Single Player (6 page)

Matthew sat in the
car for a few minutes in the driveway of his parents' house, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He shouldn't still be thinking about Silas. He'd been upset at the guy for a little while during their impromptu coffee yesterday, but as their conversation went on, he'd realized that he was talking to a workaholic with obsessive tendencies and some social hang-ups. Of course a guy like that wouldn't appreciate a job like game programmer. Silas had convinced himself that he had to be saving the world at all times or he was wasting his life. Not a very fun way to live.

And yet he couldn't get rid of the nagging unease that had been settling into the pit of his stomach since that conversation. If it wasn't anger at Silas, then what was it? He had gamed for a while with Isabel online, but the feelings had persisted, and even a good night's sleep hadn't helped. He'd woken up this morning feeling exactly as irritated as yesterday. Visiting his parents was going to mean hiding this irritation from them, too, although his mother was far too good at recognizing when he wasn't in a good mood. It would have been unacceptable for him to turn down their invitation to lunch this week, though, so here he was, sitting in the driveway, composing himself for the visit and whatever tech repair they'd likely saved for him.

His mother, Latavia, opened the door with a big smile on her face. “Hi, honey. Come on in.” She pulled him down into her soft, squishy embrace, and he had to bend over quite a bit, since she was so short. “Your father got called in for work, so he won't be back until a little later.” She stepped aside for Matthew to come in.

Matthew sized her up as he always did when he visited, making sure she still looked healthy and happy. People who saw them together in public generally found it comical that he was six feet tall and lean when she was barely over five feet and quite round, but he'd inherited his father's height and build. The rest of his features, though, were more hers. They shared the same golden-brown eyes, the same amber-hued skin, the same hair. His mother kept hers long in wild natural curls, the style to which Matthew's tended when he was lazy about keeping it trimmed short. She looked happy and well, if perhaps a bit tired.

“They're making him work on a Sunday? What for?” Matthew went right into the kitchen to get himself a glass of iced tea from the fridge, just as he always did back when he lived with them right up through his first years of college. The house hadn't changed much, and his college graduation picture was still hanging on the fridge. He touched the corner of it. “Ma, you've gotta take this down. Or get a frame for it. It's been here for years.”

“I like it. Leave it there.” She slapped his hand away and then poured herself a glass of water. “Your father got called in to finish some extra paperwork from Friday. Drug bust or something.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I don't even keep track anymore.”

Growing up with a police officer as a father, Matthew had grown accustomed to these unexpected changes in plans. Even when his dad had advanced enough in rank to no longer take every weekend rotation, he still had days like this where he was called in to finish some little job or another. It was part of doing what he did. He immediately thought of Silas, and his vision that every weekend was part of duty, and felt a wave of pity.

What he hadn't expected, though, was the accompanying guilt. He paused, iced tea halfway to his mouth. Wait, was guilt the origin of this discomfort? Shit, he wasn't angry at Silas—he was feeling guilty that Silas was doing this kind of life-changing work, dedicated enough to work through the weekends, while he sailed through his programming job and just did enough to get by. Fuck. Realizing he'd paused with the glass halfway to his mouth, Matthew took a long gulp of tea even as his mind kept racing.

His mother, shrewd as she always was, watched him from the kitchen table. “What's wrong?” Her tone didn't invite him to argue that nothing was in fact wrong. She looked at him with eagle-eye focus.

The question wasn't whether to deny it, then, but how to frame the conversation in a way that saved him from too many uncomfortable questions. “I was just thinking about work.”

“I hope you aren't working too hard. Every time you visit, it seems like you've got a new project.” She waved her hand. “You need to make sure you take care of yourself.”

The irony of her response wasn't lost on Matthew. Funny how his mother would think he worked too hard right when he was facing the dilemma of perhaps not working hard enough. “I'm all right, Mom. You're sweet.” He dug around in the cupboards for a bag of chips before she shooed him away.

“Don't snack. I'm making lunch.” She started pulling items out of the cabinets. “Sometime before you go, would you mind taking a look at the computer? I deleted my bookmarks bar and I can't get it back. And it's running slow.”

There it was. The tech repair he was always expected to complete when visiting. “Have you been clicking on random links again?”

“I don't do that, Matthew.” Her voice held a note of reproach. “And don't take that tone with me.”

“Okay, I'll do it after lunch.” He smiled at her, sitting down at the kitchen table to watch her prepare the meal, knowing his offers to help would be met with rebuffs.

“Oh.” His mother turned. “If you're going to do that later, then while I'm cooking, can you take a few minutes to go through your old stuff? We've been cleaning out the attic and found a bunch of things from when you were young. I don't know if you want any of it. It's all in your room.”

“Sure.” He pushed up from the table and headed to his old bedroom, which his mom still referred to as his room even though they had converted it to an office over five years ago. Sure enough, two giant plastic tubs waited for him, bursting with items. His mother had thoughtfully left a trash bag and an empty box next to the tubs; he assumed they were for “trash” and “keep,” respectively. He was a bit nervous about confronting all of this. What had they saved? He pulled over the rolling chair from the desk and started removing items.

The rush of memories came before he'd fully prepared for it. His old yearbooks were in there, not only high school but also eighth grade, and he laughed as he skimmed through photos of his dorky self with an untamed Afro and buck teeth that hadn't yet been fixed with braces. God, what a goofy kid. As he looked through the photos, though, it was obvious that every kid was just as awkward looking as he was. Eighth grade was a rough age all around. He tossed both yearbooks into the “keep” box and dug deeper.

Lots of this was stuff he had no problem throwing away. Old drawings, report cards, certificates of participation from a dozen childhood events. He kept digging. Most of the paperwork was trash, but he kept a few significant items—some stories he'd written, a handmade book depicting a battle between two giant robots, an album he'd filled with pictures from middle school, his graduation tassel.

The second tub was full of awards, and shit, these were harder to throw out. Okay, a few went easily into the trash bag—the second-place trophy from the sixth-grade spelling bee, for instance—but others were more personal. He'd forgotten about winning all these. A bunch were from science and engineering fairs: some first-place trophies, a couple of second-place ribbons, and two “best in show” plaques that had accumulated dust all around the edges. He spotted a hint of red ribbon at the bottom of the tub and tugged out a gold medal, first prize for a computer programming contest back in junior year. He wiped the medal clean with the palm of his hand and looked down at it, feeling the sharp pang of nostalgia. This had been his triumph once. He had hand-coded a game in C++ that had won him this medal and a thousand-dollar scholarship. Winning this contest had convinced him to pursue programming as a career. Now, the ribbon was permanently creased, one edge sun-faded from when he used to hang it on the corner of his window frame. He kept the “best in show” plaques and the gold medal and put the rest into the trash bag. How many trophies could one person keep, after all?

He'd been good once. Not just good, but very good. The type of good that won awards. Sure, they were juvenile awards, but they were nonetheless a recognition of his talent in science and technology. Back then, he already knew he was going to be a computer programmer, and his dream was to work in gaming. He was going to be at the top of his field. He remembered the passion and drive he felt to win this silly gold medal. Somewhere along the line, that drive had faded, and work had become something to pass the time.

What kind of trophies had Silas won, now getting dusty in his mother's attic?

“Matthew? Honey, lunch is ready.” His mother's voice echoed from the other room. Matthew left the rest of the pile unfinished.

Latavia had always fancied herself a bit of a cook, trying to dress up even the most basic dishes. Today she'd made deluxe grilled cheese sandwiches for them with tomato, bacon, and avocado on thick-sliced bread, one of his favorite lunches.

“Ma, this looks great. You didn't have to go to all this trouble.” He refilled his glass of tea and joined her at the table.

“It's not trouble, Matthew, it's a sandwich. Now, what's new with you, honey, aside from work?” She waited until he was eating before she started on her own plate of food.

“Not too much. Keeping busy. What inspired you guys to start cleaning out the attic?”

She shrugged. “Just something we've been meaning to do for a while. Your father and I had a few days off together, and you know what they say, strike while the iron is hot.”

“You spent your time off together doing chores? You two should get away on vacation.” Matthew hated to see his parents working so hard. His father's job was stressful enough for both of them, but on top of that, his mother was a middle school science teacher, and she didn't get nearly enough time off for how hard she worked.

Latavia waved her hand in dismissal. “I wouldn't know what to do with myself. Now, how's that latest game coming? You were telling us about it last time you visited.”

Conversation was light and pleasant for the rest of lunch, and his mother didn't press him on the subject of his earlier distraction. An hour and a half later, having fixed the computer and finished sorting his old stuff, he took out the full trash bag and loaded the box of trophies and other memorabilia into his car.

“You can stay for dinner if you'd like, sweetie.” His mother gave him a hug and a kiss at the door. “There's no rush.”

“No, it's all right. I've got some things to do at home. Give Dad my love, will you?”

“Absolutely, sweetheart. Remember, don't work too hard.” She waved at him as he drove away.

The whole way back to his apartment, Matthew thought about the box of odds and ends in his trunk. He didn't have a place to display trophies, especially not trophies from high school. He might leave them in the box. It felt too callous to throw them out, though, when they'd meant so much to him at the time. How much things changed. Back in high school, when he'd dreamed of his future, it hadn't looked much different from his real life . . . but it certainly felt different.

He liked his job, of course. He was happy. But with Silas in mind, he felt guilty about that happiness. He'd never looked at his lackadaisical attitude as wasting his talents or abilities before, but what if he was selling himself short? What could he accomplish if he really
tried,
took initiative in his field?

These thoughts remained on his mind as he drove home through a late-afternoon Florida rainstorm, the drumming of rain on the roof of his car making him feel isolated from the world around him.

Silas blinked hard, trying
to train his eyes on the computer screen. It wasn't like him to be unable to keep focused when he was working. Normally he had great vision. No need for glasses, due to some superior vision genes and regular stretch breaks. Today, though, he was unable to keep his eyes from blurring out. He sat back and rubbed them, exasperated, then looked back at the screen. Blurry again. For crying out loud.

He got up from his chair and paced around the room. Just what he needed. How was he supposed to get any productive work done if he couldn't even get his eyes to cooperate? This was terrible. He leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh, resisting the impulse to fling the items off the nearest workbench onto the floor. He wasn't going to throw a tantrum, however much he occasionally wanted to.

Travis, one of Silas's colleagues, looked up from his station. “Hey, man, you okay?”

“I'm fine.” Silas knew he sounded snappish, but he didn't care. Travis was an adult and he could handle it.

Taking the hint, Travis turned back to his work and left Silas alone, just as Silas preferred. He returned to his computer and flopped down in his chair, gritting his teeth. There was a problem with this design, and the simulations were coming out all wrong, but he couldn't figure out what it was, which was the most frustrating thing in the world. He tapped his fingers against his lips in thought, then tried changing a few of the parameters and running the simulation again. It was taking forever to load, of course, because everything this week had been one long string of annoyances, day after day.

With his peripheral vision, he spotted one of his other coworkers, Pauline, come back in from one of her countless water breaks. Amazing the woman could get anything done at all with all the excuses she made to get up from her chair. “Thank god it's Friday, right?” she announced to the room. “I'm
so
done.”

Silas looked up with what he hoped was a clear “stop talking” face, in time to see Travis making throat-slicing gestures to Pauline. Probably regarding him. Well, good. His colleagues had worked with him long enough; they should know that he was best left alone when he was in a mood like this. Pauline got the hint and stopped talking, and for a while, the lab was blissfully silent. When Travis and Pauline took a break for lunch an hour or so later, it was even more tranquil, since they left the lab altogether and gave him the peace of a solitary workspace.

In a job like his, he sometimes had to interact with his colleagues, but it was much more individualistic than collaborative. Their project manager divided up tasks, they each completed the tasks, and then they'd test the unification of all the components they'd separately been crafting. Silas often worked on other projects during the unification stage. He'd done his share, and they didn't really need him to watch a prototype work or not. The team could figure that out without him. As such, he'd often pressed to get his own lab, but Wayscorp insisted they all work in the same space. Irritating.

He could see someone standing in the doorway, but elected to continue working and hope they went away. Obviously, he was working through lunch. People who worked through lunch shouldn't be bothered. It was like the unwritten code of any office space. When the figure neither entered nor left, though, Silas eventually looked up. Elliot Turner, his current project manager, was watching him with eyebrows drawn together. “Hey, Silas. Aren't you going to take lunch?”

Silas blinked at him, annoyed and trying not to show it, a feat at which he didn't always succeed. “I don't know. Maybe. I'm not hungry right now.” He couldn't be positive, but that seemed to be a pretty nosy question. What did Elliot care about his eating habits?

“Don't work too hard, okay? I don't want you to burn out.” Elliot leaned heavily on the doorframe and put his hands into his pockets. He was significantly older than Silas, in his midfifties, broad in the chest and built more like a football player than a biomedical engineer. He had patents on some of the best inventions to have come out of this company, and Silas knew he should show a little more respect to the guy, but right now he wasn't much in the mood for idle chitchat or misplaced concern.

“Thank you, but I'm fine. I wanted to get this simulation working by the end of the day so I can move on to something else, but it's not cooperating.” Silas stared at the screen again. Maybe the program was malfunctioning.

“Mind if I take a look?” Elliot walked in.

“Be my guest.” Silas got up and gestured to the screen. It would be gratifying to have Elliot as stumped as he was.

Elliot rubbed his beard and studied the screen, then changed a few numbers. Silas felt his shoulders tense at the sight of someone else touching his workstation, but after all, he'd given Elliot permission to do so.

His project manager got to his feet. “There you go. It should be fine now.”

Silas blinked. That didn't make any sense. “What do you mean, fine?”

“I mean, run the simulation. Your calculations were off. Looks like you added when you should have multiplied.” Elliot gestured to the computer. “Go on. Take a look.”

In disbelief, Silas sat down at his screen. Son of a gun. Elliot was right. He ran the simulation, which went off with no error messages. Feeling a blush of shame, he looked up at his project manager. “Thanks,” he grumbled, trying not to sound ungrateful but feeling more irritated than relieved. He should have caught that.

“Silas, how much sleep have you gotten this week?”

Another personal question. Elliot was on a roll. Silas thought back through the week, which had been a mixture of restless nights and bad dreams. “A couple of hours every night, more or less.” He hadn't slept well since that night with Matthew a full week ago.

“A couple of hours, that's it?” Elliot frowned.

Silas felt his annoyance grow, but Elliot outranked him, and he had to be polite. “I have insomnia. I deal with it as best I can.”

Elliot nodded. “All right. I don't mean to press. I just want to make sure you're okay.”

“I'm okay.” Silas just wanted to be left alone with his irritation. “Have a good lunch.”

The dismissal was clear. He wasn't sure if Elliot might fight against it, but instead, he walked away. “Take care, Silas.”

Once Elliot was gone, Silas stretched his arms above his head, cracked his neck in both directions, and settled back in, willing himself to feel refreshed and alert. This time, he wasn't going to make any silly arithmetic errors.