city starts to thaw out again.
Grandma used to do this when she was a girl, and the Depression made everything scare and then scarcer still.
Her hands are gnarled now, and ache regardless of the weather, but even if her joints fight her the movements come back quick enough. It’s not exactly dexterous work, but moving the bundles in and out of steaming pans even coaxes some warmth into always-frozen fingertips, fills the kitchen with clean, bright scents.
Virgil’s always been a kind boy, and even though he frowns when she presents him with the box full of waxy balls, each a cacophony of original colours, he still says ‘thank you’ and means it. “But, uh, what are they? Do you eat them?”
Grandma had to laugh at that. “Only if you’ve been swearing again,” she teases, plucking one out slowly and carefully. “I used to make these for your great-grandpa. Soap balls, full of oils and glycerin and all sorts of good stuff. If it got the grease off his skin, it can get the smoke outta yours.”
Virgil flushes; Grandma knew he hadn’t told a soul how much the lingering scent of fire was bugging him, even months after he’d become a full-timer. But she had nothing much left to do now but watch her boys, had seen him sniff and frown too many times. He leans forward and she holds out the ball in her hand for him to sniff. It’s only because she’s watching now does she see his nose wrinkle. “Uh, thanks Grandma.”
She gave the ball another sniff herself. “Hmm, maybe I did put too much patchouli oil in there?” She shrugged and dropped it back in the box. “Well, they’re made from ends I found in the sink, so throw them out if you don’t like them.”
Virgil’s gentle, almost reverent, as he takes the box from her and presses a dry kiss to her temples.
Rent Day Blues 