masturbacja

     Christian's thoughts drifted to HER as he and Johnny Lacada continued the predictable path of this game. They had freed the rooms in the house of their digital contents: guns, ammo, health packs, journals, changes of clothes, and water. As he was x'ing on the water bottles he wondered what the difference between those and the health packs were. The water probably restored a little less of his health bar in the upper right corner of the screen than did the health packs, he surmised.
     He thought of that first night he saw HER and then remembered their first conversation, which was initiated by him outside the Italian place. His friends had left and on their way to their homes or the next bar they had told him that he was a creeper and that anyone waiting outside a restaurant to talk to a stranger was just weird. He agreed, and then waited anyway. Minutes passed, Christian lit a cigarette, smoked it and threw it to the street. His gamble was that she smoked too. Otherwise he was going to have to interrupt her and her boyfriend, and that could prove to be the wrong move in a number of ways. He considered abandoning his plan and just heading home, jerking off and calling it a night. He took one step away and realized that he was out of toilet paper, and would have to stop at the store for that plan to work.
     As he turned back to the restaurant and decided to go inside and use the bathroom before making any decisions he almost ran into HER. Holy fuck, did she smell good. Like cigarettes and Victoria's Secret spray. He didn't know which flowers or chemicals went into tat particular scent, but he was prepared to find out.
     "What the fuck?" She said, her eyes looking up at him, wide and not furious. That was good. This could work. His heart had stopped momentarily when they bumped into each other and when she swore at him he thought he had ruined it. But those eyes told him something different.
     "Sorry," he stammered, "I was just going back inside."
     "What, did your friends abandon you?" She was a little buzzed and felt like messing with this guy, who smelled mainly like smoke and a little like pancetta.
     "Kind of, I just had to go back inside real quick." But he didn't move. He was blocking her way.
     "Yeah that's what you said. What were you going back in for?" She was definitely more buzzed than she thought when she came out for a cigarette.  
     "To be honest, I have no toilet paper at home and didn't wanna stop at the store." He didn't even look ashamed to be saying something so personal, and instead kept staring at her eyes, blinking enough to make it a little less weird.
     "So you were gonna steal it so you could take a shit at home, or you were gonna use the public bathroom?" God, how much wine had she had, she wondered as she lit a cigarette and made some space between them. She wouldn't even talk to her boyfriend like that.
     "Neither," he said.
     Before she could ask anything else, or could even decide if she wanted to know what he was talking about her boyfriend stumbled out with a cigarette in his mouth and tugged his tight jeans below his hips another couple of inches before putting his arm around her, flicking his blonde moppy hair back, and with a slight nod of the head said, "Who's this?"
     Christian stared at him. Hated him. Looked at his jeans. Hated them. Looked back at HER. His hand shot out with a lighter for the hipster. "I'm Christian."
     "Like that's your name or your religion?" Mop head quipped.
     "What's your name?" Christian was looking at HER as he lit HER man's fag.
     She wasn't sure what to do. She wanted to let him know what her name was, and he made her man seem so inconsequential. She felt awful for thinking that. "I'm Koren and this is Auden. Thanks for the light." She lit her cigarette from Christian lighter and blew a puff of smoke away from their human triangle. She wished Auden would leave and again felt guilt creeping in. She was buzzed enough to not worry about talking to a stranger, but not buzzed enough to crush the guilt. It was a two and a half glass of wine buzz, she decided.
     "Auden, huh? Interesting." If he was gin-drunk instead of wine drunk he would have had some more words about that particular name. "Nice to meet you both, I gotta get to the store before they close. I hear there's a run on tp." He started to walk away and then stopped, "You guys from here?"
     They answered in unison. "No, but we live here now." Such a couple thing to do. Auden pulled his jeans lower.
     "We work at the Artisan Center in Cherry Creek in case you ever want to buy some local art." It was HER, letting him know what he couldn't ask.
     "Right. Later folks." Christian walked away and lit a cigarette. At least he wouldn't have to use the internet to accomplish his goal before sleep tonight.

dziennik

     "Mr. Green and Mr. Blue." Said Johnny.
     "Don't do that." Christian said as his character got up off the couch and began running into walls and bookcases while looking for any pickup-able items. John's character, Mr. Blue, aka Quinton, was also running around in the third person view, attempting to find something, anything that could be picked up. As this was happening Christian began wondering about the nature of stuff and of people and their stuff. In this game, which had a dire plot and harsh consequences for the digitally created players, the stuff meant 'survival' and you needed it to 'win'. Was it the same in reality? Did we need stuff to survive? Fuck, of course not, he thought. Well, not stuff in the 21st century meaning, at any rate. We didn't need ipods or iphones or fucking tube socks or ps3's or, or, or, or....
     Before Christian had graduated kindergarten he had a dream about Christmas. He dreamed that he woke up on a Christmas morning and found his entire living room covered with Star Wars toys. There were X-Wing fighters and Millennium Falcons hanging from the ceiling. There were hundreds of action figures set up around the living room, all holding weapons, all ready to fire upon the enemy. There were Ewok huts and Imperial fortresses. That was in July. That dream always stuck with him. Not because of the dream itself but because of the timing. He felt guilty wanting presents in July, and he felt silly because he was disappointed when he came downstairs that summer morning to find no presents at all. Later that day a bird was trapped in the shed behind his house. He killed it with a wiffle ball bat.
     "Did you pick up any health? " LaCada interrupted his thoughts and he realized he had been playing on auto-pilot, crusing around like so many games before this, searching rooms, opening drawers, adding inventory. Clear the room, next room. Clear the room, next room. They had both picked up a .9mm handgun, a few rounds of ammo, some health packs and Johnny had found a journal. Of course. Did people read these journals in video games, Lacada wondered. There were always journals, but more often than not he would find them and grab them simply to advance the story.
     LaCada thought about his own journal. The one that was hidden under his hat collection in a closet upstairs. He had promised to be faithful to it, but then life got in the way and it became less of a priority. Plus, he had less to write about, which made him cringe a little. What would he even have to confess? He lived a clean-ish life now. No weed. No Tobacco. Limited pill usage. No other women. No disgusting porn. He even watched reality TV with his wife, and to be honest with himself, he didn't want to put that in the journal. Could you imagine finding a journal years into the future, on an archeological dig and hoping it would be exciting only to find a recap of a scripted reality show. The thought was almost too depressing to have.
     "What's in the journal?" Christain asked.
     "Nothing interesting. Not this early on anyway." LaCada responded.

krótki rozdział

     As quickly as LaCada confirmed his justice selection, the screen said Chapter 1. They both knew what the game was about, although the intro had been something new. The game was about two men in a post-dirty bomb world. Only this wasn't a nuclear bomb that wiped out everyone and turned them to zombies. This bomb was one that was detonated in Austin and after killing a few thousand in short order, the city was shut down to martial law, as was Texas shortly after. Eventually the rest of the country was under martial law and every citizen was treated as a suspect.
     The point of the game was to use the two characters as a team in order to end martial law. There were multiple ways to reach a conclusion to this game, and both John and Christian had avoided the online walk through pages for each scenario on purpose.
     So here they were, two men, playing a video game as two men trapped under martial law. The game was set in Seattle and the opening scene involved, ironically, two men sitting on a couch watching a blank screen. They were too shocked to move. The dirty bomb hit Austin 3 days prior. Within 48 hours the entire country was under martial law. The camera panned around to face the digital faces. Thankfully, at least Christian thought, there was closed captioning built into the game. Or subtitles, however you like it. The men began to speak. Both were inexplicably wearing cargo pants and hoodies. Both were white(ish) looking. One wore a cap with a B on it, one did not. One sweatshirt was green (Johnny's character), the other was blue. The names of the men in the game were Quinton and Francis. Christian disliked Tarantino and was happy that the blue sweatshirt of Francis belonged to his character.
     "Do you still buy into Tarantino and all of the self-righteous crap he spews into his movies?" Christian asked, not looking away from the screen.
     "I like his movies. they're entertaining. They pass a few hours and sometimes make me think."
     "About what?!" Christian was annoyed, " How to be a media created image of a gangster or how to have a foot fetish or how eventually the nerds will take over, but the nerds just wanna be like the cool kids?"
     "He did that one where they killed Nazis."
     "Shit, that's true," Christian responded, and he did like that one. He had only seen it once though and wouldn't see it again.
     "Anyway, let's play this game, we have to figure out how we are gonna leave this house and get some weapons."
     "Fine."

Nędza Uszczęśliwiona

     And then the game began. The screen went black and just as suddenly lit up again, with an array of amoeba shaped colors, shifting and moving in front of their eyes. The music was a cantata - Misery Made Happy. The music and the singing and the lights lit up the room and John and Christian sat, staring into it, one holding a bowl, the other holding a drink. These were not sober times, but these were not the most head lightening times either. They were both in a comfort zone. Outside of sobriety, but inside and away from the rest of the world. Certainly not shut-ins, and certainly not club people, the two of them had lives and responsibilities, but for this day they also had a brand new video game to play and plenty of excuses to put off the rest of the day. 
     The game was called footsteps. As the cantata slowly faded away from the opening credits, the sounds of a man walking down a hallway began to rise. He was wearing the kind of shoes you can hear coming from a distance. Not the spineless rubber souled shoes that are slip proof, spill proof, and noise proof. They are the sounds of wooden heels. The kind that make a click clack with each step and the man walking wants you to know he's coming. He wants to see people either move out of the way or raise their head and hope for a quick look. These were important sounding shoes. Or they were meant to be. 
     As the steps grow louder the amoeba shapes shifted to black and the steps stopped. There was a pause. Both controllers rumbled in their hands. They were given an option, in simple black and white. Single player. Co-op. They both pushed down on their controllers, creating a double negative of sorts and scrolling back to single player. 
     "I'll do it." Christian said and moved the tiny arrow icon next to the co-option. 
     "Of course you will," said John. He was still wearing the socks and had actually been itching at them during the entire intro to the game. 
     Christian pushed x and the game began loading. No sound. And then footsteps in the distance. Not the click clack steps but something with a limp. A click and a drag. A click and a drag. Louder and louder until the dragging sound, the unmistakable sound of shoe being pulled against it's will along a wooden floor, was the only sound coming through the speakers. It sounded like a record that had reached the end of it's tracks and needed to be flipped. 
     The room they were in was shaded nicely, no unwanted light would hit the screen. It wasn't a dark room though. It had light, and large windows, and even the front door offered an unobstructed  glimpse of the outside world via a fan shaped window above eye level. Their eyes faced the screen, from behind they two men sitting on a couch, holding onto plastic, watching even more plastic. There have been studies that conclude experiences create much more happiness than do objects. But what about a video game? Is it an experience or an object? Is it both? And if so where does it rank on the scale of things? Christian thought that he may have had enough of the bowl when these thoughts began to creep into his head. He considered telling LaCada his thoughts, then decided against it. 
     The screen gave them an option. There were two tiny arrow icons this time and both had to be pointed at the same choice in order to move forward. The options, presented plainly in white small letters with the dragging foot/record skipping getting louder were simple. 
     We want laughs.
     We want justice.
     LaCada, the red icon, moved to laughs. Christian waited. And then wanted justice. They both pressed x and the music stopped. The screen told them to PICK ONE CHOICE TOGETHER.  
     "Laughs will be forgotten," Christian said, "Justice would be better."
     "So fucking serious. Fine." LaCada said, as he moved his little red arrow and pushed x.

     
    
    

Skarpety

     John LaCada had finally appeased those absurd, tiny abominations of nature; his French bulldogs were resting more or less peacefully in the corner of the living room. Hardwood floors ran throughout the house, but the dogs had multiple pieces of bedding and embroidered pillows of their own to lay on and they had found some comfort in one of the oversized dog beds marked with their initials. Christian was sure that it was more their smell than their initials that led them to the bedding, but either way he was grateful for the momentary silence as he had come to John’s house to relax, eat free food, play video games and generally pretend that he didn’t have other, more pressing things to take care of in the outside world.
    As they both sat down on a perfectly worn brown leather couch and waited for the playstation welcome screen to fill the void, Christian thought about some of those outside world, those real world, issues that would have to be taken care of sooner than later. He made a mental list. Bills - car insurance, gym membership, cable and internet, lawyer fees from a mistake years ago. Errands - he needed a physical for health insurance, he needed shots if he wanted to travel outside the united states, he needed to get groceries, he needed to return a movie to redbox, and he always needed some new socks. When looking for socks he had two categories that mattered; thin and tiny white gym socks that couldn’t be seen above the top of his sneakers, and long dress socks that were comfortable, not too thick and definitely not boring black or blue. Christian also wanted to find some inspiration, he wanted to figure out his place in the world, and he wanted to make a difference.
     The last few things, the more esoteric and less exact things were always hovering over him and weighed more than the bills or the socks. He wondered if taking care of the grocery list would help on the path to inspiration, or if it were the other way around. He look at John, his best friend at the moment, and briefly envied his sedentary lifestyle. The plainness of it, the simplicity of having the metaphorical white picket fence and very real wife who would have dinner ready, the perfect itunes library, the family within driving distance for the holidays, the sense of finality and security that came along with all of that must have been comforting. The closest thing he had to that stability was the auto-pay feature on his car insurance.
     Christian took a brief inventory - what did he have that John didn’t? He had traveled, he had a broader range of experiences, he had better stories, more girlfriends, more heartbreak, more close calls, and more debt, baggage, and uncertainty. Christian caught a glimpse of LaCada’s socks out of the corner of his eye. 3/4 cut plain white socks that were no doubt folded or balled up perfectly and sitting in a designated sock drawer before being selected for the day. But really, he thought, if you chose one pair of socks from the other dozen identical pairs, were you making a choice at all?
     “What are you scoffing at?” John half asked, following Christian’s gaze to the floor.
     “Nothing dude, just thinking about all the shit I gotta do after we finish this game.”
     “Well, I’ll go with ya,” LaCada responded, “I don’t wanna sit around here all day. This place blows.”

Kartofel

     The semi-blind date was set for the following week, on a Wednesday of all things. This way they could both have an excuse to end it early, Christian figured. Although his excuse would be a clear fabrication, as his writing "career" didn't necessitate that he woke up at any particular time, or that he woke up at all, really. The thought made him chuckle; the chuckle of a sad clown. He stepped out of his apartment and into the sun and was grateful for the altitude that Denver provided as it kept the sun a little closer to his face on these brisk winter days.
     Walking south down Jersey Street he was trying to remember where he parked. His apartment building had a parking space for him though he refused to use it out of spite. He once commented to the management company that ran the complex how ridiculous it was that his spot was on the other side of the massive building from his apartment. They responded by moving his spot even further away, to a corner spot under a tree. Where birds shit on his car all year long. That's not to say that the spot went unoccupied. After the parking spot moving incident he went on craigslist and found a car for only $200. It didn't run, was rusted on nearly every viewable panel, had only one seat, and in fact didn't have any engine in it at all. It was perfect. He called the number, negotiated it down to $100, paid $75 for towing and his spot was soon occupied by a formerly grey, now brown and white, hunk of garbage and eye-sore. The bird shit was quite literally the icing on the cake.
     After remembering where he had parked he picked up his pace a little, and made it to the corner of 35 and Jersey just before 8am, when parking fees would be enforced. The black civic came to life quickly as he turned the key and was instantly transported to the night before when Ween had been playing in an ode to his manual labor job days. He fiddled with the iPod until The Beasties infiltrated the air and he lit a cigarette and pulled away.
     He was on his way to John's apartment. He had to get out of his own place for a little while and he also wanted to extract some more info about this girl. Also, John's wife, Sarah, was gone for work for a week which meant video games and weed smoking was the new black around their place. She was some type of buyer for a women's clothing store at some mall that he had never heard of. He had known her for ten years.
     When he pulled into their driveway twenty minutes later he could see John through the window, either playing with his English Bulldogs or yelling at them. Either way, there were hands pointing to the ground and loud noises. Christian almost knocked on their garish front door, but then remembered that the doorbell set the dogs off and couldn't help himself. He rang the doorbell and heard the sweet sound of two dogs barking, ready to defend their house from whatever terror was outside.
     "Jesus Christ, dude," John wasn't as soothed by their barking, "You know they hate that shit."
     "I know," Christian responded, "but I wanted to let them know I was here."
     "You can just open the door. You don't even have to knock. It's easier for everyone." John had said this a few times before. Christian stepped in and looked around.
     "So when is she back again?"
     "Next Tuesday. Her mom brought me some food, like I'm gonna starve otherwise. It's in the fridge." Christian went to the fridge.
     "I thought she was Japanese?" He asked.
     "She is." John replied, still trying to calm the dogs with promises of snausages.
     "And she brought you fucking mashed potatoes and pork chops?"
     
     
    

śnić

     The night before he would agree to go on the blind date, the one with the expected awkward hug and unexpectedly dry armpit, Christian had a violent dream. In this dream he was running through some type of marsh just before sunset. Though his feet weren't getting wet from touching the marsh, or stepping on any wildlife it contained. They were somehow on a boardwalk that seemingly extended in every direction. The running wasn't violent. It was the people who suddenly appeared and were chasing him that were making the dream turn violent and creating shades of a nightmare. They were movie style stereotypical mafioso. Dark suits, slicked back hair, and a lot of weapons. As Christian ran they destroyed they boardwalk behind him, never quite catching him, but never falling very far behind, either. He turned to look back for a moment and when he did the boardwalk collapsed beneath him.
     Christian woke in a sweat. Not sure what the dream was about, or where it stemmed from, he was, like a good martini, slightly shaken and not too dry. He immediately felt ridiculous for being scared about a dream, not to mention having compared himself to a martini, and guessed at the time before checking his phone. It was almost 4am. He had guessed 3am. Either way, he was hungry and there was no time that would stop him from getting up and checking the fridge.
     Raspberries, kiwi, two day old rice noodles drenched with sriracha and soy, peanut butter, and half a bag of spinach. He checked  the cupboard and the choices were even less appealing. He went back to the fridge and pulled a kiwi, elected to not peel it, instead he cut it in half and scooped out as much tart green filling as he could without damaging the skin, eating each scoop with his elbows propped on the counter and his eyes half open. After drinking nearly a pint of water straight from the faucet he managed to get back into bed without slamming his toes into any of the furniture as he had done so many times before and drifted off to sleep.
     John called him at 9am and he ignored it. John called him at 10am and he ignored that too, electing to play dead to the outside world for a little while longer. At 11, showered and pretty but with no place to go, he called John LaCada back and got no answer. So absurd, he thought, how the fuck could John want something so bad as to call twice, yet not answer a return call. Christian found his laptop and collapsed onto his couch, a well worn relic from the early 2000's that used to be black but was slowly fading into something between black, grey, and brown. Someone suggested once when he was bemoaning the color that he should call it fifty shades of grey, but Christian countered by explaining that that was a ridiculous name and only a hack would call anything by that moniker. Should he also call his loveseat hogwarts because of the lumps in the cushion, he wondered to the unfortunate soul that was simply there as a friend of a friend. Maybe that friend of a friend was just being topical, or maybe Christian was just a little high strung at that point.
     Christian was informed that had only 5 free articles left for the month on nytimes.com when John finally called him back.
     "Dude," John started, "I have a chick who would be perfect for you and the best part is that she is kind of getting over a relationship too."
     "How is that the best part?"
     "Well, I mean...She's not bad looking either, and she's pretty cool. Plus my wife wants to set you up with her so that's what I'm doing. I'll text you some pictures right now."
     "How do you know her?" Christian asked, "And why is your wife so worried about setting me up with someone? I'm sure I could find someone if I wanted to."
     "Look, will you just do it as a favor to me? It'll stop Sarah from bugging me for a little bit, and then if you have more than one date with her, we can double date and it'll be an excuse to hang out and get drunk, and they can talk to each other."
     Christian looked at the pictures coming through his phone.
     "Fine. One date." Maybe if he went on this date he could start forgetting about HER.