“So have I,” Oscar replied. “We’ll be alright. You know, they’ll fix us right up, and then maybe after, when we’re better, maybe we can meet for a coffee and talk about it. Or maybe we can go for pancakes. What do you say?”
A light came on in the other man’s bright eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, mouth spreading.
“Oscar Peters?”
Oscar’s head whipped to the side, gaze landing on a nurse in scrubs, her long blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. She had an encouraging smile on her face, the same blue eyes as his mother. Kinder.
“They’re ready for you,” she said.
Oscar gave her a nod and turned to the other man.
“Good luck, I guess,” the other man replied. “And yes. Pancakes sound perfect. I’ll leave my number for you at the reception desk.”
“I’ll ask for it,” Oscar replied, standing up. He’d have to text Lina before he undressed. “Youaregoing to be fine.”
“Yeah,” the other man said. “I know that now. Name’s Aaron, by the way.”
“Oscar,” Oscar replied, mouth spreading into a smile. “But you can call me Spike.”
1
ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT
Oscar imagined that when other people grumbled about an insufferable boss, they weren’t referring to a twelve-foot hunk of skinless muscle and bone dripping venomous saliva on the broken stone tile of an abandoned churchyard. But then, most people didn’t get to play video games for a living, so maybe Oscar should grumble a little less.
The bloodcurdling scream of his perishing character cut through the relative silence of his apartment, but he’d died so many times, Luigi never even perked up anymore. The cat had grown as accustomed to the sound of Oscar’s failure as he had to the whining of the fridge and the ticking of the clock above the kitchen sink.
Oscar set the controller down on his couch and picked up his phone, scrolling through the notifications, the useless reminders to drink water and squeeze in a few steps to reach his daily goal.
You can still make it to 10,000 by the end of the day, said the optimistic app mascot.
“Talk to me when you’ve just had top surgery, bud,” Oscarmumbled. He scrolled past, his heart picking up pace at the sight of the green icon of his messaging app.
Lina: How’s your morning? Look what I made!
Oscar felt a little guilty about the disappointment he felt at seeing her name. It wasn’t Lina’s fault he’d been ghosted by the one guy he’d actually liked in months. Maybe he shouldn’t have expected a stranger he’d met one time in a clinic to actually text him.
The picture made him smile, at least. Lina’s manicured hands were wrapped around a large round dish covered with oat and chocolate chip cookies—Papa’s recipe.
Oscar: Yum! Using this pic in my defense when my boss sues me for baking during working hours!!
Lina: Papa approves!
Oscar waited for the picture of their father that would follow, two thumbs up with his eyes crinkled and his messy hair all over the place. A few weeks before he died.
“Back to it,” Oscar said to no one in particular. He put down his phone, rubbing the soft velvety fur between Luigi’s ears and stretching his thumbs as he prepared for another grueling round against the boss he hadn’t been able to beat over the last week.
This gig had been a real godsend for his recovery. Summers for Oscar usually meant bussing tables, washing dishes, and mopping floors, none of which his doctor had certified him for, and those weren’t the kinds of jobs that gave extended sick leave. In the fall, Oscar would have to send the Digital Games Assistant Prof the most expensive bottle of whiskey he couldafford, just to thank her for getting him the interview in the first place.
Right now, though, his thumbs ached, and his frustration had reached peak levels. How many days in a row was he supposed to sit through the same line of dialogue, the same part of the soundtrack, the same death sequence? It wasn’t like he could put the game on mute and listen to music. Suffering the same things over and over againwaspart of beta testing, and Oscar already knew what feedback he would give once he got through this impossible level. Most people didn’thavetwelve hours a day to master their gaming skills, and certainly not the patience this ugly fucker snarling at his character required.
Two rounds later, Oscar was just about ready to give up and head into the kitchen to start baking cookies. His day was far from over, but he could always claim his eyes had started burning. Therehadto be some allowance for stuff like that, right?
“Come on, let’s give it another go. What do you say, Lu?” Oscar said to his stretching cat. He envied him the flexibility, but things were already far better than they’d been just a week before, so maybe Oscar should be grateful. This was everything he’d ever wanted, after all.
Yawning, Oscar waited for his character to respawn and started making his way to the churchyard, repeating the character’s line word for word. It was a well-written script; he’d give them that. But maybe the writers hadn’t been told players would be hearing it seven thousand times. Oscar supposed even that Robin Williams speech fromDead Poets Societywould become eye-roll-worthy if someone forced him to listen to it seven thousand times. He’d bet money he’d still be crying while he rolled his eyes, though. It had been Papa’s favorite film.
“Die, fucker,” he muttered, despite the fleshy monster being several hits away from its demise.
