His Father's Son
No Sacrifice, No Victory
Transformers OST
Steve Jablonsky
Rap of knuckles on glass interrupts a relaxing symphony, warning of father's arrival, John entering his room without permission just as he did decades ago. Greg rolls to the other side, covers tangling round his legs. "Hey."
"Greg." John almost salutes, noise from his person like nuts and bolts in a closed, rhythmically shaken box.
"What's that?"
"Something to help pass the time."
The 'something' lands on the table with a dull ta-dum, table itself rolled over.
Lowering the rail out of way John sits across Greg, by his knees. "Open it." He instructs impatiently anxious.
Greg pushes himself higher on the bed, hands seeking the mysterious object. He finds a flat acrylic rectangle, one by two by four in relative size, its top a latticework of shallow, perpendicular grooves that outline alternating smooth and sanded squares. Thumbs stumble upon round dents at the thirds of the front side, pushing the chest open against the resistance of magnetic seals. Inside, three canvas sacks of differing size are rough under his fingertips, each a treasure trove of jangling chips.
Pulling open the drawstring of the smallest one, Greg digs in the pile of thick coins, half of them with ridged circumferences and half without, both having the edge raised on one and lowered on the other side to allow stacking of pawns into queens. Putting the sack aside he takes the next one in size, its content also two sets, differentiated not ribs but by whether the chess pieces have their symbols in raised or lowered relief. Finally, the largest one holds chips smooth on one and sanded on the other side, made for reversi.
Hands come around the sack in a shaky grip interrupted by occasional fidget.
"Greg?" John clasps his left. "You all right?"
Junior nods unconvincingly. "Yeah, I- It's just… Not used to good surprises." Voice unsteady but holding.
"Well get used to it." John jostles his hand. "Come on, black or white?"
Greg scowls, at a loss. "Which one's white?"
"Oh for Christ's sake, just pick one." John growls with overly dramatic exasperation.
Grabing a fistful of chips, Greg turns the board over and arranges four in the center, setting up a match. He plays first, the only move that can be played if one really thinks about it, and leaves the choice of game style to father's counter move.
John takes Greg's hand and, placing a piece in it, guides it to his chosen square. "Remember how we used to play when you were a kid?" He ventures into distant past.
"You taught me." Greg nods. "Tried to prepare me for marines."
"Did any of it help?" The question is desperately hopeful.
"I learned to keep the whole situation in mind." He admits. "All the elements and their progress. Very useful in diagnostics."
"Anything else helped you?" John urges him on. "In or out of prison."
"That." He nods at the player still pouring unassuming melodies from its small speaker.
"Realy." John reins in his disbelief, waiting for elaboration.
"Bad things happening to me tend to be physical. Music is anything but. It's an escape."
"Guess I shouldn't have discouraged your mother's piano lessons." John mutters.
"You wanted to make me strong." Greg sounds understanding if not outright forgiving.
"Did I?"
Greg places a piece on the edge, flipping a row of chips to his possession, searching for the right words. "You wanted me solid, firm." He finally speaks. "If I were like that, I'd have snapped long ago."
"To bend but not to break." Come the words of acceptance.
Greg nods.
"Than its good you didn't yield to me." The words are carefully chosen, preserving good intentions yet being reconciliatory.
"It's strange…" Greg half snorts. "Your sanctions trained me do without, overcome pain, delay responses till its safe to vent."
"At least something came of it." John grunts, playing to claim a bunch of Greg's pieces in a number of direction, touching each with junior's fingers.
"I also figured life is like this." Greg nods at the board. "Turning upside down unexpectedly." He takes the corner, retaliating. "From geek to team captain, athlete to cripple, top student thrown out for college, betrayal by a loved one, getting the best job in the world, pissing off a monster, rescued when I gave up..."
Suddenly a foreboding melody begins: shrill of strings, brooding basses, stressful percussions and eerie, monotone vocal.
"The hell is that?" John's voice is unnerved.
"That's how it felt like." Greg faces the device, words barely discernable.
Senior falls silent, letting the piece get to him with all its disconcerting power.
When it blends to a calmer song, the two continue playing, nothing of importance spoken. Eventually Greg wins, John promising a rematch as they gather up the stuff. Case set on the nightstand, they bid each other goodnight.
Just as the doors open Greg clears his throat. "Dad. You did all right."