Chapter Twelve - The End of the End
My dad ran a machine shop. Being the president of a small business, he understood the need to balance the cutting edge of technology with the dull reality of a limited budget. As a result, we always had a computer at home, but it was always a few years obsolete.
I remember playing one of the old games on the household's first computer, a monstrosity with a 286 processor (I'm not going to bother to explain how slow that is, suffice it to say that this machine never filled its 20 megabyte hard drive. That's right 20 megabytes, as in less than .02 gigabytes. Derek once gave me the exact number, but I forgot it months ago). That was back when video games had to rely on captivating gameplay, as opposed to current bestsellers that are lauded for their ability to render a human spleen in flight from its owner's rocket-ravaged body. One of those archaic games was called Heartlight. It featured a delightful little gnome who had to dodge various traps and enemies so that he could collect little hearts scattered around each level. I'm sure there was a storyline behind this endeavor, and I'm almost as sure that it was more mediocre than the game's feeble graphics.
The level I found most challenging was one where the little gnome had to follow behind an enemy's back and slip into a side corridor at just the right time to grab the last heart. The enemy was on a preprogammed path, so it couldn't turn around until it hit the wall a few squares from the passageway. Miss the narrow window in its passage, and the box-shaped enemy would run your little gnome down like it was a jackrabbit under a semi truck, forcing you to restart the level.
After giving Katalin an awkward "goodnight," I felt much like that little gnome, carefully staying out of her line of vision and range of hearing. I had to get down to first floor Walker, but wanted her to think I was headed back to Ravine. Luckily, Katalin lived on the third floor. Dodging her just as the gnome had dodged his 16-pixel enemy, I managed to sneak into the hall without her noticing.
It was about 1AM by this point. I had to get up by eight, but figured my thoughts would keep me wired awake for hours, anyway.
I'd only been there twice before, but I remembered the room number. A dusty nametag that read "Justin" hung on one side of the door; I knew its companion had been ripped down months ago. A bumper sticker that simply said "The Damned" was the only thing on the door itself (Chandler had given me the impression it was the name of a band. Whether he liked their music or simply wanted to have his door marked "The Damned" had never been clear) besides the number plate. I knocked loudly.
Chandler opened the door a moment later. He was still dressed and his desk lamp was on, the desk covered with papers I assumed were homework.
A lot of people are surprised with the contrast between Chandler's personality and his room. Except for the sticker on the door, the walls were unadorned. Everything was neatly stacked into a bookshelf in the corner. It was plain to see that this wasn't where Chandler lived, only where he slept (and apparently studied, as well).
"We need to talk." I said.
"Sure. Come on in." he replied.
I sat down on Chandler's roommate's desk chair. He would've left for the weekend about eight hours ago.
"So, how did you get in here so late?" Chandler asked. "Brooks was locked hours ago."
"Katalin."
"That's right, she does live here. So, what did you need to talk about?"
"The same."
Chandler exhaled.
"Shit." he said.
I remember playing one of the old games on the household's first computer, a monstrosity with a 286 processor (I'm not going to bother to explain how slow that is, suffice it to say that this machine never filled its 20 megabyte hard drive. That's right 20 megabytes, as in less than .02 gigabytes. Derek once gave me the exact number, but I forgot it months ago). That was back when video games had to rely on captivating gameplay, as opposed to current bestsellers that are lauded for their ability to render a human spleen in flight from its owner's rocket-ravaged body. One of those archaic games was called Heartlight. It featured a delightful little gnome who had to dodge various traps and enemies so that he could collect little hearts scattered around each level. I'm sure there was a storyline behind this endeavor, and I'm almost as sure that it was more mediocre than the game's feeble graphics.
The level I found most challenging was one where the little gnome had to follow behind an enemy's back and slip into a side corridor at just the right time to grab the last heart. The enemy was on a preprogammed path, so it couldn't turn around until it hit the wall a few squares from the passageway. Miss the narrow window in its passage, and the box-shaped enemy would run your little gnome down like it was a jackrabbit under a semi truck, forcing you to restart the level.
After giving Katalin an awkward "goodnight," I felt much like that little gnome, carefully staying out of her line of vision and range of hearing. I had to get down to first floor Walker, but wanted her to think I was headed back to Ravine. Luckily, Katalin lived on the third floor. Dodging her just as the gnome had dodged his 16-pixel enemy, I managed to sneak into the hall without her noticing.
It was about 1AM by this point. I had to get up by eight, but figured my thoughts would keep me wired awake for hours, anyway.
I'd only been there twice before, but I remembered the room number. A dusty nametag that read "Justin" hung on one side of the door; I knew its companion had been ripped down months ago. A bumper sticker that simply said "The Damned" was the only thing on the door itself (Chandler had given me the impression it was the name of a band. Whether he liked their music or simply wanted to have his door marked "The Damned" had never been clear) besides the number plate. I knocked loudly.
Chandler opened the door a moment later. He was still dressed and his desk lamp was on, the desk covered with papers I assumed were homework.
A lot of people are surprised with the contrast between Chandler's personality and his room. Except for the sticker on the door, the walls were unadorned. Everything was neatly stacked into a bookshelf in the corner. It was plain to see that this wasn't where Chandler lived, only where he slept (and apparently studied, as well).
"We need to talk." I said.
"Sure. Come on in." he replied.
I sat down on Chandler's roommate's desk chair. He would've left for the weekend about eight hours ago.
"So, how did you get in here so late?" Chandler asked. "Brooks was locked hours ago."
"Katalin."
"That's right, she does live here. So, what did you need to talk about?"
"The same."
Chandler exhaled.
"Shit." he said.
*
Thirty minutes later, an RA threw me out and threatened to write Chandler up for violation of quiet hours. Nothing had been resolved except that we would not be sharing a table at Brooks for the forseeable future. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have torn that sticker off his door. That's when the real shouting started.
The rain had picked up. I stumbled and fell while crossing Brooks circle and somehow managed to land on my hands and knees in a puddle with the approximate depth of Lake Superior.
By the time I got back to Ravine, I had forgotten what "dry," meant, and "warm," was quickly fading from memory.
Taking stock of the evening, I realized I was having some trouble with "happy," as well.
Originally posted on January 8th, 2005
The rain had picked up. I stumbled and fell while crossing Brooks circle and somehow managed to land on my hands and knees in a puddle with the approximate depth of Lake Superior.
By the time I got back to Ravine, I had forgotten what "dry," meant, and "warm," was quickly fading from memory.
Taking stock of the evening, I realized I was having some trouble with "happy," as well.
Originally posted on January 8th, 2005
posted by Andrew Michael at 1:53 AM
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