Along the Way: Short Stories: Humor and Challenges

By Paul Phillips

Told with humor and style, author Paul Phillips offers a collection of short memoirs in Along the Way. He begins with a description of the struggles of a sixty year-old when the computerization of his office forces him to learn how to type. He eventually joins an online course designed to teach young children, but he cant keep up with the programs green alligator.

In Along the Way, Phillips narrates a story from the beginning of his adult life, a trip to a draft board physical where he meets two of the few the Army rejects. He also tells of becoming involved--involuntarily--in an informal fishing competition with a famous athlete. Next, he watches a future political star and his soon-to-be wife put on a professional quality dance exhibition at a college prom chaperoned by nuns. Later, Phillips company sends him on trips to Japan where a WWII Japanese Navy pilot challenges him to eat a live prawn. Then a Japanese family confiscates his clothes while he is taking a bath at the beginning of a real Japanese weekend.

This collection shares a variety of stories from his life, including descriptions of his last day at work, unusual encounters while dining out, experiences at college reunions, and anecdotes about simple incidents he experienced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480820371

Paul Phillips

Paul Phillips is the Gretchen B. Kimball Director of Orchestral Studies and Associate Professor of Music at Stanford University. He is the author of A Clockwork Counterpoint: The Music and Literature of Anthony Burgess, published in 2010, and essays on Burgess published in six other books, including the Norton Critical Edition of A Clockwork Orange. He has led performances of many Burgess compositions in concert, including numerous premieres, and conducted the first commercial recording of Burgess's orchestral music, released by Naxos in 2016.

Book preview

LEARNING TO TYPE AT SIXTY

When I approached my desk that day in 1994, the sight of a large computer monitor on top of it shocked me. Overnight and without notice, management had personal-computerized the office. Younger co-workers cheered and slapped high fives, shouting, Finally, we’re getting our own PCs! But I remained silent. Yes, having a desktop meant immediate access to stock prices and research, but it would also bring a cascade of e-mails that all would require responses. Throughout a career of over thirty-five years in investment management, I had been spoiled—first by typing pools and later by secretaries. Now it seemed that my decision to take metal shop in high school instead of typing had finally caught up with me. The ability to type had instantly changed from being mildly helpful to a being a necessity.

A search for typing schools in the Yellow Pages produced nothing. Next, I phoned a local adult-education program and learned from a clerk that they offered no typing courses. But we do teach keyboarding, he said, which is really the same thing.

One week later, in a classroom at a nearby vocational school, the teacher greeted us with Welcome to keyboarding. I hope we get a few more students; otherwise, the administration may cancel this session. Looking around, I noticed that most of the typists-to-be were women in their middle years, including one with dark hair, olive skin, and a subtle smile. The one other man, forty-something with a receding hairline, quit immediately after learning the course actually taught typing.

Oh, I already know how to type, he announced. I thought that this class would teach me how to play a musical instrument.

The administration decided to start the course with only seven students. The crisis intensified as others, one by one, including the Mona Lisa, dropped out for undeclared reasons. Within two weeks, the enrollment had declined to two: me and a young woman who lived with her parents. Her father apparently disliked her boyfriend. She would arrive on time with the boyfriend, leave after five minutes, and return just before the class ended with disheveled hair and a sly smile. I spent the two hours focused on the screen, typing sophisticated combinations like AAA, BBb, aaa, and bBb.

I arrived at work a half hour early each day in order to practice. One morning, two friends came over.

Hey, Paul, we didn’t know you could type, said one. What’re you working on? They saw R, R, r, r, R, r, t, t, T and convulsed with laughter.

After six weeks, I completed the course, but I still couldn’t type. I described my frustration at a family dinner, and my fifteen-year-old niece responded with Oh, we learned to keyboard online after school, in between piano lessons and swim-team practice. I thought, Online. That’s a good idea.

Following a limited research effort, I signed up for a course named Keyboarding Deluxe Series 11. The first screen startled me, as the striking image of a grinning, middle-aged woman exploded onto the monitor, accompanied by loud, martial music. The woman tutored us through the registration process. The first question asked, Are you 8–10, 11–12, 13–15, or 16 or older? I clicked the box for 16 or older. The second question was, What is your goal for this course in terms of words per minute? I punched in 30 wpm. The instructor chided back that 30 wpm was too modest a goal for someone as old as sixteen. I raised my objective to 40 wpm.

A test followed every lesson. If you flunked, she sent you back to the prior lesson. At regular intervals, the instruction stopped, and a cheerful voice announced, It is now time play a game. A kelly-green alligator appeared, eating letters as fast as I could type them, while a happy tune played in the background. Every time a letter entered the gator’s big jaws, his biting speed increased. I cursed at that alligator often. At the end of each game, the woman showed me my score. I never won, and while this recreational break may have benefited my eight-year-old classmates, I hated it.

Now, more than twenty years later, by the most liberal of standards, I can type—or rather, I can keyboard. On a good day, I think my speed approaches 30 wpm.

THE TWO GUYS FROM ADAMS

The Korean War had ended four years earlier, but the draft remained active. During my senior year at college, I received orders for a pre-induction physical for the army. I was one of dozens of soldiers-to-be on the chartered bus to Springfield, Massachusetts. Those who passed would soon be in basic training.

The bus made stops at small-town post offices along the route. Two men climbed aboard at Adams. One was built like a boxer; he wore a dark-blue overcoat with a turned-up collar—and a scowl. The other was pale and red-haired. He sat down next to me and told me his name was Roger and that he worked in a mill. Then he whispered hesitantly, I want to join up. I’ve never been away from Adams.

I thought, You’re the only one here who does. I didn’t mind the prospect of entering the service, but I was hoping to join the navy’s flight-training program. Serving as a buck private in the army held little appeal.

When the bus arrived at the armory, a soldier directed us to a meeting room. At the conference table, by chance, I sat between the two guys from Adams. A thin African-American sergeant stood up front, holding a questionnaire that we were to fill out. Now, I’m going to repeat everything twice, he snarled. I’m going to repeat everything twice. He then proceeded to go through the questions. The first, about age and address, required no explanation, but he paused at number fourteen. It asked your father’s age. If you don’t know your father’s age, add twenty to your age, he said and went on to number sixteen, skipping number fifteen.

Halfway through, he asked if there were any questions. Roger raised his hand. I knew this wouldn’t be good. The sergeant ordered him to stand up. Roger stammered, Ah, ah, what do you do if you don’t know your mother’s age? He blushed, but no one laughed.

Same as fourteen, the sergeant muttered and clenched his fist.

The sergeant became even more agitated when we reached the final question. He said this was a hard one, so he would repeat it three times. Have you ever been turned down for military service? His face contorted as he yelled, "Now listen and listen good. This doesn’t ask if you’ve been turned down for West Point, Annapolis, or even for the regular services like the navy, air force, marines, or the coast guard. This is just the draft! You got that? This is just the