Even if he were twenty again rather than forty-three, he would never have a body like Xenon’s, but living in bodies such as Xenon’s in his gameworlds had given Jack the impetus to get into better shape at forty-three than he actually was at twenty… That was a good deal of what gave him the idea to include the older warriors or King Filander’s firm muscles behind slightly stretched-out skin. If kids who bought his game didn’t care about older characters in the gameworld, they probably wouldn’t mind. It added to verisimilitude of atmosphere, which the kids would appreciate as much as any older player.
Jack felt good, physically as well as emotionally, as he brushed his still-thick hair, sprinkled with just enough gray to look distinguished. But then he thought: Gratification. Positive resolution. Egads!
Jack plunged back into his game-world. He had less than an hour before he needed to leave for dinner. Never mind refining background psychology for now. Why Xenon didn’t know better before he shot his arrow and no one stopped him could come later. What Jack needed for Sheila now was some way for a game character to readily resolve a negative emotional situation to a positive one.
The scenario was still rough when Jack shut down and dashed out to his elderly Datsun, hair more disheveled than distinguished, dress shirt rumpled and a bit sweaty… Jack wondered, but had never really investigated, if mental effort caused him to sweat or if physical exertion of his game surrogate somehow bled through… The scenario was rough, but he had something, at least, to show Sheila.
The game did not now end with Xenon’s shame. Now what happened, when shame unexpectedly overtook Xenon, was that the game announced: “Congratulations. You have just found one of the keys to this gameworld. You are now ready to enter the next level of Warrior s Honor.” Lots of possibilities followed. But the player—as Xenon—now consciously knew that to win at the game he could only defeat another warrior who knowingly fought him, and that both must look the other in the eyes.
Rough, but Sheila would be much happier. Truth to tell, Jack liked it better this way too. The game conveyed emotional context, but it also gave the player positive reward to strive for.
Jack dodged traffic, only recently become so thick and fast in Ace High, New Mexico, through crisp early winter evening. Even with the lights of the small city of ten thousand, stars sparkled overhead nearly as bright, it seemed to Jack, as in the pristine skies of his gameworld.
Sheila met Jack in the lobby of the Rimrock. Her thick, black hair had about as much gray in it as Jack’s, but lay neat on the fresh, green, cotton blouse she wore this evening.
“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting?” Jack greeted Sheila.
“I’ve only been here a minute,” Sheila replied. “Been hunting mastodons again?”
“That bad, huh?” Jack grinned, and ran a hand through his fly-away hair.
“Not bad at all,” said Sheila. “You just look like you’ve been up to your eyebrows in inspiration.”
“Thanks. You look great, as always. How’s the family?”
“Fine.”
Jack caught Alice Merriweather’s eye. The Rimrock’s efficient manager, Alice, knew them both. “Got your table all set for you,” Alice smiled. “The rellenos are top notch tonight.”
“Thanks.” Jack and Sheila followed Alice to the table Sheila customarily preferred when meeting with clients… Jack had seen Sheila at the same table with another client, at a different one with her husband, Sam, and their four-year-old daughter.
Aida. Jack was impressed that Alice remembered them among so many customers.
Frances, their waitress, knew both Jack and Sheila, too. She brought their chips and salsa and remembered that Sheila preferred her water without ice. Sheila did order the chiles rellenos. Jack ordered a combination plate, which included a relleno. They ordered a carafe of the house red wine. They didn’t even ask what it was. They knew Alice, as a matter of course, served a wine of miraculous quality for its price.
“Well, what have you got for me?” Sheila asked, as Frances headed for the kitchen with their order. Sheila dipped a warm, crisp tortilla chip in the salsa. The Rimrock made its own salsa, fresh daily. Jack could smell the cilantro.
Jack told Sheila about his breakthrough: “Emotions of context: I’ve done it. The game conveys feelings your character would have in its world, whether or not it would occur to you… or even to your character.”
Jack told Sheila about Xenon and his bow and how he felt the difference between shame when he shot the Kronx warrior at a distance, unseen, and honor in fighting another brave warrior face to face.
“King Filander!” Sheila laughed. “Really!”
“I’ll change it,” Jack grinned and blushed simultaneously. “There’s a lot to refine.”
“No,” said Sheila. “Keep it. Most players won’t get it. Those who do will get a kick out of it.”
Jack smiled a bit sheepishly. He continued telling Sheila about the emotional reality of the game.
Frances brought their wine.
“Frances,” Sheila asked, “where’s Gary tonight?”
Jack knew one reason Sheila liked that particular table was that she and a client could talk there well. Quiet, private, out of the way, at the same time it was comfortable with a pleasant view of the Rimrock’s tasteful decor—wood trim. Just the right amount of light. Good quality paintings by (albeit only recently) local artists, mostly of people in local, Southwestern settings. The other reason Sheila and Jack liked this table was that it gave them a good view of Gary Cummins, who had played classical guitar at the Rimrock from October to April, Wednesday through Saturday evenings, the past four years. The distance was just right: close enough to hear the music, far enough for discussion.
“Oh, it’s awful,” said Frances. “He had to quit. He walks over, you know. Gang kids have been hassling him. They beat him up on his way over last Friday. It was dark, but it was only five-thirty. They broke his guitar.”
“That’s obscene!” said Sheila. “Despicable little cowards!”
Jack agreed. It was also shocking.
Ten years ago, Ace High was a sleepy mining town. Four years ago, it had a nice little local arts scene. Three years ago it got discovered. Four galleries mushroomed to forty. From zero, there suddenly were six espresso shops. New upscale Toyotas and Volvos would outnumber old Ford and Chevy pickups any day. Several of the latter now sported a bumper sticker which read: “Kill a yuppie for Jesus.”
Businesses that struggled for five years to keep Main Street alive after the Wal-Mart came in on the highway—just half a mile beyond the Ace High city limits, where it didn’t pay city taxes—got swept right out of locations some of them had been in for three generations this last year, when rents sextupled.
The patriarch of a long-time local Hispanic family was now in jail, awaiting trial for assaulting a city zoning inspector with a mortar trowel. The old man had been building a two-foot rock wall along the lower side of his yard to keep Southwest summer monsoon rains from washing out the soil. The city zoning inspector had delivered a cease-and-desist order on the stone wall and a citation, for failure to obtain a permit.
Four years ago, no one in Ace High, New Mexico, had ever thought of needing a permit to maintain their own home and property. Wages were low Living costs were low. Neighbors were friendly. Any violence in the streets, of which there was little, was between people who knew each other, almost always when all participants were drunk. Two years ago there were a total of two gang-related incidents. In the last six months there had been so many stabbings, shootings, robberies, and arbitrary assaults on persons and property that no one could even keep track any more.