If there’s one topic you’re dreading even more than mortality, fresh off our grim double feature from last week, it’s probably ping-pong. We’ve managed to avoid the topic for two weeks, but you knew in your heart of hearts the hiatus wouldn’t last. Well, guess what? Party ends tonight. In the past few days, I’ve been poring over the storefronts of various ping-pong suppliers–which, yes, exist–in a search for answers. I need to reconstruct my paddle, and only the finest materials will suffice.
“Finest” isn’t the correct word. When I read that sentence aloud, for instance, I picture the kind of paddle Kanye would likely commission: a 48k whalebone affair encrusted in blood diamonds and the hair of newborn chinchillas. No, the better word is “right.” I need to locate the right materials. Best guess is I bought the paddle in 1997. That’s almost 15 years ago, and when equipment reaches that milestone intact, a second chance seems entirely reasonable.
My guidelines for vetting products are simple. Certainly I’m looking for reliability and the consensus of favorable peer reviews. But more than that, I’ve noticed a hearty strain of protectionism running through my selection criteria. Rubber sheets are being sorted by country of origin, in other words, rather than by customer rating. No way around it, really. Consider the “Double Happiness” brand–well-received, apparently, but the blatant Engrish led to some evocative imagery, like a wretched farmer tapping Commie sap from a Commie tree. With few, if any, options to buy American, it may be time to go Swedish. Upon further reflection, I suppose that’s more racist than protectionist.
The prospect of actually replacing the rubber is daunting, frankly, especially after I pulled up the listing for the recommended knife. Friggin’ thing is basically a scalpel, which freaked me out just a little bit. Browsing through the various glues on offer also yielded a fair number of horror stories, where beloved blades were utterly destroyed after just one application. I’m currently at a crossroads, and I’m leaning more toward selecting the rubber, then outsourcing the assembly to more capable hands. Yeah, it’d be neat to learn how to replace all this myself, but that said, I’m not embarking on an incredible journey of self-discovery here. I simply want to have two pieces of rubber glued and cut competently to a plank of wood.
Nine hours. It took me nine hours to write 16 words on a Hallmark card, and it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. Now, this isn’t to say it was nine solid hours–that would’ve been just a tiny bit insane–but the damn card sat on my desk for most of the workday. I’d look at it, cook up a sentence, and then scrap everything, only to start all over again. Rinse. Repeat. At about 5:50 PM, the right words finally struck, and by 6 PM the sealed envelope went down the mail chute. That was that–the end to a chapter and a topic we hopefully won’t soon revisit.
What I want to discuss instead tonight is money, specifically the saving thereof. It’s traditionally been difficult for me. The long-term savings habits have been easy, strangely enough. I’m talking 401(k), IRA, FSA, and even the occasional tithe. But when it comes to liquid cash, I find it mysteriously turns into Blu-rays, burritos, video games, movie tickets, and things of that nature in short order. But something’s changed in the past few months. There’s been a Renaissance in personal money management, and I suspect video games–yes, video games–are to blame.
I remember one game in particular. Apparently it saw some mainstream coverage on Ellen and The View, so you may have even heard of it. Anyway, it was about a year or two ago, in the wee hours of the morning, when I noticed a curious phenomenon. I’m a certifiable miser in video games! It’s, like, rather than spend my hard-earned bottle caps (the currency of a post-apocalyptic America, obviously) on provisions at the general store, I’ll forage for candy bars and shotgun shells, thank you very much. It’s an odd mindset that draws from a “you against the world” mentality–a world of irradiated mutants, in this case–along with the fun of watching the money counter rise. There’s just something appealing about hearing a “cha-ching!” sound effect, followed by a whirring of numbers.
I’ve been taking the same approach to my savings account. The goal is simple, really. Make the counter go up by ferrying as much money as I can from my checking account, a virtual battleground where American Express, HOA fees, utility bills, and insurance premiums all seek blood on a monthly basis. Instead of violence, I’ve learned frugality from video games, and we’ll see whether this will be sustainable. If nothing else, I’ll be well-prepared for when nuclear winter invariably hits. You’ll know where to find me: high ground with clear, defensible sightlines against zombies, and a supply of dried rat meat. Also, a shitload of bottle caps.
There are two things I must write tonight. The first is the splendor of paragraphs you see before you, so behold, I guess. The second is something I’ve been putting off again and again today: a meaningful line or two in a condolences card bound for Taiwan, a paper proxy equipped with a check to help defray funeral expenses. My grandfather passed away last week, and since then I’ve been sorting out my own jumble of thoughts, trying to parse the significance of the event and my reactions to it.
I found out on Friday, shortly after stepping into the office–miraculously–at 8 AM on the dot. It was a random Gmail login. A single unread e-mail in my inbox entitled “Grandpa,” and frankly I knew what it contained before I even clicked. It was a brief e-mail, terse and polite, the tone I’ve come to expect from my own dad. 45 words across two lines, dense with facts: grandpa had died at a ripe old age of 94, and grandma’s in the hospital. I also gathered from my father’s reference to “afternoon” that he is still overseas.
I read the e-mail twice, then attempted to digest the news. I asked my boss for some time off for funeral arrangements, and that was that. “Bought the farm” was the phrase I used, and I remember thinking how there were so many better ways I could’ve expressed myself. Spoke about it to nobody else. My aim wasn’t to curry sympathy, after all, but simply to set aside some time. A few hours later, as I was looking into how to expedite passport renewal, I received another e-mail from my old man. There wasn’t any need to hop on a plane, he said. A card would be enough. You may think this sounds tacky and inappropriate, but let me assure you we’re more than a few standard deviations from the norm here. I knew to take a literal reading of his e-mail, because if I were to show up anyway as a surprise, it wouldn’t be pretty.
And honestly? I’m relieved. Part of the reason is that I’m not really tight with that branch of the family tree. Estranged would be a far more accurate term. I wasn’t close with my grandfather, and the sad fact of the matter is I’m at a loss to regale you with any extended narratives about grandfatherly interactions. No fishing, no catch, no learning how to ride a bike. Instead, I have these snapshots in my mind. How he loved mahjong. Tried some corned beef hash once, then proceeded to vigorously spit it out. I remember setting off firecrackers with him. How he agonized over death. He had a tendency to sleep in a darkened room for the majority of the day, only to reemerge for meals or a late-night mahjong gathering. I remember when he was visiting the States once: it was a rainy grade school afternoon, and after tracking some mud into the house, I took a few Bounties to my mess to his considerable approbation.
We weren’t close, but familial bonds are primordial. They run deep. And while I’ve yet to shed any tears, a great sadness weighs upon me. I’ve found myself staring off into nowhere these past few days, wondering how I could’ve acted differently, whether I will act differently in the future, and how I should recalibrate my notions of what’s truly important. But most of all, it’s the finality of it. He’s gone. If I want to know him better at this point, I have but memory and hearsay left. For that, I am supremely apologetic.