The Impossible Fortress(32)
“Your dad hates me,” I told Mary.
“It’s just an act,” she insisted. “He actually likes you. He’s impressed by your work ethic.”
“He said that?”
“Well, not in those exact words.”
“In any words?”
“He’s impressed,” she said. “Trust me.”
I tried to get on his good side. I never left cans of soda on the computer desk (even though Mary did so all the time). I kept my voice down, I said “please” and “thank you” and generally tried to stay out of his way. But every time I arrived at the store, Zelinsky looked disappointed.
That Friday, I was working in the showroom while Mary assisted a customer with a typewriter. Once again I was the only person in the back of the store, when out of nowhere this kid wandered past me. He was maybe ten or eleven, dressed in gray denim from head to toe, and carrying a Big Gulp soda. He ducked behind a rack of Energizer batteries, disappearing from view, and I knew right away he was a thief.
He returned a moment later, still holding the Big Gulp and sucking on the straw. Nice detail, kid.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
I stood up and followed him to the front of the store. I’ll give him credit: he was smart enough to stop at the register and buy something—a pack of Bubbalicious chewing gum.
Zelinsky almost didn’t even notice him. He was busy repairing a typewriter for a collector in Princeton. “Just the gum? That’ll be two bits.”
The kid stared back.
“You don’t know that expression? Two bits?” Disappointment fell over his face; it was a look I knew all too well. “It means twenty-five cents.”
The kid pushed a wrinkled dollar across the counter.
“Where’d you get the Big Gulp?” I asked.
“7-Eleven,” he said.
“There’s no 7-Eleven on Market Street. The nearest one’s five miles away.”
He frowned. “Do you, like, work here or something?”
“You’re stealing batteries.”
The words hadn’t finished leaving my mouth and the kid was already out the door. Zelinsky lunged after him, but I told him not to bother. The kid had left the soda cup on the counter. I pried off the lid, revealing six C batteries submerged in a few ounces of warm cola. Zelinsky’s eyes went wide, like I’d just performed some kind of miracle.
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “How did you know?”
I couldn’t tell him the truth—that Alf and I had practically pioneered the Big Gulp stunt, using the 64-ounce cups to steal cellophane-wrapped music cassettes from Sam Goody.
“I heard him messing around by the batteries,” I explained. “I figured he was up to something.”
That night Zelinsky let me stay an extra half hour, and when the time was finally up, I almost didn’t recognize his voice. Instead of “Get out” or “Go” he said, “We’ll see you tomorrow, Will.”
Mary elbowed me in the ribs.
“You see?” she said. “He’s warming up.”
1600 REM *** OUT OF TIME ***
1610 PRINT "{CLR}{12 CSR DWN}"
1620 PRINT "{12 SPACES} YOU ARE OUT"
1630 PRINT "{14 SPACES} OF TIME."
1640 PRINT "{2 CSR DWN}"
1650 PRINT "THY GAME IS OVER."
1660 FOR DELAY=1 TO 1000
1670 NEXT DELAY
1680 IF LIVES=0 THEN 3300
1690 RETURN
THE DAYS PASSED QUICKLY. The air turned warm, flowers blossomed, and Memorial Day signaled the official start of summer. Normally Zelinsky closed for the holiday, but he agreed to open the store so Mary and I could spend the afternoon working. Our classmates were off at the beach or movies or fireworks, but we were stuck in the showroom, working away.
Our contest entry had to be postmarked by Friday, May 29—and by Wednesday, May 27, we were nowhere close to finished. We had created the perfect ML subroutine, an elegant loop that scattered the guards in different directions—they ran with bending knees and waved their arms and shook their spears. It was beautifully animated and lightning quick. But when we tried pasting the loop into the main program, the game crashed and crashed and crashed. No matter what we tried, the 64 returned an error message: BAD SUBSCRIPT
DIVISION BY ZERO
ILLEGAL DIRECT
ILLEGAL QUANTITY
FORMULA TOO COMPLEX
CAN′T CONTINUE
CAN′T CONTINUE
CAN′T CONTINUE
CAN′T CONTINUE
CAN′T CONTINUE
Mary and I read and reread How to Learn Machine Language in 30 Days, desperate to find our mistake, but we were doing everything right; we were following the instructions to the letter. I was tired and frustrated and suddenly All Your Favorite ’80s Love Songs were driving me crazy. Phil Collins was singing “Against All Odds” for the millionth time, and his desperation seemed to echo my own lousy mood. We were out of ideas and out of time.
“I’m done,” I said. “I give up.”
Mary didn’t look up from her book. “We’re close.”
“No, I’m serious. I quit.”