.....Wolfe made his way past the banks of video games. Howls of simulated mayhem squawked from speakers in response to the rapid caress and urgent tap of fingers. Youths rocked their hips in solo dances with pixels, slammed their crotches against the machines.
.....He glanced over the shoulder of one the players, keeping his distance to avoid the boy's ducking and weaving. The snap of a dull green Army surplus trenchcoat enforced the distance.
.....Tight-lipped and unblinking, the lanky boy fired back at the digital terrorist attack. The screen flickered with the images of crudely-rendered Arabs firing off AK-47s as they leapt from the dark maws of shattered windows, jabbering “Akbar! Akbar! Akbar!” before disintegrating under the boy’s deadly aim.
.....The game was coded by the best designers money could buy, the money supplied by the taxpayers of the United States and funneled through the United States Army.
.....It was an arcade prototype of the popular online recruiting tool, America’s Army.
.....The Arabs may have been caricatures, but the mayhem was gloriously detailed. The state-of-the-art sound system depicted the gunfire, explosions and screams with remarkable fidelity.
.....The game was supplied free of charge to the arcade, and a thick cable ran from the back of the machine and snaked into a jack in the wall.
.....Finally, the last terrorist was blown to bloody pieces and large block letters filled the screen:
.....MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
.....The boy tapped in his initials to mark the high score: MSZ.
.....All but one of the spots were taken up by MSZ, with an interloper nicked SAG hanging in there at number ten.
.....Wolfe shook his head and moved on to the counter to join a queue of one, a small boy trading in his penny collection for quarters. The chain-smoking attendant was indifferent to anything but his cigarette, but at least postured himself as if he were following the count.
.....“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty...” the boy counted off, separating the coins into two piles.
.....From deep in the bowels of the arcade came a frustrated “Fuck!” and the boy’s shoulders spasmed. He paused, a frown crossing his features. His count began to skip.
.....“Thirty... thirty...”
.....The attendant glanced at Wolfe and sighed. Wolfe mimed smacking the kid alongside the head and the clerk’s cigarette danced between his grin.
.....The boy swept the two separate piles back together and started over.
.....“One. Two...”
.....Wolfe checked his watch and glanced around the arcade to find a way to occupy his time.
.....The movement of a US Army sergeant in full dress uniform caught his attention. The soldier was making a beeline for the kid in the trenchcoat. Wolfe was amused at how gaudy the uniform looked when you slapped a red loop of braid across the shoulder.
.....The sergeant looked like some razor-creased Christmas decoration.
.....The teen at the video game found his hand stopped as he reached to feed in another coin. The US Army recruiter dropped in a coin of his own, and smiled with a flash of perfect teeth.
.....“Here,” offered the sergeant. “Allow your Uncle to pay for this one.”
.....The boy eyed him blankly. “I don’t have...”
.....“Uncle Sam, that is.”
.....“Oh... right.” The teen paused. The game was already paid for, he finally admitted, so he hit START.
.....The program reloaded and presented a fresh cityscape to obliterate, dark recesses primed with electronic surprises.
.....Unlike the other arcade games, there was no head-banging soundtrack to accompany the gameplay, just an eerie moan of wind through the canyons between buildings. Ambient sounds of distant explosions filled out the atmosphere.
.....And then the mayhem began anew.
.....The recruiter maintained a respectful silence, content to offer an occasional appreciative chuckle for a well-placed shot.
.....The game played out and initials were entered in the top spot. SAG was summarily banished until the next comer with a handful of coins.
.....Perhaps. The top scores were pretty damned impressive.
.....The recruiter finally spoke. “MSZ, I presume?”
.....The kid eyed him cautiously. “Yeah.”
.....“Are those your initials?”
.....The teen glanced at the screen and nodded. The recruiter waited.
.....And waited, as the boy looked everywhere but at him.
.....The recruiter extended his hand. “Sergeant First Class Gary Hutchins. United States Army.”
.....Reluctantly, the boy took the offered hand and shook. “Mike Ziegler. Just plain Mike Ziegler.”
.....“Don’t sell yourself short,” the recruiter replied, indicating the game. “You've got some phenomenal eye-hand coordination going on there. Extraordinary reaction time, and equally impressive tactical skills.”
.....He leveled his gaze at Mike. “Have you ever considered...”
.....“I gotta go.” Mike cut him off, picking up his backpack and shouldering it. “School, y’know?”
.....A perplexed look crossed the recruiter’s face and he checked his Rolex.
.....“It’s Sunday,” he observed.
.....Mike shrugged, glancing at the clock over the door. “Sunday school. I’m late.”
.....He turned, then half-looked back over his shoulder. “Thanks for the game.”
.....The recruiter smiled, waving dismissively. “Not my money. I suppose your dad paid for it, in a way.”
.....“Right.”
.....Mike moved to the door, paused in the sudden sunlight, then hung a right and disappeared.
.....Smile still in place, Sgt. Hutchins pulled an olive-drab BlackBerry from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. He tapped in the boy’s name. His fingers darted across the keypad and added City and Estimated Age.
.....After a brief hum, an address came up on the screen under the parent’s names, Steve and Mary Ziegler.
.....He glanced up as Wolfe passed, sorting his change in palm.
.....The two men exchanged nods as Wolfe headed for the door with a quarter in hand.
.....He was too late. Tucked beneath the wiper, a ticket waited for him.
.....“Son of a...”
.....He pocketed the ticket, then dropped the quarter in the meter.
.....It gave him ten minutes.
.....“Fucking rip-off.”
.....The fat half of a mother-daughter team glared at his language as they passed. Mumu-mama out for a walk with her soft-focus cheerleader. Lolita and her wary escort. Young curves barely concealed by sun-drenched school colors of red and gold, guarded by a thundercloud of Hawaiian print.
.....But the chill of mother’s stink-eye was washed away in the sudden warmth of a Mona Lisa smile offered to Wolfe by the young girl. Her eyes quickly averted.
.....The pair passed with a sullen waddle and a sudden hip snap, respectively.
.....Wolfe maintained a leisurely pace as he made his way down the sidewalk. He began to drop in on old memories, matching them against the current corporate slate of his hometown.
.....The incongruities were readily apparent. Old haunts were shuttered, dark sockets of windows empty of merchandise and looking balefully out to the street. Sun-bleached “Going out of Business” signs peeled back from behind dusty glass.
.....But other shops thrived, familiar now to Wolfe but alien in the context.
.....The Gap. Starbucks. Subway. Jack in the Box...
.....The plastic signage of the chainstores were bolted to faded wood frames and dusty red brick, ill-fitting as a miniskirt on a nun.
.....Outside the burger chain, Wolfe realized abstractly that the OX in the box could also be taken for the ichthys, wondering if...
.....A man of the cloth abruptly exited the fast food joint, nearly colliding with him.
.....Wolfe stepped back, out of his way. “Excuse me.”
.....“That’s okay,” the reverend replied with a smile. “Have a nice...”
.....The smile faded as he looked past him.
.....Wolfe turned as the reverend moved around him to cross the street towards a small boy and girl sharing a bench in the patch of central park, his jaw set grimly as the rest of him followed.
.....Oncoming traffic slowed in respect, giving him the right of way.
.....He mounted the sidewalk. “Willy, could you come here for a moment?”
.....Willy glanced to the girl, then dutifully rose to approach as the reverend knelt down to eye level, and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
.....“What did I tell you about girls, last week in class?” he reminded the boy.
.....Willy was suddenly interested in a crack in the sidewalk.
.....“That they’re silly,” he replied, kicking at the crack as if to make it go away. It didn't.
.....“And why do they wear makeup and perfume?”
.....“Because they’re ugly and they stink...”
.....The reverend chuckled at his own joke. “And?”
.....“That they have cooties?”
.....“That’s right.” The smile brightened. “Very good.”
.....With a forefinger, he eased the boy’s chin up to meet his gaze.
.....“Then I’ll see you in class today. Right, Willy?”
.....“Yes, sir.”
.....“That’s a good boy.” Willy turned to collect his gear from the bench, and in one fluid motion the reverend patted the boy’s ass and stood, hands sliding comfortably in pockets.
.....Willy paused in half turn, then hurried back to the bench. He avoided the girl’s gaze.
.....“I’m gonna be late for class,” Willy muttered, gathering up his books. Without looking back, he plodded off across the grass.
.....The girl looked across to the reverend, who met her gaze of rebuke stonily. Glancing away and down, she realized that the laces on her shoes needed adjusting. She took her time at it. .....When she looked back up, the man was gone.
.....As the reverend moved briskly down the sidewalk towards the gleaming spire that rose over the houses down the blocks ahead, he crossed paths with a pair of matrons.
.....He nodded his head and smiled warmly.
.....He glanced over the shoulder of one the players, keeping his distance to avoid the boy's ducking and weaving. The snap of a dull green Army surplus trenchcoat enforced the distance.
.....Tight-lipped and unblinking, the lanky boy fired back at the digital terrorist attack. The screen flickered with the images of crudely-rendered Arabs firing off AK-47s as they leapt from the dark maws of shattered windows, jabbering “Akbar! Akbar! Akbar!” before disintegrating under the boy’s deadly aim.
.....The game was coded by the best designers money could buy, the money supplied by the taxpayers of the United States and funneled through the United States Army.
.....It was an arcade prototype of the popular online recruiting tool, America’s Army.
.....The Arabs may have been caricatures, but the mayhem was gloriously detailed. The state-of-the-art sound system depicted the gunfire, explosions and screams with remarkable fidelity.
.....The game was supplied free of charge to the arcade, and a thick cable ran from the back of the machine and snaked into a jack in the wall.
.....Finally, the last terrorist was blown to bloody pieces and large block letters filled the screen:
.....MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
.....The boy tapped in his initials to mark the high score: MSZ.
.....All but one of the spots were taken up by MSZ, with an interloper nicked SAG hanging in there at number ten.
.....Wolfe shook his head and moved on to the counter to join a queue of one, a small boy trading in his penny collection for quarters. The chain-smoking attendant was indifferent to anything but his cigarette, but at least postured himself as if he were following the count.
.....“Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty...” the boy counted off, separating the coins into two piles.
.....From deep in the bowels of the arcade came a frustrated “Fuck!” and the boy’s shoulders spasmed. He paused, a frown crossing his features. His count began to skip.
.....“Thirty... thirty...”
.....The attendant glanced at Wolfe and sighed. Wolfe mimed smacking the kid alongside the head and the clerk’s cigarette danced between his grin.
.....The boy swept the two separate piles back together and started over.
.....“One. Two...”
.....Wolfe checked his watch and glanced around the arcade to find a way to occupy his time.
.....The movement of a US Army sergeant in full dress uniform caught his attention. The soldier was making a beeline for the kid in the trenchcoat. Wolfe was amused at how gaudy the uniform looked when you slapped a red loop of braid across the shoulder.
.....The sergeant looked like some razor-creased Christmas decoration.
.....The teen at the video game found his hand stopped as he reached to feed in another coin. The US Army recruiter dropped in a coin of his own, and smiled with a flash of perfect teeth.
.....“Here,” offered the sergeant. “Allow your Uncle to pay for this one.”
.....The boy eyed him blankly. “I don’t have...”
.....“Uncle Sam, that is.”
.....“Oh... right.” The teen paused. The game was already paid for, he finally admitted, so he hit START.
.....The program reloaded and presented a fresh cityscape to obliterate, dark recesses primed with electronic surprises.
.....Unlike the other arcade games, there was no head-banging soundtrack to accompany the gameplay, just an eerie moan of wind through the canyons between buildings. Ambient sounds of distant explosions filled out the atmosphere.
.....And then the mayhem began anew.
.....The recruiter maintained a respectful silence, content to offer an occasional appreciative chuckle for a well-placed shot.
.....The game played out and initials were entered in the top spot. SAG was summarily banished until the next comer with a handful of coins.
.....Perhaps. The top scores were pretty damned impressive.
.....The recruiter finally spoke. “MSZ, I presume?”
.....The kid eyed him cautiously. “Yeah.”
.....“Are those your initials?”
.....The teen glanced at the screen and nodded. The recruiter waited.
.....And waited, as the boy looked everywhere but at him.
.....The recruiter extended his hand. “Sergeant First Class Gary Hutchins. United States Army.”
.....Reluctantly, the boy took the offered hand and shook. “Mike Ziegler. Just plain Mike Ziegler.”
.....“Don’t sell yourself short,” the recruiter replied, indicating the game. “You've got some phenomenal eye-hand coordination going on there. Extraordinary reaction time, and equally impressive tactical skills.”
.....He leveled his gaze at Mike. “Have you ever considered...”
.....“I gotta go.” Mike cut him off, picking up his backpack and shouldering it. “School, y’know?”
.....A perplexed look crossed the recruiter’s face and he checked his Rolex.
.....“It’s Sunday,” he observed.
.....Mike shrugged, glancing at the clock over the door. “Sunday school. I’m late.”
.....He turned, then half-looked back over his shoulder. “Thanks for the game.”
.....The recruiter smiled, waving dismissively. “Not my money. I suppose your dad paid for it, in a way.”
.....“Right.”
.....Mike moved to the door, paused in the sudden sunlight, then hung a right and disappeared.
.....Smile still in place, Sgt. Hutchins pulled an olive-drab BlackBerry from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. He tapped in the boy’s name. His fingers darted across the keypad and added City and Estimated Age.
.....After a brief hum, an address came up on the screen under the parent’s names, Steve and Mary Ziegler.
.....He glanced up as Wolfe passed, sorting his change in palm.
.....The two men exchanged nods as Wolfe headed for the door with a quarter in hand.
.....He was too late. Tucked beneath the wiper, a ticket waited for him.
.....“Son of a...”
.....He pocketed the ticket, then dropped the quarter in the meter.
.....It gave him ten minutes.
.....“Fucking rip-off.”
.....The fat half of a mother-daughter team glared at his language as they passed. Mumu-mama out for a walk with her soft-focus cheerleader. Lolita and her wary escort. Young curves barely concealed by sun-drenched school colors of red and gold, guarded by a thundercloud of Hawaiian print.
.....But the chill of mother’s stink-eye was washed away in the sudden warmth of a Mona Lisa smile offered to Wolfe by the young girl. Her eyes quickly averted.
.....The pair passed with a sullen waddle and a sudden hip snap, respectively.
.....Wolfe maintained a leisurely pace as he made his way down the sidewalk. He began to drop in on old memories, matching them against the current corporate slate of his hometown.
.....The incongruities were readily apparent. Old haunts were shuttered, dark sockets of windows empty of merchandise and looking balefully out to the street. Sun-bleached “Going out of Business” signs peeled back from behind dusty glass.
.....But other shops thrived, familiar now to Wolfe but alien in the context.
.....The Gap. Starbucks. Subway. Jack in the Box...
.....The plastic signage of the chainstores were bolted to faded wood frames and dusty red brick, ill-fitting as a miniskirt on a nun.
.....Outside the burger chain, Wolfe realized abstractly that the OX in the box could also be taken for the ichthys, wondering if...
.....A man of the cloth abruptly exited the fast food joint, nearly colliding with him.
.....Wolfe stepped back, out of his way. “Excuse me.”
.....“That’s okay,” the reverend replied with a smile. “Have a nice...”
.....The smile faded as he looked past him.
.....Wolfe turned as the reverend moved around him to cross the street towards a small boy and girl sharing a bench in the patch of central park, his jaw set grimly as the rest of him followed.
.....Oncoming traffic slowed in respect, giving him the right of way.
.....He mounted the sidewalk. “Willy, could you come here for a moment?”
.....Willy glanced to the girl, then dutifully rose to approach as the reverend knelt down to eye level, and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
.....“What did I tell you about girls, last week in class?” he reminded the boy.
.....Willy was suddenly interested in a crack in the sidewalk.
.....“That they’re silly,” he replied, kicking at the crack as if to make it go away. It didn't.
.....“And why do they wear makeup and perfume?”
.....“Because they’re ugly and they stink...”
.....The reverend chuckled at his own joke. “And?”
.....“That they have cooties?”
.....“That’s right.” The smile brightened. “Very good.”
.....With a forefinger, he eased the boy’s chin up to meet his gaze.
.....“Then I’ll see you in class today. Right, Willy?”
.....“Yes, sir.”
.....“That’s a good boy.” Willy turned to collect his gear from the bench, and in one fluid motion the reverend patted the boy’s ass and stood, hands sliding comfortably in pockets.
.....Willy paused in half turn, then hurried back to the bench. He avoided the girl’s gaze.
.....“I’m gonna be late for class,” Willy muttered, gathering up his books. Without looking back, he plodded off across the grass.
.....The girl looked across to the reverend, who met her gaze of rebuke stonily. Glancing away and down, she realized that the laces on her shoes needed adjusting. She took her time at it. .....When she looked back up, the man was gone.
.....As the reverend moved briskly down the sidewalk towards the gleaming spire that rose over the houses down the blocks ahead, he crossed paths with a pair of matrons.
.....He nodded his head and smiled warmly.
1 comment:
yikes!
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