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ANONYMOUS

JANUARY 1975

SUNNYVALE, CA

”So, tell me about yourself.”

The man leans back into his chair. His hand is poised—a thick cigarette placed between his ring and index finger. He missed a couple of spots on his jaw from when he last shaved, as the outline of his regrowing beard is greatly visible. There are wrinkles that settle beneath his eyes and around his nose. His messy desk is piled high with papers, and the smell of fresh coffee and cigarette smoke is filling up the office. It’s too tiny for the both of us, and the sunlight streaming into the window behind us is causing sweat to build up on my face and neck, ruining the plaid button down shirt and khaki pants that I had to hunt in the thrift shop for. I can’t afford office clothes. I could barely afford the bus ride I took to get over here.

I’ve always hated interviews.

It is simply not possible to fully assess a candidate’s skill set within thirty minutes. No one can convince me otherwise. I see it as more of a confounded personality test—that type of thing that the girls in my elementary class would do with each other with those cheesy teenage magazines during lunch break. A job itself isn’t supposed to be a friendship club. My previous one definitely wasn’t. I have very poor social skills myself. But I’ve spent many weeks practicing for this moment in front of the bathroom mirror of my apartment, which is much smaller than this office. With both of my palms, I smooth the nonexistent wrinkles from my freshly pressed pants and sit up straighter in my seat. The man’s eyes are boring into mine, behind his thick-framed glasses. I don’t know why he called me here on the phone. Perhaps I dream too much, hope too much.

I’ve been rejected from over a hundred jobs so far—some in the field I want, others not. I’ve filled out so many applications that there are permanent ink stains on my fingers. I’ve only been on three interviews prior to this one. This one will make no difference. I will most likely end up returning to restaurant work; maybe become a dishwasher or a server for the next couple of years, that is, until I can finish my education. I can perhaps find an internship upon graduation. I can mop floors, scrub sinks and toilets, just like I’ve been doing in the past few months. I can leave this place today accepting that my goals may not be as attainable as I once believed.

But it doesn’t hurt to try.

“I’ve always had a knack for arcade games, even as a kid.” I say, looking down at my clammy hands. “And…and computers. I often tinker with those from time to time.”

He looks at me and loudly clears his throat, as if he is expecting me to continue. I do not.

“I saw on your resume that you have quite a bit of restaurant experience, but you’ve listed out a couple of personal projects.” The man takes another puff of his cigarette, and smoke escapes from his mouth. I want to shove it directly down his throat. “You in school now?”

“Yes, sir.” I slightly bounce my left shoe against the wooden floor. “But I take night classes, so I’m available every day of the week. I’m familiar with BASIC, Pascal, and C. I…I’m still learning BCPL. I’m able to assemble any hardware if needed.” I pause for a moment, realizing I’ve spoken too fast. I look down again, avoiding his gaze.

He raises a gray eyebrow. “Do you have these projects of yours with you?”

I nod.

“Can we take a look?”

My hands slightly shake as I reach into my messenger bag and pull out the cartridges. They are marked in pen with random numbers that I have selected. The man frowns as he examines them. “Are these….”

”Just a couple of games that I’ve programmed in my own time outside of school,” I reply. “I’ve recently restored an 8-bit CPU computer that I found in the dumpster and been using that for my projects ever since. It took me a while to save up for some new parts, but I don’t mind at all. I have the punch cards for the programming language I used for those too, sir, if you would like to see them.”

But he’s no longer listening to me. He’s gotten up and moved to the television set on the other side of the room, and places one of my cartridges into the console sitting on a coffee table. I stand up from my chair as the screen flickers to life, and the white dots become visible. His back is faced to me as he picks up the console—his face illuminated by the light.

”You’re the spaceship,” I quietly say, as he moves one of the pixelated sprites from left to right. “The goal is to protect yourself from the flying saucers, asteroids, and aliens that are coming to attack you. I’ve….I’ve always been a fan of science fiction, you see. Outer space, that sort of thing.” As I approach the screen, I can see the delight in his eyes. With my finger, I point at the left side of the screen. “The more enemies you strike down, the more points you get. If you get hit, you lose all your points and have to start over from the very beginning. You see that line? Once you cross it, you make it to the next level.”

The sound of beeping and crashing sound effects fill the room as we both stand in silence. He manages to make it to level two after fifteen minutes, before putting the console down, chuckling upon seeing the rocket get smashed into a thousand bits. He places the cartridge on top of his desk. I glance at it for a moment, then back at him.

“How long did it take for you to develop this?”

My ears tingle. ”A little over nine months.”

The man smiled. “I see it was well worth it.”

I remain still, and I’m not sure what to say. He keeps nodding his head over and over again, like he’s on the phone with someone. It’s so quiet in here, yet the hallway outside is bustling with people drinking coffee, marching back and forth, and working on typewriters. For a second I think he’s going test out the other cartridges, but he speaks again.

“When you designed this, what did you have in mind for your players?”

I study the wall for a moment, listening to the ticking of the clock hanging above. “You know how when you’re playing in the middle of an arcade game, and you just know when it’s going to end? You got your coin, you put it in the slot, but the game only lasts for a short time, which kind of takes the player out of the experience. It makes them feel as if they have to rush before time runs out.”

The man sits on the side of his desk, folding his arms. He’s placed his cigarette into a marble ashtray.

“Of course, all games have a time limit,” I continue. “But with this one, I provide them with a destination they know they are able to reach. A place where they can belong. And that they are going to, that is, if they plan and strategize. It’s pointless to have a player do the same mundane task multiple times. That’s why I wanted to add several levels to mine. Because there’s new challenges. New monsters and creatures to encounter. Who doesn’t want to fight a monster from time to time?” I shove my hands into my pockets, surprised that I’m smiling. Drawing out the sprites was my most favorite part. “But that’s just for this particular game. The other ones, I’m—”

”Can you start Monday?” he asks.

I stare at him as if he’d suddenly grown a second head. My heart skips a beat.

He reaches for his cigarette again.

“Pardon?”

“How does Monday at 8 am work?”

Unable to speak, I nod and pick up my messenger bag. The strap digs into my shoulder, causing pain to shoot up my neck.

”Very good. On your first day, you’ll get your badge. I’ll get you all the necessary paperwork, which will be at your desk.”

I nod again.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nolan Jenkins, but you can just call me Nolan. No need for formalities.” He wheezes, and his yellow teeth glint in the light. “Just make sure you keep school separate from this. Stay focused on your classes. And don’t let those grades of yours slip. What year are you in?”

”I’m….I’m a sophomore.”

”You from here?”

”No,” I whisper, my smile fading away. My stomach tightens. Once Mama passed, I couldn’t stay in Louisiana for another minute. Couldn’t see them lower her into the ground in a wooden box. I couldn’t eat or sleep for days, or stay alone in that empty house without her presence, her footsteps.

“Are you planning to create more?”

His voice draws me back. I blink.

”More of what?”

Nolan tilts his head. “Games like these.”

”Games?” I softly ask. “No, no, sir. I don’t create just games. I create worlds.”

“I see,” he says, although there’s mild confusion in his voice. “Worlds, you say.”

I nod.

”Well, there’s no point waiting further. Are you interested in the position? Right now, we can only offer a junior role, but with a couple more years of experience, I can easily see you transitioning into a leadership position.” He gazes at the cigarette in his hand. “Of course, we will discuss pay, benefits, all of that.”

I nod again.

“Welcome to ATARI.” Nolan picks up my cartridge and wags it at me. “8 am sharp.” He doesn’t give it back to me, and walks out into the bustling hallway, disappearing into the swarms of people. The building itself is a nauseating shade of red, with circular outlines visible on the walls. I stand in his office for a long time, before finally exiting that tiny room.

* * * * * * * *

Big Basin Redwoods is only an hour away from Sunnyvale.

It is one of the oldest parks in the state of California, abundant with conifers, oaks, chaparral and riparian in a vast redwood forest. Because I do not have a car, I take the bus out of the city and walk the rest of the way there, with only a small bag, fifteen dollars in cash, and a water bottle in the backpack I am carrying. It is dark when I arrive, and I made sure to check the forecast on my television before I left my apartment for the weekend. It is Wednesday evening. I should be back by Saturday at the same time.

I’m still getting used to California. I don’t like beaches—there are crowds upon crowds of people there with their families, a constant reminder of what I have lost forever. I can’t stand their voices, see their smiles as they play with their children, swim in the waves, build lopsided sandcastles, slather sunscreen on their peeling skin, eat ice cream and drink fresh lemonade from the vendors on the boardwalk. Their hair matches the sun. I burn with envy when I see these people, and I cannot stay and watch them flaunt in front of me what I can never have in this world.

There are so many palm trees that I’ve lost count of them all. Despite the sweltering heat, I remain in baggy, long sleeved faded button-down shirts and jeans, while everyone wears bathing suits, shirts, shorts, mini skirts and dresses. My tiny apartment provides a vast perspective of the city—a massive view that many people would kill for, but it only makes the emptiness worse.

I know that Mama would’ve loved the beach, though. She grew up in Miami, and when I was really little, around three or four years old, she would take me there to visit my grandparents before they passed, and we would swim in the waves. And I can imagine her laughing when the water licks her heels, when she collects broken seashells. I miss her smile. I miss the sound of her voice. I miss seeing the clear glow on her face once she’d go a period without drinking—in between her relapses.

In a way, I am relieved to escape my apartment for a couple days. Since I own very little, the move was very smooth. I have my own bedroom, bathroom, living and dining room. I have my computer, my graph paper, my punch cards, my designs, my overpriced schoolbooks that I have highlighted page after page to remember each programming language I am taking courses for. I have only seen my landlord once, and I am never late with the rent.

When I remember to bathe, I soak in my bathtub in the evenings as I go through a cigarette, the water being so hot it scalds my skin. It’s harder most days, as I spend the entirety of my day laying in my bed, only crawling out at night to make it to my former restaurant shift. I don’t brush my teeth or comb my hair; those things take too much effort. I’m tired all the time, yet I can never really fall asleep. I regret how I used to judge Mama so harshly for sleeping all day when I was a child; I understand the heaviness that falls upon your shoulders, how it seems impossible and meaningless do anything.

Because of this, my grades aren’t the best—I have failed two of my classes and must repeat them next semester. I am on academic probation; my GPA is a whopping 1.9. I’ve only started smoking more heavily after Mama’s funeral, but the sight of spirits and whiskey disgust me. I need the structure of a new daytime job much more than the money.

I love hot water. It makes me understand what it is like to be held, mimic the feeling of someone’s flesh against my own.

My wilted plants sit on my bedroom window back at my apartment, and I water them daily, tend to their leaves. In the midst of my loneliness, I talk to them, imagine that they listen and understand me. I don’t know how many meals I can take by myself when I sit alone at the dining room table, and there is no point in preparing them, if I have no one to share them with. The unfamiliarity of my surroundings do not help either. I’ve stopped eating all together, and I am wasting away. Food tastes like sawdust, and cigarettes are much more appealing. I can see my ribs. Each month, I carve out another hole in my belt.

My red Converse crunch against the leaves.

Despite the darkness, a sky of glistening stars above awaits me. The air is deliciously cool, and I tread through the grass, avoiding and cutting through all the trails, listening to each tree branch sway back and forth in the wind. The scent of pine trees and sweet earth fill my nose, so strong I can almost taste it. I can hear the crickets sing their song, the gentle trickling of fresh water pouring through the thick rocks through the towering waterfall.

I remove my clothes and shoes, place them into my bag behind a bush, and slowly step into the water. Mud clings to my bare feet, gradually rising to my ankles with each step I take. No one will see me out here. It’s freezing, and my skin tingles as I submerge myself deeper below, my hair swarming around my eyes, nose, and face. It is so much louder below, but I am floating. I am so very much lighter in this place than on land. Whatever tension and soreness settles into my joints gradually fades away.

Bubbles rise from my mouth. After a few moments, I break through the surface and step out of the water, which drips off my soaked hair. I am no longer cold, and when I lay on my back and gaze up at the sky in the grass, moonlight spilling upon my nude form, a small smile forms on my lips. My fingers run across the soft dirt on the ground, and I imagine, just for a moment in time, if a video game could provide such an experience as this—-not to simply see a programmed world, but be in it, to physically interact with it just the same as outside of a mere television or arcade game screen. To have it right at their fingertips, so they understand that there is no reason to leave such a wonderful, glorious place. I want to create this. I shall create it.

The grass is so very soft against my wet skin, resembling a fuzzy blanket. The aching that has been present in my stomach ever since Mama’s funeral and my own coming to terms that I have no family on this earth begins to disappear. But it is only temporary. It will come back. It always does.

Beneath my bare flesh, the earth is warm—pulsing, almost alive. I know it is alive. I sense it. I want it to stay with me, as it is the only companionship I have. Yet it must depart, as everything does. My chest rises and falls; something has gotten stuck into it.

I am so lonely.

Loneliness is what I know; it is all I know, a part of me that I have learned how to accept. Now that Mama is gone, I must ensure that those I wish to help with my work will never experience being completely alone, as I am, and will always be. But this sensation of peace is strangely overwhelming, and the trees bring me in. They come closer and closer, until I can lean my head against their sturdy bark and seek refuge, their leaves comforting me.

I exhale and slowly close my swollen eyes.

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