Damned if it would!
He slipped on clean shoes and fled from the friendly, warm room that had suddenly turned cold and alien and threatening, rushed outside into the mild air of evening and forced himself to slow down.
There was nowhere to run to, except out the road or down into the desert. Not that he was running with thoughts of any particular destination in mind. He ran to prove to himself that he, Alex Rogan, was still in control and that life hadn’t sealed him up in its smothering blanket of paycheck and taxes and eight-hour workdays. Not yet it hadn’t. He was going to do something.
If only he knew what.
It was dark outside, desert nights black as the days were bright. In the darkness the neon sign outside the general store sputtered into intermittent life. Out back the big halogen lamp came alive, showing the way for residents and visitors alike.
He needed to do something, anything, to take his mind off his sudden terror. But there wasn’t anything. Only the radio and the television and one quarter-eating machine.
He’d run away from passivity and bland acceptance, so radio and TV were out of the question. They represented a return to threatening reality, not an escape. On the other hand, the game was interactive, dependent on his movements, on his decisions. Not like in real life, where such decisions were reserved for adults. At a videogame any kid could be in command, could make life or death decisions (if only in the abstract) on the glowing field of the screen, no matter if they concerned only eating dots, demented gorillas or a not-too-bright knight in search of his kidnapped princess.
Or defending the Frontier against Xur and the Ko-Dan Armada.
The people who’d installed the game one Friday had told him it was a difficult one. At first it had been hard for him, but now he’d grown bored with all but the hellaciously difficult upper levels. Most kids never reached them and watched in awe as he sauntered rapidly through the lower ranges that defeated their best efforts.
Now he played alone on the porch, and the machine responded with whizzes and explosions and mock commands as he methodically worked his way up into the rarified strata beyond half a million points.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered aloud, impatient as always with the basics. “Let’s speed it up, huh?”
“Prepare for target light practice, Starfighter,” the machine warned him in the same tone as always.
Better now. As the play grew steadily more involved he started to take an active interest in the glowing goings-on. Already he’d run up a high score by concentrating on adding bonuses in the preliminary rounds instead of simply blasting his way through each stage.
“Ready,” he murmured, as if the machine could hear and understand. It could not, but it added to the fun. He was relaxed again, calm and confident. His early fear had been wiped out by the need for him to concentrate on every aspect of the game lest he get blown away through carelessness. He’d mastered the game, true. He could play it in his sleep. But carelessness could trip up the most skillful player. Alex had always prided himself on never losing a videogame because of some stupid, thoughtless mistake. The game had to beat him. He wouldn’t beat himself.
Someone else had heard the buzzes and pops and whines and had come out to see the light from the screen reflected on Alex’s face. Otis lit his final pipe of the day as he strolled over to watch. He liked the games, too, but played only rarely. His hand-eye coordination wasn’t as good as it used to be, and he’d worked too many years to start squandering his quarters now.
It was just as much fun to watch the kids play, especially one as good as Alex. The coordination of today’s kids never ceased to amaze him.
In addition to liking the game, he also liked Alex Rogan. That prompted him to ask, “Where’s Maggie?”
Alex’s eyes never turned from the screen, but he heard.
“Good question. Out having a good time, I guess. At least, I haven’t seen her since she went off with everybody else this morning.”
Otis concealed his smile. “Oh, I see. And you never have a ‘good time,’ that it?”
“Sure I do, Otis. I have some great times.” Otis had insisted that Alex call him by his first name ever since Alex could remember. “Mr. Davis” was someone else, the man who picked up pension checks at a mailbox. Otis, on the other hand, was a friend.
“I love fixing the electric system, checking the plumbing, plunging toilets and cleaning up animal stuff.” He made a face. “Otis, I don’t even get a chance to have a good time around here.”
The game let loose with a flurry of bright lights and electronic sound effects. Alex had advanced still another level. Now he caught his breath, flexed his fingers while waiting for the next setup to materialize.
“Things change; always do. I ought to know.” Again the smile around the stem of the worn pipe. “You’ll get your chance, boy. Important thing is, when it comes, you got to be ready for it. You gotta grab it with both hands an d hold on tight.”
“Real profound, Otis.”
“I don’t pretend to be no philosophy professor, Alex. I didn’t make as much as some folks either, but I took care of what I made because I knew what I wanted out of life. A hundred bucks invested right is better in ten years than a thousand bucks squandered now. I ain’t rich, but I’m comfortable. I don’t have to work anymore and I don’t want or worry about anything.”
“Did you miss any opportunities when you were my age, Otis?”
“Sure I did. We all do. But nobody ever warned me about missing ’em like I’m warning you now. I figure maybe I’m doing you a favor. Experience isn’t worth a thing if you can’t pass it along to someone else. There’s lots of things in life you can go back and replace, Alex, but not missed opportunities. You remember that.”
He broke off as a big boxy shape emerged from the darkness and slid into the parking lot. Maggie climbed over the tailgate, balancing a moment on the oversized, custom rear steel bumper before jumping lightly to the ground. The picnic basket, empty now, was tossed down to her, followed by the towel and the borrowed ice chest. Goodbyes were made, accompanied by laughter and quips, all part of the aftermath of a good day’s mindless fun in the sun. Alex struggled futilely to shut it out, concentrating on the screen.
Otis saw the youngster’s expression tighten and knew it had nothing to do with the difficulties of the game. His smile turned sad and he moved away, aiming for the rocking chair at the far end of the porch.
Someone else noticed Alex’s discomfiture, however, and had no compunctions about rubbing new salt in fresh wounds.
“‘Night Maggs.” Blake made sure he said it loud enough for Alex to hear him above the microprocessed mutter of the videogame. “See you ’round!”
It was small comfort to Alex that Maggie didn’t reply. His fingernails dug at the impervious plastic around the control buttons.
His off road tires spitting sand, Blake roared out of the lot, not caring if he woke any early sleepers. The noise hid the laughter. Or maybe there wasn’t any laughter. Maybe it was only in Alex’s mind.
Maggie climbed the steps .onto the porch, watching Alex closely as she came up behind him. She took a minute to study the videoscreen, but the nuances of the game were lost on her. Girls didn’t go in much for the wargames, no matter what the women’s libbers might claim. Girls preferred crushing the nasties in Millipede or the complicated maze games like Pac-Man and its variants.
Maggie didn’t much care for any of them. She only took an interest because Alex was interested, though she could still admire his skill.
“Packs low . . . life support plus two and functioning . . . photonics low. . . .” The machine delivered its announcements in clipped, precise artificial tones, indifferent to everything else.
Maggie rose on tiptoes to give Alex a peck on the cheek. He smiled briefly, kept his gaze locked on the screen. He was glad of the game. It gave him an excuse for not meeting her eyes.
“I thought you were going to meet me at the lake,” she said. “What happened?” An open question, devoid of accusation. Maggie wasn’t bitter, only genuinely curious.
“The same thing that always happens.” He wanted to sound mad but was only tired. Life was grinding him down. At eighteen. “I couldn’t get away. Fix this, repair that . . . you should see some of the junk that passes for wiring in some of these old mobiles.” He looked beyond her into the darkness to make sure she’d exited the pickup by herself.