'Twas the Week After TGS
by billymaysrip
There was no reason to be cautious, but nevertheless, he slipped through the door and closed it without a sound. With a tight knot of apprehension, he glanced through the office, and confirmed to himself that no one was there. The space was filled with the hum of idle computers, scattered around cluttered desks, abandoned for the rest of the day. The latent heat seemed to give the room a sense of life; it made him suspicious. He felt an urge to search under the desks, convinced someone was hiding away from sight. With a soft sigh on his lips, he stalked among the workstations, refusing to arch his neck and survey the ground. He sat down in his chair, letting his bag tuck away in some nook of his workspace.
After more than a decade of living in Japan, he appreciated more than ever the ability to move silently without shoes. It confused some of the foreign visitors to conduct business in their socks, yet it seemed to disarm them, letting everyone operate on even ground. A green light lazily flickered on his computer, the monitor a dull black mirror. Asleep. He didnt bother to disturb it. Why should he? He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head.
I run this goshdarn place, mumbled John Ricciardi to himself, glancing at his rough reflection in the matte screen.
He stood up with a burst of energy. The sudden movement seemed to even surprise his own body, and he violently stubbed his toe on a filing cabinet.
The last week had been a mess. There were clear business ramifications to the Tokyo Game Show, but that really wasnt the part that got to him. For eight years now, a menagerie of guests paraded their way through his office, acting as if they were visiting some arcane land. Just because he no longer lived in the United States, it didnt mean he was no longer aware of the comings and goings of the world. He wasnt some cloistered monk, fastidiously translating ancient tomes in a dank library, lit only by a sputtering candle. It was that image that he told himself he resented the most: the one of Jerome, losing himself in the catacombs of Rome, his existence proved by mere marginalia. Every year, travelers from all corners of the world made their pilgrimage to pay their respect - to what, actually? Did they come to see him, as a person, a friend? Or did they come to bow before a neglected idol? To venerate the lonely art of localization?
It reminded him of the old saying, March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Now, exactly week later, the place was deserted. In his gut, he wished he felt a vacuum of energy, but the abandonment had become quotidian. He was numb to it all. Sure, the moment was immortalized in the form of a digital audio file - their podcast, the 8-4 Play - but John couldnt shake the icy sensation that it was all just a game to them. He didnt dare listen to last weeks show now. That was for sure. They had decided then that they wouldnt record today; he would have to wait another week.
What we do isnt that crazy, cursed John through hushed invectives, his toe still stinging.
Tokyos afternoon sun broke through the shutters, layering ribbons of orange over the podcasting table. It sat opposite a wall of video game memorabilia, a monument to the work that he and Hiroko Minamoto had started in 2005. Each of 8-4s many projects were represented, along with various other baubles. It was a gleaming trophy display case, arranged to let guests marvel with greedy eyes, to comment with reverent tones and surprise.
However, John saw something different. To him it was a bone-dry mausoleum: the various video game boxes, a macabre yard of colorful gravestones - the novelty statuettes, gaudy plastic steles. What else could he be expected to see? Despite his best attempts, he could never hide the rueful glow in his eyes whenever his gaze stumbled onto this crypt.
But today, the wall seemed to morph into something much more disturbing. To his horror, the sepulchral display was filled with movement, unexpectedly animating before his eyes. He was beset by the clatter of a courtroom. The droning whispers of a gathered audience, the staccato clack of the stenographer, and the judgemental breath of the jury seemed to deafen him. One by one, all the games he had worked on took the stand, weeping as they pointed a shaking finger at him. They claimed to be his abused children, victims of his tyrannical fatherhood. John wished to shout out to each one of them: But everything I did for you! He explained and explained to the judge, the cold eyes of Mario staring back him. Oh, how difficult it all was! We had such a rocky partnership; There never was any support! I was pressed for time; Im not infallible; I miss something here and there! I learned from those mistakes; it never happened again! But he knew none of it mattered. They showed their scars - Just minor nicks, he pleaded - and read aloud their sales numbers to gasps from the swelling wings. But the Metacritic scores, he murmured as he collapsed to the floor, exhausted by the proceedings. Helplessly, he felt as if he was dragged away by the court guards, his limbs cuffed and his eyes wildly spinning. The gavel struck twice.
Clutching the sides of the podcasting table, John leaned over the recording equipment, trembling. What gave him the right to translate anything, let alone video games, the apotheosis of culture? How could he localize Japanese to English (and vice-a-versa) when he couldnt communicate his most desperate messages in his mothertongue? He had said that they werent recording a podcast today, the week after Tokyo Game Show. He had told them all that. It was a lie. But he was confident that they would see through it - at least one of them would. But It was obvious he was wrong, that he hadnt actually seen the knowing grin in Marks eyes. Why couldnt he tell him that he needed him, now, more than ever before? How could he transmit those silent prayers through insipid words? He felt the depressing weight of W. V. Quines theory of the indeterminacy of translation sitting on his shoulders like a massive bird of prey, its talons ripping into his skin, cackling as it drained his very essence.
Weakly, his hands brushed against a microphone, clamped to the sempiternal podcasting table. Despite the weight of his body, the resolute table had not wavered - its sturdy metal legs had supported the podcast for nearly a decade now. As if it gave him new strength, standing up straight, John now felt the smooth shape of the microphone mesh. Beneath his fingers, the apparatus came alive, throbbing with energy. He stroked it, the metal contours and ridges like veins, pulsing under a taut surface. The movement of his hands was a gentle dance, not wanting to disturb the sensitive tips of the microphone. The pop filter was in the way, but he knew it was much more sanitary to keep them on. He was mesmerized.
The realization was instantaneous. It was at this table, in the commanding presence of the 8-4 podcast host Mark Gaming Jesus MacDonald, that John felt imbued with
something-- he couldnt quite figure it out, but he knew it was good. He longed for that feeling. The other voices were unnecessary. They pushed out the one that mattered. Something went inside. It was though the frightful starts his heart was giving had burst a vein. All he wanted was Marks voice to drill into his being
The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened, and he was jolted out of his reverie.
There, in the open door, stood Mark.
He was a husky apparition, framed in the arched doorway with his cargo shorts and ratty t-shirt. The black mop of hair was unmistakable, along with the palimpsest of a scruffy soul patch, formerly etched under his lip. To John, Marks visage was a reassuring eternal flame - Johns spiked tips had faded, and Justin had metamorphosed from a beautiful bowl-cut boy into a rugged, bearded hunk. Only Mark remained unchanged, the scant signs of the passage of time just showing in his weary eyes. John knew - despite no longer being colleagues, no longer working side by side, day in, day out, back to back, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm - that the mark on his heart was indelible.
He had knocked, and when met with no response, entered his old office without apprehension. Closing the door behind him, Mark bounded forwards. They met in a passionate embrace.
Oh Mark, I knew you would come! John could only repeat with misty eyes.
Grinning, Mark patted Johns heaving back, Of course, you sly dog.
He couldnt cap the wellsprings of emotion he felt coursing throughout his body, How did you know-- how could you know? John started.
Holding Johns head so that their eyes were locked together, Mark took his time, It made perfect sense to me.
A surging sense of triumph exploded through John, cascading down through his being. It seemed so ordinary in practice, placing his head against another, yet he found nothing so simple. Their temples clumsily met through the unruly drift of dark hair. They lingered. In that moment, the two men seemed to join into one soul. To a scholarly observer, it was proof of Aristophanes' claims from Platos fated symposium: here was primeval man in flesh, united once again, two halves no longer separated by cruel Zeus. It was the kind of sight that leaves the rest of us, bystanders to it all, burdened with a wistful pit of loneliness, aching in envy. Would we, even after a lifetime of searching, ever witness something so pure again, let alone experience it for ourselves?
Johns voice strained out, fluttering through the air as a butterfly buffeted by a summer breeze.
Thanks Mark. You really saved my bacon.
