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REALLY GOOD NOODLES
* 4A *
* 5 Years Ago - 1994 - Age 32 *
Denied love in the age of ruin
Suicide toxins of my own demise
In cyberspace, you know how much the earth ain't learning
Smoking out the man, inside the child
It's the age of destruction
In a world of corruption
It's the age of destruction
And they hand us oblivion
The neuromancer and I'm trancing
I'm the neuromancer and I'm trancing
-- From the song "Neuromancer," the album "Cyberpunk" (1993) by Billy Idol
"Will that be all, sir?" the heavyset Chinese lady asked politely from behind her large glasses. High on the wall behind her, the sign read: Phil's Noodle House.
"Yeah," the tall quiet man nodded, his short hair as unkempt as his gray suit jacket.
"That'll be six dollars, eighty-nine cents."
He fumbled into his ill-matching pants pockets, pulled out his cheap wallet, and found a worn and limp ten-dollar bill. The upper-right corner had been torn off such that half the "0" was gone and only the "1" was left intact. He shrugged and handed it to her.
"Three dollars and eleven cents is your change."
"Thanks," he answered, picked up his large hot styrofoam cup and cool can of Sprite, and found a spot at the far corner of the soup shop. Specifically, he chose the shelf bolted against the storefront windows, and the molded plastic stool at the end of the row. Near enough to the office, but far enough so his coworkers couldn't easily find him, he sat here at the shelf table, facing out to the urban street, watching the various people glancing in and passing by. Sitting here, Tom could savor a slice of peace, and relish the flavor of the best Asian noodles in the city.
Today, he chose the barbecue pork soup. Popping off the plastic top, he scooped up a nice hot sporkful, blew at it, and gently sipped the broth, "Mmmm."
That's good... really good...
With only a few more spoonfuls and sips left in his cup, Tom gazed at the taxis and trucks shifting along the street, the bicyclists and pedestrians gliding along the sidewalk, dreading another afternoon at PrizNet Pro, or PNP, dreading it almost as much as he had dreaded another excruciating day at high school, or another agonizing day at his first computer job. With little to hope for, little to live for, he met his 32nd birthday like any other day. And it looked like it would leave him like any other day.
Early this morning, he helped his old landlady carry out her trash. Since he moved into her building a few years ago, she had grown thinner, weaker, and crankier. But she was still his landlady.
"It's about time, sonny," she honked. "I've been watching the news. You're not taking those ecstasy pills, are you?"
"No, Mrs. Jankowski, no pills," he managed a slight smile. "I'm fine. Thanks."
Next, before heading to PNP, he gassed up his beat-up 1984 Toyota Celica, the same dented, rusted, and faded red clunker that used to be his dad's seven or eight years ago. He recalled his embarrassment in having no choice, but he had to accept it from his dad. Lately, it seemed so small and tight. One winter night not too long ago, a night that encrusted all the windows with ice, he began to understand what claustrophobia felt like, trapped in a lonely frame of metal and glass, blind to everything on the outside. Fortunately, the car started, and the windshield crust eventually melted away enough for him to drive home.
Finally, with a full tank of gas, he ended his morning commute in the PNP parking garage, and followed the familiar maze of stairs and elevators and corridors to the office. Another day in a cubicle. Another day at work.
Yeah, back to work... Just a cog in the machine...
He drank the remaining bits of his lukewarm soup.
On the surface, Tom was a self-taught expert in the Visual Basic programming language -- the graphical extension of the BASIC language he taught himself on his first Commodore 64 -- manipulating buttons, dragging menus, dropping scroll bars, developing interfaces. Beneath that, he couldn't say what he was, because he couldn't explain it to himself.
Why me?
Back in his generic cubicle, he stared at his monitor of scattered windows and dialog boxes.
Total emptiness...
"Hey, Tommy!" a distant voice called.
For a split second of wonder, Tom straightened in his chair, thinking it was his old buddy Willie. But he knew it couldn't be. And just as quickly, he deflated.
"Hey, Tommy, there you are." The voice belonged to the ponytailed Levi Stevens, a fellow programmer fresh out of MIT, maybe ten years his junior. "How's the project going?"
"Uh, it's going," he answered dryly. Going but never gone.
"I know what ya mean," the skinny youngster grinned. Suddenly, Levi peeked over the cube partitions, then bent down to Tom's ear and lowered his voice to an unusual whisper. "Hey, me and some of the guys are going to a party tonight. You're an old-timer, but you really know your shit. So we figured, 'Why not?" You interested?"
The older programmer turned and matched his whisper, "A party? What kind of party?"
"Just some of the guys in the department, some chicks. You do like chicks, right?"
Tom nodded, "Um, yeah."
"Well, there you go," Levi's voice raised a little, then fell back to its original whisper, "Just meet us at this address at 8." He handed Tom a folded scrap of paper that seemed to be torn from the corner of a larger piece of paper. In blue ink, a message was scribbled: KT party 8PM, 101 N. Dearborn.
Confused, Tom glanced up, "Who's KT?"
"Not who," the youngster shook his head, "what."
"What's KT?"
"Be there at 8 and I'll tell ya." Levi split his face into the cryptic grin of a Cheshire cat, and spun away from the cube, his rubber-band-tied hair swinging like a wagging tail.
Tom was going to be late. Actually, he was already late.
What's wrong with this fucking car?
But a quarter after 8pm, he finally found Dearborn Street. Driving slowly, squinting in the darkness, he searched for the street number 101. And there it was. Not to mention the half dozen cars crowded around it in the driveway and along the curb.
He smiled at his slow wit. Duh. Obvious clue.
With no other choice, he parked his squeaking Celica coupe across the street. In a simple sports jacket, black Alice In Chains T-shirt, and blue jeans, Tom dashed across the asphalt, and took the steps to the front door. It was a generic house, like the others on the street, white siding, low bushes, common stuff.
He rang the doorbell and stared at the branching cracks in the paint. After a few moments, the door opened.
"Tommy!" Levi appeared of course. "Glad you could make it! Got lost?"
"Well," the older colleague began, then turned slightly to his embarrassing mode of transportation.
The youngster peered across the street and nodded, "I see. Mechanical troubles. Well, forget about it. You're here now."
With a can of Miller beer in his hand, Levi held open the door and let Tom step through it. On unfamiliar territory, the tall dark-haired programmer entered as quietly as a cat.
The younger programmer laughed, "Hahaha! This isn't a glass house. My parents' house is your house."
Still, Tom smiled nervously.
"Take it easy, Tommy," Levi warmly slapped his back. "This ain't PNP. Relax. You're with friends here. Come on, everyone's down in the basement."
Following the ponytailed Cheshire cat past the elegantly furnished living room and the unexpectedly spotless kitchen, Tom was struck by his host's level of luxury that easily surpassed his own at the same age.
Once again, Levi held open the door and let his guest step through it. "Watch the first step," he warned ominously.
Tom hesitated, "What?"
The youngster paused for a thoughtful moment, then answered, "Could be a little slippery. That's all. Katie spilled some beer."
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