Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(58)

“Psychic upholstery?”

“I wonder if the winner of an actual National Book Award would need to ask.”

“And that’s you?” Jacob asked, touching an elflike creature.

“No. And don’t touch the screen.”

“Which one is you?”

“None of them is me.”

“Which one is Sam?”

“None.”

“Which is Sam’s person?”

“His avatar?”

“OK.”

“There. By the vending machine.”

“What? The tan girl?”

“She’s a Latina.”

“Why is Sam a Latina?”

“Why are you a white man?”

“Because I didn’t have a choice.”

“Well, he did.”

“Can I take her for a spin?”

Max hated the feeling of his father’s hand on his shoulder. It was repulsive to him—an experience somewhere near the middle of the spectrum whose opposing poles were runny eggs and thirty thousand people demanding gratification when the Nationals Park Kiss Cam imprisoned his mom and him in the Jumbotron.

“No,” he said, shaking his shoulder free, “you can’t.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could kill her.”

“Obviously I won’t. But even if I did, which I won’t, can’t you just put in some more quarters and continue?”

“It took Sam four months to develop her skill set, bounty of armaments, and psychic resources.”

“It’s taken me forty-two years.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t let anyone take your controls.”

“Maxy…”

“Max is fine.”

“Max. He who gave you life is begging you.”

“No.”

“I command you to let me partake in Sam’s community.”

Max let out a deep, dramatic sigh.

“Two minutes,” he said. “And only aimless wandering.”

“Aimless Wandering is my middle name.”

With great reluctance, Max handed Jacob the iPad.

“To move, just slide your thumb in the direction you want to go. To pick something up—”

“My thumb is the squat one on the end, right?”

Max didn’t respond.

“I’cha kidding, dude.”

“Keep your eyes on the road.”

When Jacob was a kid, games had one button. They were simple, and fun, and no one felt that they were in any way lacking. No one felt a need to crouch, to pivot, to switch weapons. You had a gun, you shot the bastards, you high-fived your friends. Jacob didn’t want all these options—the more control available, the less control he felt.

“You kinda suck at this,” Max said.

“Maybe it’s this game that kinda sucks.”

“It’s not a game, and it made more money in one day than every book published in America that entire year combined.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true.”

“I’m sure it is, because there was an article about it.”

“Where?”

“The Arts section.”

“The Arts section? Since when do you read the Arts section, and since when were video games art?”

“It’s not a game.”

“And even if it did make all that money,” Jacob said, sliding his feet into the stirrups of his high horse, “so what? What is that even a measure of?”

“How much money it made.”

“Which is a measure of what?”

“I don’t know, how important it is?”

“There’s a difference, I’m sure you realize, between prevalence and importance.”

“I’m sure you realize that I don’t even know what prevalence means.”

“Kanye West is not more culturally important than—”

“Yes he is.”

“—than Philip Roth.”

“First of all, I’ve never even heard of that person. Second, Kanye might not be valuable to you, but he’s definitely more important to the world.”

Jacob remembered the period when Max was obsessed with relative values—Would you rather have a handful of diamonds or a houseful of silver? For a moment, which disappeared as it emerged, he saw the smaller Max.

“I guess we look at things differently,” Jacob said.

“That’s right,” Max said. “I look at things correctly. You don’t. That’s a difference. How many people watch your TV show every week?”

“It’s not my show.”

“The show that you write for.”

“That’s not a simple question. There’s people who watch it when it’s first on, then people who watch other showings, and DVR—”

“A few million?”

“Four.”

“Seventy million people play this game. And they had to buy it, not just turn on the TV when they didn’t feel like spending time with their kids or making out with their wives.”

“How old are you?”

“Basically eleven.”