IT’S NEARLY FOUR A.M. WHEN WE ARE ALLOWED BACK INTO THE building. To my relief, Mrs. Crandall’s daughter drove from San Fernando to pick her up, despite her mother’s objections that she was happy to stay in her soot-filled apartment; I was afraid I’d be tucking her in on my couch, further derailing my focus on today’s upcoming events.
I let the heavy duffel bag fall from my shoulder to the floor in my entryway, assessing the mess I made in the frantic sweep of my apartment for things to save from Mrs. Crandall’s kitchen fire.
People I meet often ask how I can afford an apartment in West Hollywood without a roommate. But those who have seen it understand how it’s possible. The building has no super, the ceiling tiles are discolored from what I can only imagine are mold stains from a long-standing AC leak, and I have to choose between running the microwave or TV, as both won’t work at the same time. But they allow dogs. And it’s mine. Not to mention the vast basement storage space that could be used as a bunker should the need arise.
At this point, I know it’s better to stay up than try to sleep for less than two hours, so I pull the three-ring binders out of my bag and open one to the first page. Finn curls up at my feet, exhausted from the unexpected middle-of-the-night outing.
I could have easily just emailed my presentation to the HR person at Catapult, but I wanted to do something that would make me stand out. As a largely self-taught programmer, I know I’m likely up against pedigrees I could never compete with—Harvard and MIT virtuosos who’ve rubbed elbows with the likes of my interviewers since birth. A physical copy to hand to each panel member will help me stand out a little, I hope.
Propping my laptop open, I begin navigating through my online portfolio. I review my character design samples and graphics, though there’s truly no need. I designed them and know them inside and out. Besides, it’s tough to concentrate. I still can’t believe I get to meet the Jack Palmer today. I know the complete life history of all three of my interviewers, down to where they grew up and their favorite games, should there be an opportunity for small talk.
“Thank you so much for having me, gentlemen,” I say to Finn, whose ears perk, though he doesn’t lift his head. “C’mon, Finn, help me prep.”
He groans and lifts himself up. “Thank you,” I breathe. “You be Jack Palmer.”
Finn cocks his head and I take it to mean he’s ready to play the part of Catapult’s founder.
“Why do I want this job, you ask? What a great question, Mr. Palmer.”
Finn juts his chin in the opposite direction.
“You see, I quit my job at Stanton Engineering four months ago and gave myself six months to go full force after this dream of game design. And you, sir”—I clear my throat in correction—“sirs, are the pinnacle of that dream. To work here with you at Catapult Games would be the thing I’ve wanted since I was a kid playing Super Mario Bros. in my parents’ basement. Not to mention, I’m about to run out of money and promised my mother I’d lean into a career in civil engineering when my timeline expires in a few months. So really, you’d be saving me from that life too.” I look down at Finn, who’s been listening intently, rotating his chin from side to side in contemplation. “Too much?”
He groans and lays his head back down.
I nod in agreement. “Too much.”
I fight off a yawn and shake my head vigorously to shock myself awake. In a few short hours, I may get everything I’ve ever wanted.
The sound of screeching metal forces me awake. Surveying my apartment hazily, I quickly recognize the shrill noise of the recycling truck from the street just below my kitchen window. I realize two things as I take in my surroundings. The first: I’ve fallen asleep at my kitchen table, bent forward, face pressed against the cheap manufactured wood. The second, more critical, circumstance: I have no idea what time it is. I jump out of my seat in a panic.
Finn rises in a fit. I can practically see his thoughts: This again? So soon? I look at the time on the microwave: 6:42 a.m., forty-two minutes past the time I intended to begin my morning preparations. I’ve got seventy-eight minutes to get myself presentable, do my final interview prep, then book it the two blocks to my interview.
I have a bit of déjà vu from the fire alarm hours earlier, running around my apartment, slinging items into a bag. I again shove things into my tote: the three presentation binders. My laptop. My phone.
Shower or no shower? It’s a difficult call—the ultimate two-horned dilemma. If I shower, I risk showing up late and with semi-wet hair. If I don’t, I may look and smell as though I’ve spent the wee hours of the morning squatting on a dirty west LA curb. No matter my choice, I am confident the decision will haunt me.
I arrive at the Catapult Games offices four minutes late, showered with still-damp hair. Luckily, the front desk in the lobby is empty, so my exact time of entry will be unclear. Unless they check the cameras, in which case I’m screwed. I instinctively look up and smile at the ceiling camera stationed on the front desk.
“Ms. Cooper?”
I turn to find a woman striding toward me from what appears to be the main hallway. “Yes, hello.” When she reaches me, I shake her hand with all the false confidence I can muster.
“I’m Anita, Catapult’s HR manager.” She releases my hand and smooths her mint-green silk shirt, the color of the Easter eggs I dyed as a kid.
“Ah yes, Anita. Thank you so much for coordinating this interview.” Anita. Been here four years. Holds a masters in HR Management from Cornell. Flies cross country each April to run the Boston Marathon, always placing in the fastest twenty-five percent of finishers. I researched her too.
“I saw the portfolio you sent with your application and insisted the team meet you.” She flickers a smile at me that is gone in a flash, replaced by a pleasant but neutral expression.
“Wow, thank you,” I say. This woman is decidedly a saint.
“Right this way.” She begins leading me down the broad hallway. “The team is ready for you.” She takes long, assertive strides, her heels separating from her ballet flats each time her feet lift from the ground. I take on an awkward walk-trot to keep up.
The office’s style is “rich nerd chic” and as full of gaming flair as I had hoped. To the right, a gamers’ room with lines of TVs and massive beanbag chairs on the floor, where two men are punching the air while wearing virtual reality headsets. Double doors to the left mark a motion sensory room, which I know is for tracking human movement for character authenticity in the games. Vintage posters line the walls: Mario, Pong, Pac-Man. And of course, there are nods everywhere to Catapult’s most successful game’s star character, Cannon Jack. Cardboard cutouts of Cannon Jack grimacing while pointing an assault rifle, his cartoonishly large arms flexed. Cannon Jack grimacing with his dukes up. Cannon Jack grimacing while holding the severed head of his dystopian rival, Centiant. I never particularly noticed it before, but Cannon Jack, modeled after Jack Palmer, grimaces a lot.
We pass a shelf in the hallway and I almost trip over my own feet. Floor-to-ceiling shelves contain what appears to be every video game ever made. I spot a vintage Atari Air Raid case at my eyeline and salivate. There were very few copies ever made of this particular game, and only two known to exist include cartridge and box, one of which is right in front of me. This one game alone is worth over thirty thousand dollars. I am already daydreaming about coming to this office every day, staring at this surreal collection during my breaks.
A preteen version of myself comes vividly to mind—dressed in knockoff Doc Martens (five years past the height of their popularity) and Levi’s. My mom would only ever buy me Levi’s, probably because the brand was the most wholly American one she knew. I sit in the basement, crammed full of unopened boxes—the last remnants of the move four months earlier—a gray exercise bike found at a garage sale on the neighboring street, and an immense number of fake plants. There’s a console shoved into the far corner of the room, attached to a ten-inch TV with a sea of cables collected on the floor beside it. I’m cross-legged against the champagne-colored synthetic carpet, with harshly cut, too-thick bangs and weedlike eyebrows, wholly immersed in The Sims.
When I couldn’t sleep, when I needed to escape the fear in my head, when I didn’t quite fit out in the world, I built the life I wished I had in those characters.
We moved into that house soon after the flood that destroyed our Santa Clara bungalow, the home I grew up in. Santa Clara was, and still is, described as one of the safest places to live in America. But most of those lists only consider man-made travesties, not natural disasters. The storm that took our house, a flash flood after heavy rain, barely made the news. Even after nearly twenty inches in less than twenty-four hours, I never assumed we’d go back to find a house that was uninhabitable.
I was angry at my parents for the longest time, wondering why they hadn’t been more prepared. Why did they choose a home positioned at the lowest point of a potential flood zone? Why did they keep our irreplaceable sentimental belongings (like my baby book) in the bottom of the curio cabinet, so low to the ground? Why didn’t we take the important things with us when we left for the hotel as a precaution as the storm approached?
I learned quickly that video games are not only a great distraction and escape from the plagues of real life, but that many can teach you how to survive all sorts of possible disasters, regardless of how realistic or obscure.
Today, inside the Catapult offices, twelve-year-old me does a happy dance.
If only my parents could see this is where I belong.
We keep moving and I find the conference rooms are named after the most popular video games of all time. We pass Portal and Kirby and stop in front of Zelda, which sits in the middle of the sea of desks like a barge.
“Thank you so much,” I tell Anita when she steps aside. I picture myself as Link, the Zelda character, walking into battle against Ganon.
Anita clasps my right hand in both of hers. “Good luck,” she says with an intensity that unnerves me. I watch her turn and dash down the hallway, back the way we came, until she’s entirely out of sight. Some eyes flicker up across the rows of desks, and I suddenly wish the conference room didn’t remind me of a zoo enclosure—me the freshly cleaved meat being tossed to the lions.
I close my eyes, inhale mightily, force out the breath, and then enter the den.