Dada: Chapter 14c

    It's beautiful.
    Even with the sky clouding over from yesterday's storm system (it just missed here) and the shadows from trees I don't remember seeing when I went around the house, enough sunlight filters in so that I can see the bookcases.  On every wall, save the windows and the other door.  I expected to see mostly coffee table-sized art books, but I'm wrong.  I quick look shows novels upon novels.  Wharton.  Steinbeck.  Hemingway.  All first editions, I'm sure.  Some older classics, reprints.  There are even some free-standing shelves strewn about, about five feet tall.  The closest one has children's books.   A mix of standard picture books are on one side.  On the other, older fare.  The complete Harry Potter is on the top row.  Beneath is what appears an a complete set of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew.  Many of them look to be early editions too.  My mom tried to get me to read them when I was growing up, but I could never get into them.  Especially Nancy Drew.  I guess it's just the typical young boy dislike of 'girly' stuff.
   In the center of the room is the desk.  It is a modern hulk, all metal and plastic.  Somehow, it doesn't look out of place in here.  It has a Mac set-up that I have only seen on televise, including a giant printer.  It could spit out full-sized reproductions of paintings.  Inside the three-sided configuration is an ergonomically designed padded swivel chair.  Custom made, has to be.  I sit down in it and take a few spins, until I get just shy of dizzy.
    On my last spin, I notice something behind the door I used to enter.  I get up to take a look at an easel with a painting on it.  I guess it makes sense.  With every square inch of wall space taken over by floor to ceiling bookcases, where else could one put a picture.
    At first glance, I almost mistake it for one of those Moses primitives, but the subject matter is anything but.  In the foreground is a bright blue car.  It looks kind of like my mom's old Baretta she had traded in when I was about five.  I can't really remember it, and my knowledge of cars isn't worth much, but it reminds me of it.  Behind it is a long line of cars, as in a parking lot, save that it's unpaved.  On the right, I see the hints of small shacks, like in a flea market.  A few people dart about carrying bags, but none have great detail.  The painting appears to be in oils, but I'm finding it hard to tell.  A very thin layer of dust is just barely covering the top.  Looks like the painting has been here for a few week, maybe longer, undisturbed.
    I breathe in the lingering scents of old books, fresh paint, and unused electronics.  A trace of a musk, with a hint of fruitiness, hits my nose.  Probably my dad's cologne.  I take it in.  All of it.
I love it.
    I go back to the desk and sit.  I wonder how to turn on all of this.  I can't eve begin to guess what I can find on here.  This set-up might just be too much for me to figure out.  Who knows what he put on here.  Maybe I shouldn't even try.  He could have had student records here.  No, more likely those would be at his office.  Still, there could be things that I will need to know, financial records and such.    There might be worse.  My mom warned me about things, but I have seen nothing that would prove anything.  Yet.
    I look over the all but empty desktop for any clues about what to do, but nothing jumps out at me.  I just keep staring at the same things over and over again, trying to get a feel about my father.  I get the feeling that I'm missing something obvious.  I yawn, as I settle back into the relative comfort of the big soft chair. I begin to nod off.
    "ARGHHH.  HELP!"