Two way education

Not for the first time Eric finds himself helping out his land lord with his computer.

“There, now you’re back online. Just remember to dial up before accessing your inbox or starting Explorer,” I grin as I turn to John. He notices, and gives me his usual frown.

“Bah, alright alright. I easily forget things. Me and computers, you know.”

I knew. I had been his personal computer consultant for about a year now; sometimes not required for months but recently two or three times a week as he was using his computer more.

“Now that you’re here you might as well write a couple of letters for me.”
I smile again. When he called me he always mentioned only one or two things that he couldn’t handle, but more often than not I ended up writing emails or browsing sites for him once those first problems were fixed.

“Alright, but I only got half an hour.” I’d have to stay for at least two unless I expressed otherwise clearly.

“You youngsters, always running about, but alright, if you say so.” I was surprised he gave in that easily, before figuring he probably had plans of his own. I made sure not to ask.

At 64 John Burton was still very vital. Looking after his estates, often more carefully than his tenants would’ve preferred, bossing around his groundskeeper and browsing the web for potential partners. After three weeks with him as land lord I was sure he was an ex military of some kind, and alas, it was not surprising when he first told me he long served as captain in the Swedish army. One could tell by his formal speech, strict schedule and very, let’s say immodest opinions on politics and various aspects of foreign cultures. I had no idea how much mischief the Muslims were up to until I got to know John. It’s chocking, really.

“Just double click on the message itself like this and then click reply, this way you’ll never have to remember anyone’s address,” I repeat what I’ve instructed him on at least two other occasions.

“You know I did write you those step by step instruc-“

“Look! See Eric? It’s Stefan,” John blurts out as his full time tenant and part time janitor Stefan is seen through the window on the road passing by the house.

“Ehm, yeah, I’m acquainted with Stefan.”

“Yeah but what did I tell you about unemployed people? Huh? Look at Stefan here now, anyone can see he’s unemployed. Look at his crooked back, sloppy posture, dragging his feet behind him,” John continues, obviously not too fond of his janitor.

“Well he’s not fully unemployed, you do keep him busy with all sorts of things around here,” I object, not resisting provoking him a little.

“Oh come on, I mean a real job, not the silly chores he does around here. He’s good for plowing snow and that’s about it. Don’t you tell me otherwise young man.”

“Alright alright,” I give in, not wanting to go there after all.

“About these step by step instructions,” I continue, wanting to get back on track. “I did print them for you last time I was here,” I smile and turn to John, curious to see how he’ll react.

“Well, perhaps you did. God knows where that paper went. Hmm, Nora must’ve misplaced it. Yes, no doubt. She’s always in here messing up my office,” John objects, now restlessly tapping the desk with his hand.

I hold back a chuckle, not surprised he’s blaming his girlfriend. Not the most humble man it’s always a treat observing John whenever he’s forced to owe up to a mistake. He most often blames someone else. Not seldom Nora. Or Stefan. Finding himself out argued in a discussion he’d always end it abruptly, claiming he doesn’t want to quarrel.

”She’s quite the disaster with papers, that one,” I reply. John pretends not to have noticed my jab, frowns and looks back at the screen to again switch our focus on why I was there in the first place.

“I’ll print these instructions now. I’ll make two copies and put one right here next to the keyboard and the other on the printer, don’t miss-“

“There, look! See, Eric!?” John jumps out of his chair, again pointing out the window. I lean forward and turn my head to spot a woman hurrying past on the road outside. “Yes?”

“Oh don’t tell me you can’t notice. Just look at her!” John turns to me with a frown before again observing the woman. “Her head high, back straight, no sloping shoulders,” John again turns to me while waving his hand in her general direction, his excitement obvious. “Look at that little strut of hers. And what posture, what tempo! Now this woman, this woman Eric. This woman’s employed!”

André Söderholm