Computer Time
He sits at his computer desk, clothed only in green plaid underwear and the scruffy beard of two days growth. His right hand hovers over the mouse while the other one plays with the hair at the back of his head, hair that is in desperate need of a scrub. It has been four days since the game arrived (Diablo III!), and because his wife and kids are visiting her parents, he finds no need to do anything but tackle the game. It's intense, he thinks. INTENSE.
This sort of thing has happened before, in his mid-twenties, when his best friend (who is now a hot-shot Wall Street tycoon) lent him the first Diablo. He remembers pushing the button on the old PC and watching the game come alive for hours on end. He ate his breakfast, lunch, and dinner in front of that game and had the computer been a laptop, he'd have even taken a shit, too, with that new friend, Diablo. Those days are missed--when the world was his and his hours of free time outweighed his hours of responsibility. He shakes his head at the memory and smiles.
A knock at the door sounds, and he contemplates rising from his chair to greet the intruder, but thinks better of it. He's certain that a stale odor surrounds him and he's not sure whether it's him--he sniffs under one armpit and then the other--or the last dregs of the cereal he had for breakfast the morning before. The forlorn bowl sits next to the keyboard, bloated bits of Cheerios swimming in a sea of tepid, off-white milk. But the person at the door is insistent: a loud rap sounds again.
As he rounds the corner of the living room and peeks through the sidelights, he sees a tall man clothed in brown. Has he ordered something and forgotten? Or is his wife expecting something? Seems to him like he often comes home to find boxes from Amazon or Hanna Andersson but he's never really sure what's in them, and truthfully, he doesn't care. His wife's part-time gig as a receptionist at a local veterinary clinic gives her some pocket change. As long as she's not dipping into his beer money, he's cool.
The loud click of the door lock interrupts the peaceful morning silence and he opens the door. A warm blast of late summer air hits him directly in the face. The man who stands on the doorstep is young--probably 25 or so--with a hopeful look to his eyes.
"Mr. Cannon?" the youngster says and then taps something into his handheld device.
"Yep, that's me." He realizes too late (it's always too late) that he should have put on a shirt or something before coming to the door. Crumbs from his midnight snack of tortilla chips litter his chest hair and he can see a spot of dried salsa on his boxer shorts. He snorts, imaging the picture he makes to this squeaky-clean kid on his doorstep.
"I have delivery for you. Looks to me like someone loves you very much." The boy extends a package toward him, marked with a small tag that reads Counter-strike: Global Offensive.
His hands shake a little as he moves forward to take the package from the delivery person and his mind turns in circles. He certainly didn't order the game, but sure enough, his name is on the sticker. And it's Saturday. Despite the lawn that needs to be mowed and the laundry that's begging for attention, he's got nowhere to be but here, inside the house. With a new game. The corners of his mouth lift up as he continues to stand in the foyer, looking at the box, planning his day in his head.
"That's a great game you have there, sir." The sound of the boy's voice makes him look up. "My friends and I play it all the time. I think it's something about the first-person experience that reeled me in." The delivery person leans against the doorjamb and tucks his fingers into his pocket and then whispers, "My friend has hacked it, too. He's an accountant over at H&R block. Lucky bastard gets to spend more time at the computer than I do."
The boy's voice is wistful and the man looks out to the delivery truck that rests in front of his house. His driveway is long. If the boy pulls the mid-size brown truck all the way up to the garage, no one will notice it sitting there. And, his wife? She wouldn't be home until tomorrow. Plenty of time to complete the mission with his new friend. Perhaps they could even call the boy's buddy and ask him to come by sometime later that afternoon, help them customize the skins or something. He tears into the package with gusto and leaves the door open as he walks back toward the computer. The door lock latches back into place and soft footsteps follow him into the family room.
This sort of thing has happened before, in his mid-twenties, when his best friend (who is now a hot-shot Wall Street tycoon) lent him the first Diablo. He remembers pushing the button on the old PC and watching the game come alive for hours on end. He ate his breakfast, lunch, and dinner in front of that game and had the computer been a laptop, he'd have even taken a shit, too, with that new friend, Diablo. Those days are missed--when the world was his and his hours of free time outweighed his hours of responsibility. He shakes his head at the memory and smiles.
A knock at the door sounds, and he contemplates rising from his chair to greet the intruder, but thinks better of it. He's certain that a stale odor surrounds him and he's not sure whether it's him--he sniffs under one armpit and then the other--or the last dregs of the cereal he had for breakfast the morning before. The forlorn bowl sits next to the keyboard, bloated bits of Cheerios swimming in a sea of tepid, off-white milk. But the person at the door is insistent: a loud rap sounds again.
As he rounds the corner of the living room and peeks through the sidelights, he sees a tall man clothed in brown. Has he ordered something and forgotten? Or is his wife expecting something? Seems to him like he often comes home to find boxes from Amazon or Hanna Andersson but he's never really sure what's in them, and truthfully, he doesn't care. His wife's part-time gig as a receptionist at a local veterinary clinic gives her some pocket change. As long as she's not dipping into his beer money, he's cool.
The loud click of the door lock interrupts the peaceful morning silence and he opens the door. A warm blast of late summer air hits him directly in the face. The man who stands on the doorstep is young--probably 25 or so--with a hopeful look to his eyes.
"Mr. Cannon?" the youngster says and then taps something into his handheld device.
"Yep, that's me." He realizes too late (it's always too late) that he should have put on a shirt or something before coming to the door. Crumbs from his midnight snack of tortilla chips litter his chest hair and he can see a spot of dried salsa on his boxer shorts. He snorts, imaging the picture he makes to this squeaky-clean kid on his doorstep.
"I have delivery for you. Looks to me like someone loves you very much." The boy extends a package toward him, marked with a small tag that reads Counter-strike: Global Offensive.
His hands shake a little as he moves forward to take the package from the delivery person and his mind turns in circles. He certainly didn't order the game, but sure enough, his name is on the sticker. And it's Saturday. Despite the lawn that needs to be mowed and the laundry that's begging for attention, he's got nowhere to be but here, inside the house. With a new game. The corners of his mouth lift up as he continues to stand in the foyer, looking at the box, planning his day in his head.
"That's a great game you have there, sir." The sound of the boy's voice makes him look up. "My friends and I play it all the time. I think it's something about the first-person experience that reeled me in." The delivery person leans against the doorjamb and tucks his fingers into his pocket and then whispers, "My friend has hacked it, too. He's an accountant over at H&R block. Lucky bastard gets to spend more time at the computer than I do."
The boy's voice is wistful and the man looks out to the delivery truck that rests in front of his house. His driveway is long. If the boy pulls the mid-size brown truck all the way up to the garage, no one will notice it sitting there. And, his wife? She wouldn't be home until tomorrow. Plenty of time to complete the mission with his new friend. Perhaps they could even call the boy's buddy and ask him to come by sometime later that afternoon, help them customize the skins or something. He tears into the package with gusto and leaves the door open as he walks back toward the computer. The door lock latches back into place and soft footsteps follow him into the family room.
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