Castle in the sky

Have you noticed how money changes everything? Take, let’s say, for instance, the grass. Now, with my normal settings, when I’ve got to set my render distance to “spitting” and my textures to “cubist,” when I’m paying for every kilobit down the wire, and the servers drip it through to me like rations to a serf, while others, they sit in tubs of it, splashing around in gigabits and TERABITS, frolicking through fields of data, with things like microfauna and air pressure reproduced to the highest fidelity, under those circumstances I’m not in a position to, like, appreciate the grass. But here and now, with someone else footing the bill and now I’m the one splashing around under the free flowing waterfall of data, I can appreciate the grass. It’s darker on the waxy side and lighter on the other. Each blade is distinct. Whenever there’s a gust they do a kind of bend and twist at the waist, bowing politely, like an army of emerald soldiers greeting a king in his castle, which in my imagination is also emerald, real emerald. I can practically see their little smiles, one on each blade, smiling up at their king.

Anywhere you look there’s something to see, flowers, marble fountains with cupids spitting water, pebble paths laid out in complex geometries that crunch and shift below your shoes. There’s a topiary of a dragon at the far end of the courtyard, facing the entrance of the castle. It’s upright and furious, its neck extended way out above a path in a way that would be impossible in the real world without, like, steel girders in the branches. Godfrey, he’s really gone all out with this one. Paying for everyone’s session must have cost a fortune. Not that he hasn’t got the money, I know he does. I know because once I was able to take a peek at his default settings. Normally that stuff’s kept strictly private, sub rosa, tacitly acknowledged as only one person’s business and all that. But I couldn’t help it. The one time we met up IRL all those years ago I took a peek at his dock, and there it was, every slider set so far to the right I thought the screen might tilt off the table. So I suppose it’s not all that generous, footing the bill, since it’s his event and all and he can afford it. But he didn’t have to do it. I would have come even if he hadn’t. I would have logged in and spent as much time as he wanted yammering with all his buddies that I didn’t know he had and spending my money to celebrate him, on his big day.

Here comes Jackman, walking so upright and aristocratic but only smiling with half his face. His smile always makes him seem like he’s hiding something from you, that there’s something so infinitely and inscrutably amusing about you and this situation and behind his smile he’s yakking it up but just can’t be bothered to articulate it to anyone else, clue us in a bit.

“Giovanni, I thought that was you.”

“Hey Jackman I knew it was you.”

“This is pretty great isn’t it?” He half-smiles.

“Yeah it’s cool.” I sniffed. “I’ve never been up here before.”

“Nor have I,” he replies. That surprises me. This little island has been the go-to venue for all the more serious and moneyed type players to host their galas and get-togethers for years. “How’ve you been?” He asks. “I haven’t had much chance to log on lately.”

“I’ve been fine. Yeah I noticed.”

…

…

Jackman raises his eyebrows. “Shall we go in?” He says. “The real party’s inside I’m sure.”

Oh man the castle. It was fine from a distance, out on the courtyard, but coming up to it every little nook and cranny was carved and detailed within an inch of its life. I tried to walk naturally up to the NPC guardsman in his funny Vatical guard outfit and nearly snapped my neck leering at the archway while my feet kept me on a collision course. The ceremony space is more churchy than I expected. I wonder if players with a religious bent ever rent this place out for Easter service. By the time the ceremony starts Jackman and I have run out of small talk and I’m craning my neck backwards to appreciate the stained glass situated behind our pew. Music starts playing from an unseen organ and all the chattering stops. There’s a pregnant pause where everyone’s thinking “here he comes” plus another beat past that to really keep us in suspense. We’re all turned around and watching the doorway we came in through when Godfrey strides around the corner, dressed in gold.

-

The goblin minister took us all by surprise, I think. I wonder if they picked the ugliest possible officiant just to highlight their own looks. We’re all milling around now, and I don’t want to look unsociable but just who are all these people? They’ve handed out something in long flutes that smells like champagne. You can’t actually eat or imbibe in-game. They added mechanics for it a while back, all the animations for masticating and swallowing and sipping and spitting, plus all the accompanying sensations of taste and texture, which as it turns out, produces an incredible reproduction of the real sensation of eating. The whole thing went through an ugly progression of fad among players, then a fad diet among players, then finally metastasized into a mainstream fad diet, which had people who had never played the game before logging in two or three times a day to eat to their heart's content before jumping back into progressively gaunter bodies. A few more dedicated gourmands were found in their apartments by concerned families after days or weeks of no contact. The eating mechanics were removed shortly after and settlements were reached out of court and the whole thing was generally made to blow over as quickly as possible. So anyway the bubbly is just for show, something to gesture with and maybe sniff and appreciate from time to time while yammering with strangers.

Godfrey and Gloria are standing at the center of the crowd now. They make a pretty couple, it has to be said, G&G. You know when Godfrey and I first started the guild we almost called it G&G, the second G being Giovanni, obviously. Godfrey clears his throat and makes a broad gesture with his glass.

"If I could have everyone's attention." He says and launches into a speech. I tune most of it out until I hear my name. “Giovanni here was the first friend I made in-game and the co-founder of our guild. The two of us were just kids when we started playing this game and over the past decade we've spent tens of thousands of hours together. But," Godfrey turns to look directly at me "I regret to say we haven't had much time to see each other recently. And that Gloria and I would be poor hosts to invite you to a wedding and not feed you. Which is why I'm excited to announce,” pause for effect, “that each and every one of you here is formally invited to our IRL wedding!"

-

NeuroSim equipment keeps your body petrified while in-game. It’s necessary to prevent flailing and falling but has the side effect of leaving you sore as hell after any real gametime. Serious players uniformly own nice mattresses. I stand and pull the helmet off my head, placing it on my desk, which is also my nightstand. I stretch a few times, loosening up stiff muscles and trying not to hit the walls of my apartment. While I stretch I review the facts. The wedding’s in three months. Godfrey and Gloria live upstate and there’s a train that should take me ninety-five percent of the way. I need a suit, something simple but classy, something that says “This isn’t my only suit, but out of respect for the hosts I’m dressed simply, so as to not to stand out or, god forbid, disrupt the proceedings.” I’m also gonna need a place to stay for the night, plus a gift. Do I need to bring a gift? Half that time will probably go straight to the suit, then another chunk for a place to stay. I’ll have to have some money for food and any incidentals too, so three months will be cutting it close. If worst comes to worst I’ll pick up a few extra shifts, if things get worse than that I can sell some of my equipment at the marketplace. The clock reads 10:00 PM, almost time for my shift.

-

The building I work in is pretty impressive to look at. It was built during a time when there was money to write stuff in latin above the doors or inscribe it in bronze on the floors. Unfortunately at some point the money dried up and some clever bean counter realized a lot of money could be saved by selling a few small administrative buildings and converting the unused air space of the larger ones into workspace. So out went the chandeliers in came layers of drop ceiling and vinyl tile, like a layer cake of shoddy construction. In order to fit a full three floors plus all the necessary wiring/HVAC in the dermal layers each floor is about a foot shorter than a standard story.

As it turns out, the spatial shuffling that relocated the DMV into this downtown lobby with street-only parking severely limited our ability to address the needs of the car owning public. The city expanded hours, but eventually, after a few weeks of wall to wall waits and a call from a city councilman demanding to know why his daughter was planning to camp outside the building on the night of her sweet sixteen, they implemented twenty-four hour service. The idea was marketed as a sort of revolution in public service. One opportunistic public relations officer was inspired by the city councilman’s story and decided to launch a birthday campaign. If you request it you can get a “paper parade,” where everyone on shift stops what they’re doing and congas behind the counter while cheering for the birthday boy or girl. It’s a sick kind of bureaucratic kick-a-man-while-he’s-down ritual we all hate and certain patrons love. Still, the third shift has its perks. Other than the initial rush the rest of the shift was pretty dead, and working during the night means I can stay online most of the day.

A crowd is forming at the edge of the serpentine of stanchions and belts, parents and kids waiting to be the first in line once the hour turns. Some of them wear party hats or tiaras. Several of the dads sway unsteadily back and forth. I sit down at my bench and illuminate my sign.

“Now serving ticket number 71” the intercom chimes.

-

I can’t do this much longer. A month straight of double shifts have left me feeling withered. I seriously underestimated the amount I would need for a suit and a hotel and something middling from the registry. I’m standing in the courtyard again, staring up at the dragon topiary. The air is warm and moist and smells of moss. It’s the hour just before sunset, when sunlight is liquid and spilling out of the trees.The dragon’s opalescent scales shiver in the wind. A golden beetle clings to its armored flank and I can see myself reflected in the hemisphere of its shining abdomen. The carapace gives my face a healthy flush. I look like a prince, all the fatigue of the past month washed away, a man instantiated in gold. I don’t think I have ever seen someone so beautiful. I lean closer, my face distending along the oblong of its smooth shell. The centerline of its abdomen slashes across my face, splitting me temple to jaw. My heart throbs in my chest. There’s something in the scar, something ragged and black. I want to look away but find I can’t. The bottom half of my face scrunches and twists, draining into the edge of the shell like leaves into a whirlpool as the scar widens. The black thing is coming out now. I try to scream but can’t. All I can hear is clicking and skittering. My eyes set in gold look back at me in horror. Suddenly I’m aware of a presence to my right. The dragon has twisted its gargantuan head around to me, its lips curl into a snarl and flames shimmer somewhere just beneath its scales. It opens its jaws, revealing row after row of ivory teeth. I can see the fire now, rushing up its throat.

-

I’m cutting it close. Two and a half months worth of work, down the drain. Not wasted, now I own a suit, my first suit that looks like my second, hanging in plastic in my dresser. Two weeks to the wedding now. If I work straight doubles I can make it.

“Now serving ticket number 355” the intercom chimes.

A boy and his parents walk up to the counter. The mother is wearing a smart gray pantsuit, she has pearl earrings, a diamond necklace, a heavy wedding ring, and a gold pin on one lapel. The father is wearing a slick black suit, definitely not his only suit. He has large eyes and a hawkish nose. The boy looks bored. The trio pause in front of the counter and for a heartbeat no one says anything. All three have pale oval faces. They look like a family of puffins. I blink.

“Our boy’s turning 16 you know.” The mother says.

“Now serving ticket number 356” the intercom chimes.

“Yes, I gathered.” I say.

I’m working on the kid’s paperwork and the parents are leaning forward expectantly, the kid forced to lean with them, pressing closer and closer. At the rate they’re moving they will be clambering over the desk soon. My phone buzzes to my right.

“It’s not every day a young man turns sixteen.” The pantsuit woman says. A moment passes. “I said,” she continues, “it’s not every day a young man turns sixteen wouldn’t you agree.” I glance up and can see her birdlike eyes fixed on me.

“I’ve seen four others tonight.” I say. The woman’s expression sours.

“Well-” my phone buzzes again. “-it’s certainly not every day that such a special young man turns sixteen. And this will be the only time it happens, that's for sure.” She smiles at me, then the man. A convertible with a cherry red bow pulls up to the curb outside. The convertible is red too, to match the bow. It’s driven by another suit. This one has white gloves on the leather steering wheel.

“Now serving ticket number 357” the intercom chimes.

The woman continues, “And a special young man deserves a special celebration.” Her eyes are roving madly between the three of us, like an animal scrambling for purchase on a cliff. The son is curling inward and looking anywhere but at the puffin mom. The convertible is idling in a handicap spot, hazards flashing steadily. My phone buzzes a third time.

“This will just take a moment,” I say, picking up. “Hey Jackman, what’s going on, it's not a great time. I’m at work.”

“You know it’s not very professional to take a personal call while at work”

“Oh no I’m not taking a flight, I’m just taking a train the night before.”

“People these days don’t know how to treat customers,”

“What do you mean, it takes like two hours to get upstate.”

“not to mention tax paying customers.”

“Now serving ticket number 358” the intercom chimes.

“What do you mean Italy? Godfrey and Gloria both live upstate. We visited Godfrey’s hometown before, remember?”

“You know I could lodge a complaint with your supervisor.”

“Yeah I saw the address but there was nothing about Italy on it, I mean who would expect their guests to cross an ocean for a wedding.” A pit is opening up below me. There’s something at the bottom, something scratching at the edge of my awareness.

“Now I wouldn't want to have to do that on a special day like this though.” The puffin lady is leaning over the counter. Her eyes are glittering strangely and I can’t look away.

“I haven’t actually bought my ticket yet, I’ve had to wait for some,” I take a breath, “things to get straightened out.” It feels as though my chair has fallen through the floor. I’m suspended in the air, skewered on the puffin woman’s gaze. If I look away I’ll go tumbling down. “Listen Jackman I have to let you go. Yeah, good thing you called me. I’ll see you there.”

“You must have missed it, but on the phone I specifically requested one of those birthday cheers you do!” The woman is smiling now and is leaning head and shoulders over the desk. Neither of us blink. “I’m sure that would smooth things over.”

There’s movement to my right and I hear someone’s strident voice. “I heard there’s a very special birthday today!” There’s the sound of manufactured cheer, staplers snapping and feet in sensible shoes stomping on marble. “Hap-hap-happy birthday!” The volume’s rising and I can feel the line of coworkers gathering force, one new voice added to the column with each desk passed. All the singing must be taking the oxygen out of the room. Without looking, I pick up my pen and hold it in a closed fist. I drum it once hard on the desk. “Hap-hap-happy birthday!” The line’s behind me now, it’s almost time to get up. I can see the convertible parked just beyond the puffin woman’s head, its hazards blinking to the beat of the conga.