Kenneth Findlay, Dorky Teen

San Andres, California. Not to be confused with the San Andres Mountains, either San Andrés in both Spain and Mexico, or god forbid San Andreas. Originally founded by Spanish colonizers, it has been abandoned, rebuilt again during the gold rush, abandoned, rebuilt again during the dust bowl, and abandoned once more. Nowadays, you'll find it's a humble suburban community. It has finally found a modern purpose in catering to the many Californians seeking to leave the overpriced housing of the larger metropolitan areas of the state. Situated near Sacramento, and within easy driving distance of the city, it has become a place where many a government employee can rest their tired eyes after a long day of not really working all that much.

Which readily explains why you grew up here. The son of a government employee, you've lived your whole life in this annoyingly picturesque suburban town. The only saving grace of the nothing town you live in is that you have two In-N-Outs, which to be fair is pretty great. Your father, on the other hand, is the exact opposite of two In-N-Outs. He might as well be the platonic ideal of a feckless bureaucrat, having built a career pushing paperwork at the DMV. The DMV, of all places!

Not that life is all bad; while you're still a few months away from the end of your four year sentence to the insultingly bland Jefferson High School, you are turning eighteen today, which at the very least means you'll soon have the legal standing to say goodbye to this town. Yes, in almost no time at all, you'll be driving the Camry Hybrid you got for your seventeenth birthday out of this dump; fleeing the banality of a suburban existence for a fancy college down south, ready to fill your head with knowledge and your resume with a degree. And as much as you would love that degree to be in something fun and exciting like Game Design or Marine Biology, you're pretty sure you're going to major in Civil Engineering.

Truly, the blood of a civil servant pumps in your heart.

But for now, you've got a grandpa to visit. As is tradition for you on your birthday, you're heading over to Grampa Ryan's house to receive your present. Grampa always gave the best gifts, of course, not that you have much family to measure him against. After all, your father was an only child, your Mom has been missing since you were a boy, and Grannie's been gone for a few years now. It's just you, Dad, and Grampa now holding on to the Findlay name, something that Grampa has an annoying habit of bringing up whenever he's around your home.

That aside, you can't help but have a bit of childish excitement over what your gift is going to be this year. Last year, Grampa got you the aforementioned car, paid in full, and his gifts in the years before that were no less expensive. While you've been curious occasionally, you've never bothered digging into exactly where he got his money from, but you know the old man is loaded, something you've certainly benefitted from in the past. One of the upsides of being an only child (and an only grandchild at that), is that when Grampa wants to spoil someone, he's going to be spoiling you.

You take a moment to look at yourself in the rear-view mirror as you pull up to his place. You love looking at the new hair cut you just got yesterday; your short, swept back hair made you look older, and the fade on the sides should look good alongside the short beard you're growing; though, of course, the fact that your hair was such a bright blond made it a little tricky to tell you had facial hair at all at the moment. Hopefully it'll darken a bit as you get older, which is what your father said happened to him; as it stands, your hair color, especially alongside your bright green eyes, looks a little more intense than you'd like.

But that's not important, you think to yourself as you step out of the car. What is important is whatever is waiting for me in that house!

Grampa's suburban abode is a modest affair, especially considering his affluence. His two story custom built brick house sits in the middle of a cookie cutter suburban neighborhood, and as such the place sticks out like a sore thumb. At least the place was always pleasantly cool in the hot summer, and nice and cozy in the winter. There's a reason you usually meet at Grampa's place for holiday events, after all; there's a charm and elegance to the place that you really can't find anywhere else.

A short moment after you ring the doorbell of course, there stands Ol' Grampa Ryan, beaming as he opens the door. He's looking pretty good for his age, you have to admit. While he's always had a bit of a belly, he could easily pass for a man twenty years younger than his real age of seventy five. His short hair, thinning on top and totally white, compliments his massive bushy white mustache that you imagine must be his pride and joy. And of course, he's wearing a maroon golf polo tucked firmly into his shorts. The man is a grandfather to the core.

"Get on in here, Birthday Boy!" He says as he pulls you into a massive hug. He's a big man, in all dimensions, and his arms surround you entirely with little effort. "I got a big ol' chocolate cake, just as ya like, sitting in the kitchen with your name on it!" While his Scottish accent may have faded due to decades in the states, to you, he always sounded a bit like if Scrooge McDuck put on 200 pounds.

"All right, Grampa," you say, returning his hug. "It's great to see you."

"A'course, I'm hoping you'll see fit to share some of it!" he continues, patting his belly for emphasis, as the two of you walk through his home into the kitchen. The old Findlay home is stuffed to the brim with knickknacks and brickerbrack of a life well lived from all the places your Grampa has visited over the years. Since his retirement, which began before you were even born, Grannie and him tended to occupy themselves with vacations all over the world; one of the many benefits of his apparent affluence. The only thing here that really stands out is the family tartan, placed in a spot of prominence and reverence among the unorganized mess.

The next few minutes are spent in pleasant enough conversation with the old man. He asks you how school's going and the like, and the two of you enjoy your slices of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and chocolate filling, with some chocolate shavings on top for flavor. By the time it's done, the anticipation must be evident on your face, because Grampa quickly excuses himself with a wink and a glimmer in his eye, surely to fetch you your birthday gift.

When he strides back into the kitchen, he's carrying something large and boxy, wrapped in simple brown paper. "Sorry about the wrapping," he says as he places the package delicately in front of you, "but it just came in this morning. Didn't have the time to do nothing fancy with it."

"It's no prob, Grampa," you say as you start to unwrap the thing. From the heft of it, the thing has quite a bit of weight; it's only when you remove the last of the wrapping that you realize that...

"It's a book?" you ask, somewhat confused. Sitting on the table in front of you is a massive, heavy, leather bound book. But the strangest part about the tome in front of you is the four inch wide, oval-shaped purple crystal that seems to be embedded in the center of the cover.

"Aye," your grandfather answers, "It's a book. A grimoire, in fact!"

He places a heavy hand on your shoulder, and you look up to a weathered face beaming with pride. "Your very own grimoire."

"What's a... grimoire?" you continue, desperately trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice.

"The start of something amazing, my lad. Starting today," he says, as his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, "you're gonna learn to be a Wizard."