"A Wizard's Companion" -Chapter 5: Law of Pragmatism
CHAPTER 5: LAW OF PRAGMATISM
“If it works, it is true.”
November 1st, 1978
It should’ve been snowing at this time of the year but New York was in the middle of a strange heat wave.
Tom crashes through the trees, textbooks slipping out of his arms, threatening to fall at every step.
He finally stumbles through to a clearing and immediately unburdens himself of the books on the soft grass next to Carl.
“Sorry I’m late,” he gasps in explanation. “I had to stay after class to help clean and then I got this.”
He holds up a brown paper bag patched with grease stains.
Carl still doesn’t say anything until Tom has unloaded the contents of that paper bag-two hamburgers, two sodas, two orders of fries-and afterwards doesn’t say much else except, “Hope you have a healthy appetite.”
He knows Tom will do all the rest of the talking.
“Oh come on Carl!” Tom exasperates. “For the last time, you are not, nor will you ever be, a charity case to me. This is a meal between friends. Next time you can buy if you like.” He sees Tom wince at how slight a chance this was and tries a new excuse, “Besides, I invited you to lunch. If you had invited me it’d be a different story.”
Carl didn’t mention that they did this daily. That this is the same old argument they’ve been having for weeks. Someday, he would pay, he swore it-Tom just wouldn’t allow him to buy him anything if it came from stealing-but for now…
He reaches for a burger. “Why do you prefer to be called Tom?”
“Excuse me?”
This is also a normal routine. Carl, driven in his quest to know more about the boy, asks a question and Tom answers it, rambling on for nearly the entire hour they have. He will talk so much that sometimes he forgets his food entirely and runs off before Carl can interject. Carl knows he does this on purpose and somewhere deep inside, he appreciates it.
At first they talked about family. And Tom, an only child, was fascinated by Carl’s life of living with so many siblings and his having to take care of his younger brothers. A month went into how different their circumstances were-and that wasn’t always easy.
For each meeting they met here. Tom has a lunch break from class and so does Carl, as Tom started “encouraging” him to attend school-which he does in only bits and pieces but it’s a start. The rule is that they were only allowed to voice three questions each.
He repeats the question, “Why do you prefer to be called Tom, instead of Tommy or Thomas?”
Tom cringes. “Tommy and Thomas aren’t me,” he says at last.
“Whadya mean?”
“Thomas is my father. My real ‘title’ is Thomas Bernard Swale, Jr., but that’s only used on me when I get into serious trouble.”
Carl wants to know what “trouble” means but maintains his silence.
“And Tommy was my nickname when I was a little kid. Back when my parents…”
He trails off then. But Carl and his silence manage to coax out the rest.
“…back when my parents loved me.” Tom finishes quietly.
This triggers a debate on whether or not that statement is accurate. Carl says it isn’t. That his parents have obviously given him so much-good clothes, great education, decent allowance, etc. His own parents have certainly never provided any of the above. Carl thought he was on a roll, until Tom dubiously interjects that his parents wouldn’t let him apply to any college that wasn’t on the east coast.
“No offense to New York or anything Carl, but back then I’d have rather gone to Stanford or Berkeley where my friends-er, friend-is. Not that I wanted to live with my parents mind you, but since my parents are never home nowadays-off on a ‘Spiritual Awakening’ of some sort-I’d rather live at home, in my own room, than with a roommate.
“And as for why Tom, it’s because I chose it. Only one person had ever really called me that before… before I met you. And then it just seemed to stick.”
“Who’s that person?” Carl asks curiously.
A silence falls between the two.
Then Tom, who doesn’t take too well to the quiet, looks down at his textbooks and frowns.
“I love reading and writing.” He says, “That’s a passion of mine. I just don’t like reading this stuff or writing essays.”
With a swoop of his hand he indicates the textbooks that lay listlessly on the ground. He picks up and looks at each with undisguised disgust, the labels including: Gray’s Anatomy, Tractus Logico-Philosophicus, Gödel, Escher, Bach, etc.
“Well, what books do you actually like then?” Carl asks lying down.
“That’s question two and you’re going to think I’m a dork.”
“I already think you’re a dork.”
“This is true,” Tom admits and smiles, because there’s no malice behind it; they’ve been friends long enough now for Tom not to be afraid of Carl’s bodily strength or biting witticism.
“Well, truth be told, I love the classics. Anything fantasy and adventure: Robinson Crusoe, Ivanhoe, The Three Musketeers…”
“And A Wizard’s Companion,” Carl finishes for him, before Tom can go off on another tangent, listing all of his favorite books-which, from the sound of it, could take a while.
Tom freezes.
“I have an identical copy that I brought, wanna see?”
Tom nods slowly, dumbfounded, as the red leather book with a semi torn spine was placed before him. And there it was, written in bold letters across the front, A Wizard’s Companion.
“Have… have you read any of it yet Carl?” Tom asks, resisting the urge to touch it.
Carl shrugs, his eyes averting and effectively evading Tom’s, “Haven’t had the time. But I was hoping… That…that maybe you’d…”
Carl trails off mid sentence.
“That maybe I’d what Carl?” Tom asks patiently.
“That maybe you’d read it to me?” Carl says in such a rush that Tom would have missed it entirely had he not been anticipating the response.
“Why do you want me to read it to you Carl?” Tom questions softly, this was unsteady ground he treaded on and he knew that. “Is it the same reason,” Tom continues quietly, “why you don’t do any of your homework? And throw away all your textbooks?”
This is his question and he already knows the answer.
He can practically see the anger spread throughout Carl, like a match set to gun powder. He awaits the explosion.
And it comes.
Carl is off his back and slamming Tom down against the ground hard in a heartbeat. Tom pinned helplessly beneath him, Carl has one hand held high in the air as a fist and the other he uses to grab Tom’s shirt and pull their faces together.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Carl growls.
Very, very carefully, Tom gently places both his hands on the one Carl is practically choking him with and gives his wrist a squeeze.
Tom’s words are straightforward and kind, “Only that you have trouble with reading.”
“Oh yeah, and what if I do? You think I’m stupid or something?” But Carl’s anger has turned inward.
Like everyone else … he thinks, despondent.
Tom shakes his head as much as Carl’s grip allows him to.
“No,” he says, “Quite the opposite. I think you’re brilliant.”
Carl rolls off him and coils away in shock.
“You’d have to be,” Tom says, “To have that kind of a problem and deal with it as you have. I’ve seen this before.”
Carl is bewildered. He has never heard those kinds of words directed at him before...
Tom, unaware of Carl’s inner thoughts, goes on, “There’s a word for it now, though it’s not well-known. It’s a whole new field of study actually. There’s a bill or something trying to be passed in congress, it’s a few years off from now. But in the mean time there’s some teachers out there who are trying new techniques, some literature. People with your problem go on to become rocket scientists or brain surgeons or…”
Carl interjects, “Tom what is it?”
Tom looks confused for a minute, as if not realizing he hadn’t named what needed naming: “Dyslexia.” He says finally, “I read about it in an article in Reader’s Digest. It just means words and/or numbers get scrambled when you try to read them. But there’s ways to get around it.” He reassures Carl quickly.
“So…what does that mean?”
“It means that I can teach you to read!”
Carl’s look is one of disbelief and then, surprisingly, one of anger.
“What makes you think I want to learn? What-what makes you think I have a problem, or a ‘disorder’?” he sneers at the last word. He is used to being called stupid and lazy and no good. But before now, he’s never heard those words come from Tom.
Tom falls silent and waits.
Carl goes on. “So what if I didn’t speak much when I was a little kid. Parents thought I was born dumb or something.” He frowns. “Once I learned how to talk though,” he reminisces, “I couldn’t stop-at least, not until I realized no one was listening. My report cards always say something like ‘doesn’t live up to potential.’ If I could have done something about it, if I could do better for my family, don’t you think I’d have done it by now? What makes you think I have a chance? What makes you any better?”
Tom’s only reaction is to smile, infuriating Carl even more.
“You think this is funny?”
Tom shakes his head ‘no’. “This is just the first time you’ve shared so much with me. Please, tell me more? And then I'll talk to you about my book, I promise.”
“Tom,” Carl says uneasily. “Lunch break is over.”
“Not today it isn’t,” Tom says firmly. “School doesn’t matter, not if it’s you.”
Carl looks at him a touch fearfully. As far as he knows Tom has perfect attendance. To miss a class for him…
At least five minutes goes by after that, with the trees rustling in the wind, faint honking in the distance, and huge skyscrapers glittering silver above them.
Finally, Carl sees that Tom can’t stand it. But he doesn’t leave; he just takes out one of his textbooks and starts studying. That in itself isn’t unusual-it was the lack of conversation between the two that was strange.
Ten minutes of absolute peace and quiet and Carl is nearly ready to go mad.
“What are you reading?” he blurts out unintentionally.
“I think you’re over your quota for questions today, Carl.” Tom says without looking up, turning a page. Inevitably, a slow smile spreads across his face. “But, if you’re that curious…”
Carl scowls. “You set me up.”
“Maybe, maybe not. What if you really do want to learn to read?”
Carl seems to consider this proposal.
“If you tell me what that book is about, I'll let you teach me how to read.” Carl says.
He feels especially proud when Tom’s face pales.
“If it works, it is true.”
November 1st, 1978
It should’ve been snowing at this time of the year but New York was in the middle of a strange heat wave.
Tom crashes through the trees, textbooks slipping out of his arms, threatening to fall at every step.
He finally stumbles through to a clearing and immediately unburdens himself of the books on the soft grass next to Carl.
“Sorry I’m late,” he gasps in explanation. “I had to stay after class to help clean and then I got this.”
He holds up a brown paper bag patched with grease stains.
Carl still doesn’t say anything until Tom has unloaded the contents of that paper bag-two hamburgers, two sodas, two orders of fries-and afterwards doesn’t say much else except, “Hope you have a healthy appetite.”
He knows Tom will do all the rest of the talking.
“Oh come on Carl!” Tom exasperates. “For the last time, you are not, nor will you ever be, a charity case to me. This is a meal between friends. Next time you can buy if you like.” He sees Tom wince at how slight a chance this was and tries a new excuse, “Besides, I invited you to lunch. If you had invited me it’d be a different story.”
Carl didn’t mention that they did this daily. That this is the same old argument they’ve been having for weeks. Someday, he would pay, he swore it-Tom just wouldn’t allow him to buy him anything if it came from stealing-but for now…
He reaches for a burger. “Why do you prefer to be called Tom?”
“Excuse me?”
This is also a normal routine. Carl, driven in his quest to know more about the boy, asks a question and Tom answers it, rambling on for nearly the entire hour they have. He will talk so much that sometimes he forgets his food entirely and runs off before Carl can interject. Carl knows he does this on purpose and somewhere deep inside, he appreciates it.
At first they talked about family. And Tom, an only child, was fascinated by Carl’s life of living with so many siblings and his having to take care of his younger brothers. A month went into how different their circumstances were-and that wasn’t always easy.
For each meeting they met here. Tom has a lunch break from class and so does Carl, as Tom started “encouraging” him to attend school-which he does in only bits and pieces but it’s a start. The rule is that they were only allowed to voice three questions each.
He repeats the question, “Why do you prefer to be called Tom, instead of Tommy or Thomas?”
Tom cringes. “Tommy and Thomas aren’t me,” he says at last.
“Whadya mean?”
“Thomas is my father. My real ‘title’ is Thomas Bernard Swale, Jr., but that’s only used on me when I get into serious trouble.”
Carl wants to know what “trouble” means but maintains his silence.
“And Tommy was my nickname when I was a little kid. Back when my parents…”
He trails off then. But Carl and his silence manage to coax out the rest.
“…back when my parents loved me.” Tom finishes quietly.
This triggers a debate on whether or not that statement is accurate. Carl says it isn’t. That his parents have obviously given him so much-good clothes, great education, decent allowance, etc. His own parents have certainly never provided any of the above. Carl thought he was on a roll, until Tom dubiously interjects that his parents wouldn’t let him apply to any college that wasn’t on the east coast.
“No offense to New York or anything Carl, but back then I’d have rather gone to Stanford or Berkeley where my friends-er, friend-is. Not that I wanted to live with my parents mind you, but since my parents are never home nowadays-off on a ‘Spiritual Awakening’ of some sort-I’d rather live at home, in my own room, than with a roommate.
“And as for why Tom, it’s because I chose it. Only one person had ever really called me that before… before I met you. And then it just seemed to stick.”
“Who’s that person?” Carl asks curiously.
A silence falls between the two.
Then Tom, who doesn’t take too well to the quiet, looks down at his textbooks and frowns.
“I love reading and writing.” He says, “That’s a passion of mine. I just don’t like reading this stuff or writing essays.”
With a swoop of his hand he indicates the textbooks that lay listlessly on the ground. He picks up and looks at each with undisguised disgust, the labels including: Gray’s Anatomy, Tractus Logico-Philosophicus, Gödel, Escher, Bach, etc.
“Well, what books do you actually like then?” Carl asks lying down.
“That’s question two and you’re going to think I’m a dork.”
“I already think you’re a dork.”
“This is true,” Tom admits and smiles, because there’s no malice behind it; they’ve been friends long enough now for Tom not to be afraid of Carl’s bodily strength or biting witticism.
“Well, truth be told, I love the classics. Anything fantasy and adventure: Robinson Crusoe, Ivanhoe, The Three Musketeers…”
“And A Wizard’s Companion,” Carl finishes for him, before Tom can go off on another tangent, listing all of his favorite books-which, from the sound of it, could take a while.
Tom freezes.
“I have an identical copy that I brought, wanna see?”
Tom nods slowly, dumbfounded, as the red leather book with a semi torn spine was placed before him. And there it was, written in bold letters across the front, A Wizard’s Companion.
“Have… have you read any of it yet Carl?” Tom asks, resisting the urge to touch it.
Carl shrugs, his eyes averting and effectively evading Tom’s, “Haven’t had the time. But I was hoping… That…that maybe you’d…”
Carl trails off mid sentence.
“That maybe I’d what Carl?” Tom asks patiently.
“That maybe you’d read it to me?” Carl says in such a rush that Tom would have missed it entirely had he not been anticipating the response.
“Why do you want me to read it to you Carl?” Tom questions softly, this was unsteady ground he treaded on and he knew that. “Is it the same reason,” Tom continues quietly, “why you don’t do any of your homework? And throw away all your textbooks?”
This is his question and he already knows the answer.
He can practically see the anger spread throughout Carl, like a match set to gun powder. He awaits the explosion.
And it comes.
Carl is off his back and slamming Tom down against the ground hard in a heartbeat. Tom pinned helplessly beneath him, Carl has one hand held high in the air as a fist and the other he uses to grab Tom’s shirt and pull their faces together.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Carl growls.
Very, very carefully, Tom gently places both his hands on the one Carl is practically choking him with and gives his wrist a squeeze.
Tom’s words are straightforward and kind, “Only that you have trouble with reading.”
“Oh yeah, and what if I do? You think I’m stupid or something?” But Carl’s anger has turned inward.
Like everyone else … he thinks, despondent.
Tom shakes his head as much as Carl’s grip allows him to.
“No,” he says, “Quite the opposite. I think you’re brilliant.”
Carl rolls off him and coils away in shock.
“You’d have to be,” Tom says, “To have that kind of a problem and deal with it as you have. I’ve seen this before.”
Carl is bewildered. He has never heard those kinds of words directed at him before...
Tom, unaware of Carl’s inner thoughts, goes on, “There’s a word for it now, though it’s not well-known. It’s a whole new field of study actually. There’s a bill or something trying to be passed in congress, it’s a few years off from now. But in the mean time there’s some teachers out there who are trying new techniques, some literature. People with your problem go on to become rocket scientists or brain surgeons or…”
Carl interjects, “Tom what is it?”
Tom looks confused for a minute, as if not realizing he hadn’t named what needed naming: “Dyslexia.” He says finally, “I read about it in an article in Reader’s Digest. It just means words and/or numbers get scrambled when you try to read them. But there’s ways to get around it.” He reassures Carl quickly.
“So…what does that mean?”
“It means that I can teach you to read!”
Carl’s look is one of disbelief and then, surprisingly, one of anger.
“What makes you think I want to learn? What-what makes you think I have a problem, or a ‘disorder’?” he sneers at the last word. He is used to being called stupid and lazy and no good. But before now, he’s never heard those words come from Tom.
Tom falls silent and waits.
Carl goes on. “So what if I didn’t speak much when I was a little kid. Parents thought I was born dumb or something.” He frowns. “Once I learned how to talk though,” he reminisces, “I couldn’t stop-at least, not until I realized no one was listening. My report cards always say something like ‘doesn’t live up to potential.’ If I could have done something about it, if I could do better for my family, don’t you think I’d have done it by now? What makes you think I have a chance? What makes you any better?”
Tom’s only reaction is to smile, infuriating Carl even more.
“You think this is funny?”
Tom shakes his head ‘no’. “This is just the first time you’ve shared so much with me. Please, tell me more? And then I'll talk to you about my book, I promise.”
“Tom,” Carl says uneasily. “Lunch break is over.”
“Not today it isn’t,” Tom says firmly. “School doesn’t matter, not if it’s you.”
Carl looks at him a touch fearfully. As far as he knows Tom has perfect attendance. To miss a class for him…
At least five minutes goes by after that, with the trees rustling in the wind, faint honking in the distance, and huge skyscrapers glittering silver above them.
Finally, Carl sees that Tom can’t stand it. But he doesn’t leave; he just takes out one of his textbooks and starts studying. That in itself isn’t unusual-it was the lack of conversation between the two that was strange.
Ten minutes of absolute peace and quiet and Carl is nearly ready to go mad.
“What are you reading?” he blurts out unintentionally.
“I think you’re over your quota for questions today, Carl.” Tom says without looking up, turning a page. Inevitably, a slow smile spreads across his face. “But, if you’re that curious…”
Carl scowls. “You set me up.”
“Maybe, maybe not. What if you really do want to learn to read?”
Carl seems to consider this proposal.
“If you tell me what that book is about, I'll let you teach me how to read.” Carl says.
He feels especially proud when Tom’s face pales.