by Eric Smith
Jason saunters back over as I get my game loaded up, hiding the screen from my friends. He’s carrying a hefty tray with a wide array of muffins, doughnuts, scones, and other various pastries piled all over the place haphazardly, plus several cups of something that doesn’t at all resemble tea or hot chocolate.
“What is—” Ryan starts.
“I forgot what all of you said the second I got up there, so I just got a few of everything.” Jason shrugs. “Oh, and black coffee. You guys can go put in sugar or whatever.”
Ryan grumbles out something and the two of us get up and make our way to the fixing station. We sweeten our coffee to the point where it’ll taste like candy, the only way either of us can stand the stuff. Laura stays behind, and as Ryan dumps a ton of cream into his cup, I turn around and see her take a satisfied sip, then lean against Jason’s shoulder, looking content.
Ryan bumps my arm playfully just as I finish securing a plastic lid on my coffee.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say.
“She’s too old for you, anyway,” he says, shrugging. “She’s off to college in the fall. And he’s a millionaire. Kinda hard to compete with all that.”
“Oh God, it’s not like that.” I laugh and shake my head. I turn to Jason and Laura, who are both fixated on their phones, not even looking at each other. It makes a little piece of me ache inside. If I ever find the right person, that won’t be us. I’ll be present, the way Ryan and Alberto always are with each other—hanging out on Ryan’s porch after school, fussing over their sketch pads together, consistently snuggled up and talking about their dreams and the future. I’ve seen them in action, like something out of a rom-com, more times than I can remember since they got together two years ago.
I’ve also seen Jason in action.
When we’ve gone to conventions. To events. How he goes through girl after girl. Always someone new on his arm, accompanied by looks from people milling around the ManaPunk table or booth. And I can’t bring myself to watch Laura make the same mistake, even if we aren’t exactly close. I’m going to have to say something—the sooner, the better.
“Alright!” Jason exclaims suddenly, finally putting his phone down on the table. His eyes are wide, and he’s got a mischievous smile on his face, the one he wears when he’s been up to something. Which he always is. “Who wants to go first? The reigning champion, perhaps?”
I grin and slide my phone across the table, feeling a little rush at Jason’s words, despite what I think about his approach to dating. He’s still my hero, however flawed, in the gaming space. He’s a local icon.
Ryan and Laura place their phones in the center with ours, and the game begins.
The game I’ve chosen is a nightmare of a thing, and even though I know it’s not nearly as good as the chinchilla game, it’ll do. You play as a slice of cheese, trying to find a hoagie to live inside. It’s some weird, promotional game tied to a chain of delis here in Philadelphia—Ilagan & Weir Hoagies. The animation is terrible and janky, and even when you find the right sandwich, it’s almost impossible to get the cheese in there. It’s a weird puzzle game that makes almost no sense, and is no doubt extra infuriating to people who live near those delis. Apparently if you win, you get a dollar or two off a sandwich. I wonder how many people have actually won and scored the coupon. Judging from the handful of reviews in the app, probably not many.
I’ve definitely got Ryan beat, though. He’s got some odd platforming game about a sentient piece of candy on a mission to collect a bunch of gems, which looks like Candy Crush meets Super Mario Bros. It’s a little suspect, as if it might have been accidentally released by one of those publishers, unfinished. We spend a few minutes debating that idea, until Laura silences us with a wave of her hand and shows us the game she found.
It’s magnificent.
It’s one of those gamification creations that attempts to get people to exercise in exchange for points and leveling up a character. The more you work out, the more chores you get done, the more experience you earn, etc. In theory, a wonderful idea. There are a bunch of games like it, and they encourage kids and adults to get outside. But this one uses augmented reality, and gives you things to chase. Bad guys and the like. Sort of like Pokémon GO.
Great idea.
Except someone had hacked into the game, and instead of villains to chase, there were...
Well, there’s no polite way to say it. There were pictures of penises. Lots of them. Looking as though they were poorly photoshopped over whatever the original graphic was supposed to be.
None of us can stop laughing. Laura holds her phone up so the augmented reality kicks in, and there, in the coffee shop, is a giant penis, waiting for us to chase it away. Tears are streaming down my face, and I spot numerous people in the place staring at us. I try to choke back my laughter, and the four of us slowly calm down.
“Jason?” Laura asks, nodding at his phone, still facedown on the table. “Can you beat that?”
“My dear,” Jason begins, and I feel myself exhale as Ryan glances at me, shaking his head “no” quickly. The affection level with these two has very quickly gone from their occasionally weirdly flirty notes to each other—in our group emails and Discord and Slack channels, mind you—to occasionally snuggling up in public and whispering sweet nonsense to each other.
“My pick is nothing compared to that,” Jason concludes. “I’m abstaining this round. Victory is yours.”
“The Autofocus Café on Thirty-Seventh and Walnut!” Laura exclaims triumphantly, grabbing her phone and raising her hands up in the air, wielding the smartphone like a little sword. Ryan and I groan. Laura is on the completely other side of town, out in University City near Drexel University and Penn—as is that coffee shop, surrounded by expensive stores and boutique restaurants and nowhere to park. And I could live forever without seeing the photography gallery in that shop again, all weird experimental stuff by local college kids I don’t understand.
“That’s right, deal with it.” She leans back in her chair, a victorious smile on her face, and winks at Jason. “Now let’s get to work.”
“Yes!” Jason exclaims, slapping the table excitedly. “You have new script pages for us, Aaron?” He gestures at me, and I open my computer back up, hitting a couple of keys.
“It should be in the shared Dropbox now,” I say, trying to mask the bundle of nerves I feel myself becoming, all their eyes ready to look at what I’ve been writing. “Load it on up, and let’s do a reading.”
Everyone around the table grows quiet, and I watch their eyes staring at their glowing screens. Jason is reading on his iPhone, while Laura reads on a tablet she’s pulled out of her bag. I glance over at Ryan, who is looking at his phone, thumbing through quickly, and I can tell he’s just skimming the pages. He’s already read this more times than I can count.
I hear Jason scoff and look up to see him glaring at his screen.
“What is it?” I venture. I know it’s a bad idea to ask for feedback in the middle of a reading, but all signs are pointing to him not liking whatever he’s scoping out.
“It’s just...” His mouth flattens into a thin line. “I don’t know, Aaron, does it always have to be some race thing?” He swipes at something and turns the phone to me, highlighting a few lines. It’s the moment when the Elf is berating the Rogue for using a microaggression.
“Listen, you can use a fantasy world to discuss bigger issues going on in the real world,” I protest. “That’s what makes good fantasy, in my opinion. It says something about our world, while exploring a made-up one—”
“Aaron, it’s a video game,” Jason says, putting his phone down.
“So?” It’s my turn to scoff. “Games like Mass Effect and Dragon Age explore racism, xenophobia... The Elder Scrolls series absolutely digs into classism and—”
“It’s a mobile game
.” Jason rubs his forehead. “I’m not trying to change the world here. It’s something for people to play on long train rides. On the bus. On the toilet. It doesn’t have to be art.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Exhaust me?” Jason suggests, grinning. “Come on, keep it simple. Let’s cut out all this filler—”
“Racism isn’t filler!” I exclaim, leaning over on the table. “How can you—”
“Aaron, do you want to write this game or not?” Jason asks, his tone growing cold as he leans back in his chair. “’Cause I need something simple. I’m not trying to alienate my audience with subliminal messages or political statements.”
I take a deep breath and look over at Ryan, who shrugs. He’s not trying to be unhelpful or unsupportive, I know that. He just knows where this conversation is going—we’ve been down similar routes before, and we’re not going to change his mind here.
“Well?” Jason presses.
“I’ll edit it when you cut me a paycheck,” I snap.
I can almost feel the air being sucked out of the room, as all of us sit there in silence. After a few tense moments, Jason turns to Ryan, collecting himself.
“Any new drawings?”
* * *
The cobblestone streets leading back toward my house feel like they stretch on forever as Ryan and I walk along them in silence. They push into the bottoms of my too-thin sneakers, the curved rocks digging into my feet, in this weird, comforting-but-kinda-painful sort of way.
“Dude, you can’t let it get to you,” Ryan finally says, breaking the silence we’ve been strolling in for the past ten minutes. “Especially if this is what you actually want to do with your life. Writing and all, for video games or anywhere, really. Criticism is part of the game, so to speak.”
“I don’t mind criticism, it’s just... I mean, damn, if Jason doesn’t want to play games that engage in meaningful conversation, why try to make an RPG?” I ask, mostly to myself. I know the answer. We both do. Money. “He made fun of all the dialogue, and he was so harsh with your storyboards and illustrations, and I just don’t—”
Ryan cuts in. “Are you upset over that, or is it Laura?”
“Can’t it be a little bit of both?” I ask, offering up a weak smile. He grabs my shoulder and gives me a shake. “I know, I know. I just worry about—”
“Not every woman is a princess who needs saving,” Ryan says. “You have to let her make her own decisions.”
“I just—”
“Look. Focus on the game. The money will be good, if he ever pays us.” Ryan laughs, but there’s something hollow to it, and I agree with the feeling. “You can use it for whatever school you want to go to, or maybe for actually buying a real computer instead of that...” He trails off, struggling for a definition. “That monster you have in your room. Just think about that. And besides, it’s a taste of the real world. People in big ol’ corporate video game studios probably aren’t going to be nice.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. At least they’ll pay us on time, though.” Still, I can’t stop thinking about Laura. And Jason’s harsh words about my writing. And how the two of them just don’t belong together.
There’s this part of me that absolutely knows Ryan is right, and that this is none of my business. And I hardly even know Laura that well, just from a few interactions at school and our gigs with ManaPunk. But it’s just irking at me, and I can’t fight it.
“Well, when Jason finally publishes this game and pays up, you’ll be too busy spending all that money to worry about other people’s relationships,” Ryan points out, slowing his pace as we reach the side street leading to his house. “I’d come hang or game, but Alberto is coming by.”
“Nice, tell him I said hi,” I say. We shake hands and pull each other in for a hug. “I’ll see you later, man.”
“Sure will,” he agrees, then pulls back and smacks me lightly on the shoulder. “In the meantime, be a little less Paragon and a little more Renegade. You’re allowed.”
With a smirk, Ryan hurries off down his street, whistling to himself. I smile ruefully at the Mass Effect joke and continue the walk toward my house, the summer sun still bright and burning. It’s edging toward late afternoon, the day still full of so much possibility, but really, only one thing is on my mind.
Video games.
And that potential money from Jason and ManaPunk.
The check that is supposedly coming, both in the future, and the one he already owes us.
Last year, we made a little bit working for Jason. Nothing crazy, but it was enough to pay to upgrade my gaming rig with gear not found in the neighbors’ trash or at local flea markets. Jason and ManaPunk as a company, though? He’d made so much money. And I know we’re not going to get much for the work we’ve done lately—I’d only done some copyediting for his latest game, this puzzler where you have to match different-colored shapes to the pulse of music. Writing things like the instructions, tutorial text, stuff like that. And Ryan had only worked on a couple of vector graphics, but still. It felt like we deserved more. A bigger cut of the profits or something, you know?
But this role-playing game, the one he seems to hate so much, has the potential to net us so much more. Because Jason hadn’t just agreed to pay us a fair wage this time—he’d promised us a share of the profits.
And maybe, just maybe, if the game does well—hell, if it sells even kinda well—I’ll be able to pay to go to whatever college I want. Far away, maybe. Not someplace that my mom makes me apply to. Not a place where I’ll have to be a doctor or whatever dream it is she’s got plotted out for me. It’s a plan I kick around with Ryan all the time. Philadelphia has some great colleges; I’ve gone to enough events at Drexel, Penn, and Temple to know that. But there’s no way I’ll be able to afford any of those places without taking out a staggering number of student loans. A straight-A scholarship student I am not.
Jason said it was possible. Laura, too. Still, the idea of pulling in...what, over six figures? From my little slice of what the game makes? It doesn’t feel that realistic.
But earning a little bit to get myself started making my own games...that feels more possible. I don’t even need to make that much, comparatively speaking, to what Jason ends up netting with his games. Give me like, $10,000. I could buy a proper computer to develop my own games on, not something cobbled together. I could invest in the software and add on effects I’d need, in something like Unity. Work on my own studio while readying myself for graduation. Have a backup plan.
My house appears, waiting down the street, the little side office of my mother’s private practice sticking out of our home like an unwanted redbrick growth. It’s a strange effect, the old historic Philadelphia brownstone exterior, with the ivy that’s probably older than I am and the bricks that most certainly are by a couple hundred years, contrasted with the inside, the doctor’s office part of the place. Without Mom’s sign, you’d never know that a sterile waiting nook and patient rooms lay tucked away beneath the warm bricks and dark green vines.
If I became a doctor like she wanted, maybe I could surgically remove it.
But I’d rather make video games. Make a digital version of that house. And that little side building. And maybe blow it up with a laser cannon. Or a dragon. Anything, other than sitting in there looking at papers and checking in patients.
I look at the time on my phone and sneak a quick peek inside the front window, and see Dad talking to someone. Whoever the patient is, it’s not going well, and Dad is shaking his head, looking down, while this person is clearly flipping out. I can hear the muffled shouting all the way out here, and I hurry around to the office’s side entrance to see what I can do to rescue Dad.
I walk in and close the door a little harder than necessary behind me. The patient turns around, his expression full of irritation. I don’t recognize the man, and he narrows his eyes at me a
s I walk past him toward my dad. In the faded fluorescent lights of the waiting room, Dad looks a lot older than Mom does, even though he’s barely two years older. Thick lines are worn into the corners of his eyes, giving him a perpetually tired look.
He doesn’t talk much about the years before he met my mom. When he does, it’s often with rue and regret, talking about this bad retail job or that, gigs he’d taken over the years since moving to America, struggling to save money to send back home. Sometimes he’d joke about how all those places and jobs had aged him prematurely, and I could see it, every single time, in the eyes of a man who was only in his forties but looked like he was nearing sixty years old.
Those weary eyes meet mine, and I move behind the desk to stand beside him. “Why don’t you go on break?” I suggest.
“Oh good. Someone who speaks English,” the man spits.
My blood turns to fire in my veins, furious heat warming me all over as I inhale sharply and clench my teeth. How dare he. Never mind the fact that my father speaks perfect English, but for the man to insult him, my family, in our home?
My dad gives me a look before I can tear into this guy. “Aaron, it is fine,” he says, but I can tell that it isn’t. Whenever Dad gets harried and upset, his accent comes thundering back, way thicker than it usually is. I’ve seen this happen with Jason sometimes, when he gets all worked up, only his accent is more South Philadelphia, saying “water” like “wudder” and whatnot. And on top of that, my father sounds exhausted.
“Your mom will be back any minute,” he insists. “You have your games. It’s the weekend. Go work on your—”
“Are one of you going to get me my damn prescription, or should I come back when the actual doctor is here?!” the man growls.
I turn my head to stare at the man. He’s older, white and bald with thick jowls that seem to quiver a little as he eyes me in return.
“Is this your first time here?” I ask, crossing my arms.
