JPod (12 page)

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ATF

Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms

AZT

Azidothymidine

BLT

Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato

BSE

Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy

CIA

Central Intelligence Agency

CMV

Cytomegalovirus

DMZ

Demilitarized Zone

DOA

Dead on Arrival

EEC

European Economic Community

EMP

Electromagnetic Pulse

FBI

Federal Bureau of Investigation

FTP

File Transfer Protocol

GMT

Greenwich Mean Time

GTO

Gran Turismo Omologato

HIV

Human Immunodeficiency Virus

HOV

High Occupancy Vehicle

IMF

International Monetary Fund

IRA

Irish Republican Army

JFK

John Fitzgerald Kennedy

KGB

Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti

KKK

Ku Klux Klan

LAX

Los Angeles International Airport

LSD

Lysergic Acid Diethylamide

MIA

Missing in Action

MP3

Moving Pictures Experts Group Audio Layer 3

NHK

Nihon Hoso Kyokai TV

NRA

National Rifle Association

NRK

Anarchy

OLE

Object Linking and Embedding

OPD

Officially Pronounced Dead

PFD

Photoshop File Document

PIN

Personal Identification Number

PSA

Prostate-Specific Antigen

PVC

Polyvinyl Chloride

QE2

Queen Elizabeth II

RGB

Red-Green-Blue

RNA

Ribonucleic Acid

SLA

Symbionese Liberation Army

SPF

Sun Protection Factor

SUV

Sport-Utility Vehicle

THC

Tetrahydrocannabinol

TNT

Trinitrotoluene

UPS

United Parcel Service

USD

US Dollar

VCR

Videocassette Recorder

VRE

Vancomycin-Resistant Enterococci

WTC

World Trade Center

WWW

World Wide Web

XML

Extensible Markup Language

XXL

Double Extra Large

XXX

Pornography

YTD

Year to Date

Y3K

The Year 3000

ZIP

Zone Improvement Plan

ZPG

Zero Population Growth

. . .

The next morning I slinked into a BoardX art meeting. Steve, Gord-O and staff from the loftiest links of the corporate food chain were trying to nail the essence of Jeff the Charismatic Turde, albeit without joy or enthusiasm. Prototype turde sketches were pinned onto a massive cork wall, all of them goofy and teensploita-tional: sunglasses, baggy pants and (dear God) a terry cloth sweatband.

"Does Jeff the Turde follow players around the entire time they manipulate their third person?"

"Almost. Like Watson is to Sherlock Holmes."

"Can you imagine how annoying that would be?"

"Maybe the buddy isn't such a good idea."

Steve more or less squashed what hope remained: "It's going to be a buddy. Players will love it."

"Isn't our turde supposed to be a bit more studly?"

"Turdes aren't studly by nature."

"What about that turde they used in the 1950s to pimp the atomic weapons program? He was kind of studly."

"No, he wasn't, and besides, he's dead."

"What?"

"Dead. Hung himself from the side of his posh midtown Manhattan terrarium. Left a note saying he couldn't handle the shame of what he'd done. Wrote it on a piece of Bibb lettuce."

"Can't anyone think of hipper turdes than the Department of Energy's uranium spokesreptile?"

"Spokesphibian.
''

"No one answered my question. Is our turde studly? Does he have huge pecs?"

"I don't think it's appropriate that a turde be
hot."

"Have you ever noticed how they never show the Ninja Turtles' shells if they can avoid it? They're always facing forwards."

"Hey—a thick, rich masculine shell. He could store a tool belt on it."

"If you look, you'll see that the Ninja Turdes' fleshy undersides are always overexposed, and the musculature is too steroidal. It's a reproductive strategy on their part, maybe."

"Are they gay?"

"I told you, Legal said we're
not
allowed to ask that, and besides, turdes are always straight."

"Hang on, we agreed to model the turde after Jeff Probst, so maybe we could make our turde wear Banana Republic summer wear. Maybe get a co-licensing deal."

"That could work."

"A tan?"

"I like the tan idea."

"Everybody, do we all like a suntan for our turde? Let me do a hand count and get it out of the way—okay, suntan it is."

"Can he have more hair?"

"I have one word for you:
mammal''

"If Donald Duck can have hands, Jeff can have hair. A litde brush cut—easy to maintain, and it can take him from the boardroom all the way into a palm-fronded yurt populated with dormant tarantulas."

"No beaches here. Sand gets into skateboard bearings. Game over."

"Is Jeff middle-class?"

"By Jeff, you mean the turde?"

"Yes. Can we all agree to just call him Jeff?"

"Okay, only so long as the real Jeff Probst never finds out we've been having this discussion."

"Is Jeff middle-class?"

"What you're really asking is,
What's Jeff's story?
What makes Jeff ?"

"Yes."

"I think Art did a fine job of depicting Jeff here. Let's look at their ideas and take it from there."

Silence.

"Ideas? Thoughts?"

Silence.

Everyone suddenly remembered they were supposed to look interested. "Is he an adult turde?"

"No. He's a teenager. Didn't I say that?"

"Where does he live?"

"Players don't need to know that."

"Is he the only turde in the game?"

"Yes."

"Does he have magic powers?"

"No. He has boarding skill."

"Does he have a weak spot?"

"Yes—being flipped onto his back and left to die in the sun, or to have his innards ripped out by rogue weasels."

"Please," Steve said. "I believe in joshing around as much as the next guy, but let's all be serious. We have to get Jeff locked in by tomorrow."

"Jeff's not going to sing or do rap songs, is he?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

. . .

Three hours later Steve walked into jPod while I was procrastinating by downloading car crash images from a gore site in the Czech Republic.

"Steve. Uh, hi. You must be lost. What part of the building do you need to get to?"

"Here is fine."

"Oh."

'Your mother's a nice woman, Ethan."

"Well, yes."

"You're a lucky fellow."

"Thanks, Steve."

"She's got a good sense of humour. And when she talks to you, it's like you're the only person in the universe."

"Steve, I think I left my car in the parking lot." I stood up to go.

"Don't be in such a hurry. So, uh . . ." Steve began buying time. 'Your brother sells real estate, right?"

"Sort of." I explained Greg's specialty.

"You think he'd sell me a place?"

"It's your money, Steve."

I gave Greg's information to Steve, and he left. I sat down, turned to look at my screen and then had a blinding headache. It was time to go home—eight o'clock—the earliest I'd left since the last game shipped.

Upon arriving at my stylish Chinatown shack, I walked in the door to see that all my new furniture was gone, and my original furniture hadn't come back.
Fuck.
I phoned Greg, but realized he was on Cathay Pacific 889, headed to Hong Kong. I phoned Mom.

"Ethan, you didn't even like the furniture."

"That's not the point. There's nothing in my place. Nothing."

"If you had a girlfriend, there'd be more possessions."

'You told me to dump my girlfriend."

"She was a mess. Good riddance. Greg said you really made that generous Chinese businessman angry."

"Who?"

"The one whose furniture you made fun of. Kam Fong."

"I didn't mock it. It's just not
me."

"Me?
Someone lavishes you with opulent furniture, and you simply dismiss it as
'Not me'}"

"Okay, I didn't
teject
it. I merely grudgingly accepted it."

"Which in Chinese culture is like piercing the heart with a freshly sharpened oyster shucker."

Silence.

"Ethan, I'm not supposed to tell you, but you might as well know. Kam Fong was hurt by your rejection of his gift."

"He doesn't even know me."

"He knew you well enough to give you over fifty thousand dollars worth of premium lacquered maple furniture. Here I am trying to breathe a bit of life into my old side table with Krylon spray paint, while
you,
Mister
Trading Spaces,
turn your nose up at a windfall from heaven."

"I can't believe we're having this discussion."

"All I'm saying is that he's probably not the sort of person you should tick off. Be nice to him when visits you."

"What—he's going to be coming here?"

"Of course he is. He wants to hear from you in person why you snubbed him."

"When is he coming?"

"When did you get home?"

"A few minutes ago."

"I imagine he'll be there any time now."

"What?"

I hear a large purring rumble outside the kitchen window. "Shit. That'll be him."

"Just don't tick him off any more. He's an important person who can do wonders for your career."

"In videogames?"

"Offer him something to drink the moment he walks in. If my business with the Asians has taught me anything, it's the power of a drink the first time you meet them."

I heard a knock at the door, and when I opened it, I found a chauffeur in an outfit imported from a 1930s drawing-room comedy. "Hello?"

"You're Mister Ethan?"

"Yes."

"Please wait. Mister Fong will be with you in a moment."

The car was parked at the foot of the stairs, a manly black brute of a machine, of unidentifiable manufacture and era. Precapitalist Red China? India? Munster mobile? A minute passed while the driver conferred through the car's rear passenger window slit. I was expecting Kam Fong to resemble that knife-throwing guy in a bowler hat from
Gold finger;
instead, when he climbed out of the car, he was a guy a bit older than me—friendly-looking and decked out in Kid robot chic with a shattered hairdo, wearing a set of fawn skin Puma reissued runners worth five hundred bucks—which is to say he looked like most of the kids at work who do low-level coding, the job that lands them the biggest salary and perks. 'You're Ethan?"

"Yes."

"I'm Kam."

We shook hands.

"Hi. Uh, do you want to come in for a drink?" I was wearing garments traded with his most recent cargo shipment, but if he noticed, he didn't show it. He also seemed to be unfaded by the absence of any furniture.

"Why don't we go somewhere else?"

Insert a funeral dirge here.

"Uh—it's been a long day. I think I just want to crash."

"No. Come on. What—like I'm going to hurt you? Don't be crazy. You're Greg's brother."

Nervous laughter.

"I never meet people who say no to me. I'm a bit curious to see what sort of person Greg's brother might be."

"I didn't say no to your furniture, I . . ."
I don't want to put an oyster
shucker through your heart.
"Okay. Sure. Let's go."

We got into his car. "Look, about the furniture, I don't know what Greg told you, but—"

"Let's not talk about that. Not now."

"Where are we going?"

"A club I like. You know, I once visited someone out in the building where you work. Out in Burnaby."

That was odd. "Really?"

'Yes. I had to, er . . .
influence
somebody."

"Somebody up high?"

"No. At the bottom of your food chain. In quality assurance."

"Oh, Q/A. Everybody tortures the guys in Q/A. It's like being hazed for a living. But you're pretty high up the ladder—why would you bother with some kid in Q/A?"

"His father transferred ownership of several loads of, um,
cargo
into his name without asking me first."

"Wait a sec—if his family is so hoity-toity, why does he bother working at all, let alone in Q/A?"

"He enjoys bug testing."

"Get paid to play videogames!
'It's how they sucker staff into working there every time."

The car purred towards Kerrisdale. I'd always wanted to visit one of the neighborhood's fabled Chinese nightclubs, where white ghosts like me are never permitted. Sadly, after a few minutes of small talk, we pulled up to a derelict medical-dental office building from the 1950s; my visions of pyramids built of champagne flutes, and costly drinks paid for by someone else, vanished.

"Here?" I asked.

"Yes. Let's go in."

So we entered a cool lobby, lit by a single fluorescent tube, the walls resonating with coundess dental tortures of yore. We passed through oversized cherry wood doors, and then down a hallway to another pair of doors. I said, "You know why videogames make you wait for doors and gates to open between levels?"

"No, why?"

"The computer's buying time while it generates the new worlds behind them."

"Is that funny?"

"It wasn't supposed to be."

"I have no sense of humour."

"Huh?"

"No. I really don't. I pretend to laugh when I know someone's said something that, from experience, I know is supposed to be funny. To people with no sense of humour, laughing is a very ugly noise. Like my grandfather coughing up a throat-squid."

"Come on. You must find
something
funny—"

"No. Medically, legally, I have no sense of humour. It's a rare variety of autism. It doesn't even have a name."

More doors.

"Really?"

"It's a fact."

I heard sociable noises behind the final door. "What's in there?" I asked.

Kam jumped and turned to me while pulling something out of his rear pocket. "Freeze, asshole!"

I just about had a stroke.

"Gotcha," said Kam. "Come on in. This is a place I like to visit when I'm in town."

Kam Fong opened the door, and we walked into the middle of a ballroom dance club. He clapped his hands and a table with chairs appeared. "Cocktail?"

This was one of those moments when I remember saying to myself in a calm, clinically detached manner,
Ethan, you should simply
go with the flow.