The Enthusiasts

9

Emerson learned early on that he had a knack for making the impossible, possible – which hardened his later understanding that the word had no real meaning. There were no fixed rules around anything, including physicality, even if that concept was incapable of being fully processed by the human brain which is composed of the same material in question. If something is impossible, then it's impossible (unsolvable, incapable of being overcome, however you want to say it). 'You can't program ISS protocols without first knowing the origin code'; 'You can't create a program that can create a more advanced program'; and 'You can't monitor a ghost protocol without first tracing the Pat-Ch ID'; were all obstacles which Emerson's contemporaries demanded to be called impossible, yet time and time again, Emerson had proven their assumptions to be erroneous..

He recalled his mother's retelling of a story for the umpteenth time about how he was a genius boy. Almost discarding the idea that he still might be one, The Boy she spoke of most certainly seemed smarter than he had been at any age. She would playfully tease that he "had the persistence of a Monday with the patience of a chessboard."

His mother had been flabbergasted upon returning home from work one day to the sixty-seven-year-old retiree babysitter from down the hall she'd pleaded with to watch Emerson when taking an extra shift at the seedy Crypto Bank of Commerce off 32nd, her second job. The widowed pensioner seemed perplexed when informing her that Emerson had refused to eat all day, or do anything else for that matter, with the exception of putting together a one-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle that had been meticulously assembled on the kitchen table before her. Emerson had just affixed the last piece into the mosaic which collectively appeared as the extinct landmark of Cinque Terre, in ancient Italy. As she walked through the door, for the first time that day little Emerson Myshkin stopped, took a deep breath of self-accomplishment, and looked up at his mom with a satisfaction bigger than she'd ever known. He was four years old. Though Emerson vaguely remembered the event, he never told his mother the part that stuck out for him, which was that the smile he had on his face wasn't because he had accomplished his ambitious goal for the day; rather, he smiled because this was the moment he had committed himself to making life better for her. That four-year-old had looked down at his accomplishment, knowing that he wouldn't rest until he'd created a better life for his mother who he knew worked too hard to support him by taking on countless part-time jobs to keep him clothed and fed. She would share that memory and others with him whenever she heard or sensed him growing with frustration on a problem he was studying, whenever he may have wanted to just give up. Persistence seemed to be the theme of his life as he continually surprised himself, often coinciding with his professors' own astonishment. Later in life, fellow colleagues also revered his tenacity when climbing up the intellectual ladder. It was such an exciting time in the reemerging field of computer sciences. With each revelation, his resolve to stick with the problem hardened to the point where he was able to completely expel any doubt that the answer to any problem existed. Solutions were deeply bashful, he understood, and would only reveal their equations to the patient, quiet, caring mind. Answers were like timid strangers who were privately seeking each other out as a soulmate. They were exhilarated, always returning the affection of a focused observer remaining in a state of unwavering, meticulous pursuit. Before his mother's passing, he had committed most of her anecdotes to memory. He favored the ones she told about him, though not from a place of self-indulgent conceit. He simply felt closer to her when he imagined the words coming from her, joining their souls from across the void.

In reflection, he knew that persistence and patience far outweighed intelligence when it came to problem-solving. Patience can be a very difficult thing to make time for when you feel under pressure to perform. But for Emerson patience seemed joyful, like how the journey to a destination can be more fun than actually arriving there. There was no frustration when you knew the answer was coming. For Emerson, the answers to tough questions were always guaranteed. They weren't even questions to him; they were just detours to enjoy. Regardless of what the world around him said, inside there was no rush.