The older man stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face.
Desmond had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in his mind, imagining what Orville would say. That Desmond had no use for a computer. That he needed it like he needed a hole in his head. That it was a waste of money.
Instead, Orville put a large pinch of Copenhagen snuff behind his lip and simply said, “All right then. Go get in the truck.”
A minute later, Desmond sat in the Jeep pickup, waiting.
Orville walked past it, to the shed behind the house. Desmond heard him open the hood of the broken-down Studebaker truck he had been threatening to fix up for years. He tossed some tools around, then slammed the hood shut, got in the Jeep, and drove to the city.
The CompUSA store was larger than Desmond expected, the choices much more numerous. He had considered ordering the computer by phone, from a vendor in a magazine called Computer Shopper, but he felt it was too risky; if the computer broke, he wanted to be able to take it somewhere and have it repaired—under warranty.
He expected Orville to remain in the truck, or more likely, pony up at the nearest bar and drink until Desmond found him. Instead, he followed Desmond inside. They looked like the Beverly Hillbillies as they wandered the pristine aisles in their coveralls and dirty Carhartt coats, their tan faces and massive hands marking them as anything but computer geeks. Most of the clerks, who were young guys with glasses, glanced away and avoided them.
At the counter, Desmond described what he wanted in a computer and told them how much he had to spend.
“You’re short.”
“By how much?”
“Two hundred and fifty by the time you pay tax.”
Desmond told the clerk that he could get the same specs from a number of places advertising in Computer Shopper. That set the guy off. He went on a tirade about the low quality of the computers they sold, compared small details, and insisted that having local service was worth something.
When the worked-up man finally finished, Desmond said, “Well, what do you suggest?”
“Drop the optional stuff. Modem. Downgrade the graphics card. Smaller monitor.”
Before Desmond could speak, Orville stepped forward, pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, and slapped them on the counter. “Forget it. Build it just like he said.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“You heard me. Do it. We’re in a hurry.”
Orville wanted to put the two boxes on the back of the truck, but Desmond wouldn’t hear of it. Between the cold and the wind, it was far too risky. So they placed the computer in between them in the cab, forming a barrier Desmond spoke over on the way back.
“Thanks.”
His uncle grunted.
“I needed the modem to get on the internet.”
“I know why you needed it.”
“I’ll be able to—”
“You don’t need to explain. Buying that computer’s the smartest thing you’ve done in a while.”
Desmond had no idea what to say to that.
“I thought you were going to buy a truck with the money,” Orville said.
Desmond had considered it. “I needed the computer more.”
The machine and the internet access it granted were to Desmond at seventeen what the library had been to him at six: access to another world of seemingly endless knowledge. The web fed his mind and inspired his curiosity. It always led to more questions, more places to explore.
Every time he heard the noise of the Texas Instruments 28.8 modem, he came to life like never before.
In IRC chat rooms, he met like-minded people. Many were in San Francisco, Seattle, and New York, but plenty were in small towns across America, just like him. Most were young people in their basements or bedrooms typing away at night.
He downloaded several programming languages: C++, Python, Java, and Perl. He created a GeoCities page and began learning HTML and Javascript. He loved the logic of computer programming—it was a sharp contrast to the chaos and unpredictability of people on the rigs. Every day was a new puzzle to solve.
That summer, he busted three of his ribs on an offshore rig. He was home alone, recuperating, when two cars came barreling down the dirt driveway: a shiny Mercedes-Benz followed by a beat-up Ford pickup with two hunting rifles hanging in the back window.
Two men exited the Benz, both in suits. They were clean-shaven, their short hair combed to the side, and they were sweating like pigs. Desmond didn’t know either of them. He did know the lanky man who stepped out of the truck and sauntered toward the run-down house like he owned the place. His name was Dale Epply. He was another roughneck, possibly the only man Desmond knew who was meaner than Orville.
The suits introduced themselves, said they were from the West Texas Energy Corporation, and asked if they could come inside. Desmond forgot their names as soon as he heard them. He already knew what this was about.
Inside, they sat down, took him up on his offer for some iced tea and water, and with words that sounded very practiced, told Desmond that his uncle had died in an accident on a rig in the gulf. They waited for his reaction.
“Thank you for telling me,” Desmond said.
His eyes were dry. He couldn’t wait for them to leave.
One of the suits pushed an envelope across the chipped coffee table. The man was wearing a tie. Desmond assumed he was a lawyer. What he said next confirmed it.
“Your uncle, like all WTE contractors, signed a contract…”
Desmond couldn’t focus on the words. He heard only clips and phrases. Binding arbitration was part of the contract. Attorneys might contact Desmond about suing the company for wrongful death, but they were just opportunists and would be wasting his time. There was a standard death benefit, which was generous, they said, and, conveniently, it was contained in the envelope.
Desmond ripped it open. The check was for ten thousand dollars.