Пишем диплом. То есть играем в "Violet"

[vak]

В этой игре не нужна карта. Некуда ходить. Всё действие происходит в одной комнате. Не с кем общаться: ни злодеев, ни приятелей. Вы совершенно один. Скукотища, скажете? Однако игра "Violet" взяла первое место на 14-м ежегодном конкурсе интерактивной литературы в 2008 году, а также призы в девяти номинациях 2008 XYZZY Awards.

Вы студент последнего курса. Осталось совсем немного до защиты диплома, а у вас ничего не готово. За пять месяцев не написано ни строчки. Сегодня суббота, причём у вас день рождения, но вы заперлись в кабинете в университете с целью заставить себя писать диплом. Дело не движется. В голове у вас постоянно звучит голос вашей подружки Violet, с которой вы вчера смертельно поссорились, и она заявила, что уходит от вас. Основная часть текста в игре идёт от лица Violet, хотя как персонаж она не появляется. Всё закончится хорошо, но мучения над дипломом окажутся нетривиальные.

Можно играть онлайн: iplayif.com

Или можно скачать и запустить на своём компьютере:

$ wget https://ifarchive.org/if-archive/games/zcode/Violet.zblorb
$ frotz Violet.zblorb

Для ленивых покажу полное прохождение:

Calm down. All you have to do is write a thousand words and everything will be fine. And you have all day, except it’s already noon.

Violet
A Distraction by Jeremy Freese
Release 3, November 2008
(New readers type ABOUT; HINTS available)

You told me you were making progress. Then I find out you haven’t finished a paragraph in five months. What did you expect?

So now here you are, up in your office. I am sorry that today is a Saturday. I am especially sorry that today is your thirtieth birthday. We had all kinds of adventures planned. I refuse to feel guilty.

Of course I am still upset. I will try to set that aside and be encouraging. I really do want you to succeed today.

Please just write.

>inventory
You’re carrying nothing.

You’ve a tattoo on the back of your hand.

>write
You’re standing. You’ve been pacing most of the morning, stewing about our fight last night.

I don’t myself see why one can’t type just as easily standing up as sitting down, but you are adamant that you can only focus enough to write seriously if you are seated.

>sit
Okay. You are seated at your desk and ready to go. Just write!

>write
Unfortunately, with all the pacing about and ruminating, you’ve been here over two hours but haven’t actually opened your word processor yet.

>examine computer
The desktop PC is old but perfectly fine for writing. In addition to your word processor, applications you can OPEN include a browser, chat and e-mail.

The computer has a USB port in the front and is connected to the Internet with a cable in back.

Somebody is coming up the stairs. I thought you said no one ever comes in on the weekend?

>open word processor
As you move your hand to open the word processor, you look briefly at the tattoo on the back of your hand.

Open. Chapter 3 of your dissertation awaits. You can do it!

>examine tattoo
”Tattoo” isn’t right. You scrawled “TYVTWD” on the back of your hand before leaving this morning. It stands for Take Your Violet To Work Day. This is your plan: you are going to get through today by pretending I’m here with you.

Just so we’re clear: you are actually alone, and presumably I am back at our apartment, packing and crying.

>write
You start trying to focus on the screen and type, but you are very tired. I realise that you hardly slept last night between being all worked up from our fight and then being banished to the dodgy futon in our living room.

Still. I know you won’t let a little grogginess stop you. You are determined. For us!

>write
You are trying, I can tell. But each time you begin to think through the opening sentence you get this dull cloudy tired pain right behind your eyes.

Okay. You want to write. You just need to get yourself more awake first.

Two voices in the hallway: a man and Julia. Julia hasn’t been in her office in weeks. She shows up on a Saturday?

>look
When Wisconsin was recruiting your advisor they promised her space for graduate students. You’re in a decrepit building but otherwise it’s not bad.

You’ve a great big desk in front of a window, a gorgeous yellow chair, a cabinet in one corner, a giant cactus in another, and a tall bookcase on the back wall with an incredibly cute stool in front of it. The door is west.

>examine desk
Of course the big oak desk is unusually posh for a graduate student office. It belonged to a professor who had a stroke at his computer and none of the other faculty wanted a desk on which once rested the head of a dead colleague.

On top of the desk are your computer, my itinerary, a framed darling and a pile you cannot even contemplate right now.

The desk’s drawer is closed. A wastebasket is on the floor to the left.

>open drawer
You open the drawer and there’s a shiny little key and your notebook.

Although you write on your computer, you still like to keep a pen and notebook handy because it sometimes helps to work out more complicated sentences in longhand before typing them in. You’ve several pens in your bag.

Hey, budgie: where’s your bag?

>examine notebook
It’s a smallish notebook, about 10x15 centimetres. The cover is lenticular. From this angle, it’s a drawing of the comic book hero Professor Detective telling one of his graduate students, “You carry the heaviest of all burdens: POTENTIAL.”

Several pages inside the notebook have writing on them.

Ugh. You were so distracted this morning that you left your bag back at our apartment. I am a gentle girlfriend and will refrain from marvelling at how it’s past noon and you are only realising this now.

You cannot go get your bag. You know you are doomed to an afternoon of meandering distraction if you leave this office.

>get key
Yours, wallaroo.

Julia is here to sabotage you. I’m sure of it. She’s in her office across the hall now, talking loudly with her door open.

>examine cabinet
(standing up first)
It’s University Drab, about a metre high with a silly fake wood front. It’s closed and locked.

On top of the cabinet is the opposite of drab: a spectacularly intricate origami trophy.

>open cabinet
Last night, near the very end:
“I want you to have your birthday present regardless.”
“Violet, I’ll write the thousand words.”
“I planned a treasure hunt for you. I wrote clues! It was going to end in your office.”
“I am going to write tomorrow. I promise.”
“Look in that cabinet you never use. You’ll like how I wrapped it.”

You unlock the cabinet with the key and open it.

Inside the cabinet are a very odd balloon and a plastic bottle filled with a fluorescent pink liquid.

>examine bottle
The bottle is dusty. Is this even yours, or is it left over from Marty?

The label has several large characters of what looks like a cross of Chinese, Cyrillic, and cuneiform. Small type beneath says “Divine Soda Mega Energy”. The label also has a drawing of a devil poking a man in the [bother]* with an electrified pitchfork. The man’s eyes bulge and his mouth rounds into a scream.

The bottle is filled with a fluorescent pink liquid.

(BTW: I’ve decided I’m just going to “*” whenever I have an aside. ASIDE or * and I’ll tell you.)

>get bottle
Yours, dundeecake.

The dude with Julia sounds like the one she was flirting with at Lucy’s party. Remember? He was scrawny and said his parents owned a hotel in Milwaukee called “The Historic Pfister.”

>drink liquid
Holy [bother] is that strong! You feel like your brain is now a giant sparkler. You feel invincible. You feel like buying a circus. You feel like moving to South America and starting a revolution.

Dissertation? You feel like writing a trilogy. And an opera. You feel like fathering roomfuls of monkeys to type randomly until they write your dissertation for you.

Whatever else, you’re now plenty alert. (I’m e-mailing Marty to find out where I can get some of that.)

>write
(first sitting on chair)
Completely, unblinkingly alert, you start thinking again about the first sentence. “Previous scholarship has typically conceptualized...” Six seconds later you check your e-mail. You switch back to your word processor for a bit, but then you start reading some blogs. You check your e-mail again. Then back to blogs.

I suspect this is much of how the past several months in your office have gone.

>unplug cable
You unplug the ethernet cable. Good! It has to be easier to write if you can’t chat, check e-mail, and surf the web whenever you want.

>write
You resume thinking about the first sentence. You fidget. Your hands tremble a bit. You want to check your e-mail. You want to read blogs. And then: you retrieve the cable and plug it back into the computer.

Ugh. I didn’t know it was this bad, vegemite. I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know why I confided in Lucy about our problems. I should have known she would tell Julia.

>unplug cable
Done, lorikeet. You’re now holding the ethernet cable.

>get balloon
(standing up first)
Yours, muttonplum.

You look out the window for a moment, at the wonderfully serene park across the street. We could be frolicking right now. We could be canoodling in the shrubbery. Please just write.

>put cable in cabinet
You put the blue ethernet cable into the cabinet.

>lock cabinet
You close the cabinet and lock it. Clever little wallaroo.

>write
(first sitting on chair)
You try again. Two minutes later you unlock the cabinet and take out the cable. You plug it back into the computer and start idly googlestalking friends from primary school.

Ugh. We’re not going to to be able to work out your “internet addiction” issues today, little numbat. We need to move forward anyway.

Gamely, you unplug the cable and lock it in the cabinet again.

>examine stool
Remember? Me, looking triumphant as I haul the flimsy stool into our apartment:
“Look what I found in the dumpster! Just what you need!”
“Do you think it will collapse if I stand on it?”
“Not immediately. Just be careful.”
“I can’t believe the secretary said I was ‘undeserving’ when I asked if I could have a stool.”
“This stool is better, anyway. Maybe I’ll paint it!”

>get on stool
The stool creaks as you climb onto it.

You are distracted by Julia laughing inauthentically and telling Historic Pfister “You are so clever.”

>put key on top of bookcase
Curious, jellysquish. Done.

>get off stool
You get off the stool.

>break stool
Gently, but irreparably, you break the stool.

Ugh. I know it was practically broken already, but I loved that stool. I realise you are desperate because you don’t want me to leave. You can do this. I am cheering for you.

>write
(first sitting on chair)
You try again. Within a few seconds you start wondering what the fear of writing is called. Scribophobia? Graphophobia? You go to look it up online. You can’t. You itch to check your e-mail. You can’t.

So you start thinking about Chapter 3 again. Woo-woo! The train of ideas is finally pulling into keyboard station. I can see the first sentence now.

But then you hear another loud fake laugh from Julia and everything derails. Ugh. I didn’t think I could possibly hate Julia any worse than after she posted my cell phone # on those marsupial fetish listservs. You cannot let her win.

>examine balloon
It’s about 25 centimetres across, milky white rubber decorated with purple ink swirls. A strange furry thing is inside, its three long legs pressing against the sides. At the bottom of the balloon is a bright yellow tab on which I’ve written “Pull me!”

You’re looking out the window again. Today in the park, a laughing couple that could have been us toss a frisbee back and forth, and an older gentleman is walking his malamute.

>pull tab
You pull the tab and the balloon deflates with a pop and whoosh. You hear me shout “Happy birthday!” and zestily toot a kazoo.

What’s left is a white rubber square with a message written on it. You are also holding the three-legged furry thing, which you now realise is an electronic device.

>examine message
You stretch the rubber square so that you can read what I’ve written:

Happy birthday! I know you wanted a boring ordinary music player, but I got my brother to send the latest piece of consumer electronics GENIUS from the kangaroo corridor.

Behold: the platyPod! Why three headphones?  The middle one attaches by suction to your forehead for complete hands-free and display-free control. Not to mention kick-[bother] extra bass. Why is it furry?  Don't ask me: Melbourne is in the throes of an epic fake-fur fad I don't understand. But this is going to be a HUGE hit, and not just among the armless blind.

Charge it with your computer. Then SCRUNCH YOUR BROW to turn it on. I've already put some bonus presents on it.

You are my FAVOURITE!
Violet

>examine device
It looks like a set of over-the-head headphones, except there is a third one and it’s covered with short, brown fur. There’s a little plug that allows it to connect to the USB port of a computer. Tiny letters on the plug say “platyPod.”

You glance over at your bookcase, at the book on your second shelf. I can see you fidgeting. Please tell me you aren’t getting antsy because you feel like you should read it before you can write.

>charge platypod
You plug in the platyPod. It will beep when it is fully charged.

>wait
Hmph. Not to be cross, but waiting is what I’ve been doing the last two years.

You start looking toward the door with an irksome dreaminess. Whatever else about Julia, the woman knows how to choose perfume. Of course, I’m not sure how much she’s poured on herself that you can smell it this far away.

>wait
I have goals of my own, you know. I don’t want to waste any more time.

You are distracted by Julia talking about her abs.

>wait
Sometimes I feel like you are not even trying.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! The platyPod is fully charged. You retrieve it and return to what you were doing.

>wear platypod
The platyPod fits nicely in your ears and against your forehead. It is switched off.

You look toward the door: the perfume again. I agree that it’s really appealing. But, still, this is Julia!*

>scrunch brow
My voice: “Look, it even lets you record a start-up message! How the platyPod works: You cycle through the different playlists by RAISING your left or right eyebrow. NOD to skip to the next track. JIGGLE your head clockwise to turn the volume up, and jiggle it anticlockwise to turn it down.”

The platyPod turns on. A mechanical Aussie voice announces, “Now playing ‘MC Dingo: Straight Outta Down Under’” You groan, because you are like every other parochial American who refuses to give Australian hip-hop a proper chance.

The volume is low. You can still sometimes hear Julia and Historic Pfister across the hall.

>jiggle head clockwise
You move your head in cute little clockwise circles. The volume is now so loud that you cannot hear Julia and Historic Pfister at all.

You’re looking out the window again. A blond-haired father and even-blonder son are walking into the park from the east, and entering your view from the west is a zombie.

>write
I’m so glad we are done having to listen to Julia and Historic Pfister. You start back on the first sentence. “Among the most confounding aspects of contemporary...” “Among the most confounding...” Ugh. The music is SO LOUD. It’s like trying to write while sitting next to the amps at a hip-hop concert.

>examine wastebasket
(standing up first)
It’s the standard issue University Dreary–sullen cousin of University Drab–metal wastebasket.

A wad of gum is stuck to the wastebasket’s rim.

You are thinking about your bag. Sure, it’s unfortunate, but there’s nothing you can do. So just forget about it.

>examine gum
I’d recognise those brown specks anywhere. This is Two Bob Slobber bubble gum! Is this the piece I gave you to try ages ago? Has it been stuck to the rim all that time?

>get gum
You pull the gum off the wastebasket’s rim. Ick. Two Bob Slobber is the only bubble gum in the world that has bits of dried lamb jerky in it.

MC Dingo contends that you’re not a real gangsta unless you come from a country originally founded as a gangsta colony.

>chew gum
When I made you try it before, you said that it tastes sort of like American bubble gum, only if one added soy sauce, pieces of pickled meat, and a bit of blood.

And add to that now a strong mildew taste. Yuck. You gag and spit the gum back out.

>remove platypod
The platyPod automatically turns off when you remove it.

You look over at the book and fret. Budgie, you’ve had the book for at least two weeks, and it’s only today, when you really must write, that you start feeling it’s urgent for you to read.

>put gum in ears
You are marvellous. The gum does not block out all sound, but some. You can still hear Julia and Historic Pfister when they are being especially loud.

>wear platypod
The platyPod still fits well, as the earpieces nestle nicely into the gum. The platyPod is switched off.

You are distracted by Julia saying especially loudly “...You could use mine to calculate pi...”*

>scrunch brow
My voice: “Look, it even lets you record a start-up message! How the platyPod works: You cycle through the different playlists by RAISING your left or right eyebrow. NOD to skip to the next track. JIGGLE your head clockwise to turn the volume up, and jiggle it anticlockwise to turn it down.”

The platyPod turns on. The platyPod clicks and the oz-hop you fail to properly appreciate resumes.

The volume is on low, and it’s even lower with the gum in your ears. Nonetheless, you can still sometimes faintly hear Julia and Historic Pfister across the hall.

>jiggle head clockwise
You move your head in adorable little clockwise circles. The volume is still not that loud given the gum in your ears, but you can no longer hear Julia and Historic Pfister at all. Hee. Take that, Julia!

You’re looking out the window again. The zombie in the park is dressed like an investment banker, but you recognise him as a zombie because of the pasty skin, blood dripping from his mouth, and lurching gait. He pauses to look at his watch.

>write
(first sitting on chair)
You try again. “Perhaps the greatest theoretical challenge for extant...” Then you look toward the door and inhale deeply. I know that look. Lust! The perfume!

I agree Julia has some great perfume, but so much so as to keep you from being able to construct a coherent sentence? Ugh. I think it’s wishful to imagine that I would actually be so sanguine about this.

>examine beauty
Why you chose this photo of me, I don’t know. It’s from a party last summer. I’ve an enormous foam lobster on my head and whipped cream all over my right cheek. I’m smiling manically and look like I may be so tipsy that I don’t know what continent I’m on.

Permit me two moments of immodesty:

1. Even in a picture where I’m not at my best, I am still clearly worth a thousand words.

2. The frame itself is very cleverly done.

>examine frame
I took the concert flier from our first “date” and made it into a hard plastic laminate–you know, like a Shrinky Dink. I made a clear plastic sheet the same size to go over the front of the photograph. Then I fused a sturdy binder clip to the two pieces to hold everything in place.

MC Dingo boasts of his sexual prowess over a sample of “Waltzing Matilda.”

>break frame
You try to break the frame gently. I fused the binder clip well, however, so you end up having to pull and twist to get it apart. When you do, the front and back each break into several pieces, and so what is now on the desk along with the binder clip and photograph are some pitiful little plastic shards.

Obviously I won’t be able to repair it.

I loved that frame. I’m not sure what you are expecting me to say. Hooray?

Remember when I handed you the itinerary last night? Your response: “So I have tomorrow. What do I need to do?”

“Please,” I told you, “I don’t want yet another promise.”
“I will write tomorrow. I will write every day until it is done.”
“You won’t. You’ll have reasons, excuses. Maybe more lies. I can’t believe you’ve been lying--”
“Violet, I will write one thousand words tomorrow. I will bring the pages to you as proof. I will do this every day.”

Then I covered my face with my hands because otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to say it:
“You won’t. I know you believe that you will. But you won’t actually do it.”
“Of course I will, Violet. I have to.”
“And yet you won’t. That’s how we’re stuck. I can’t keep waiting and pretending. Every day? Budgie, you won’t even do it tomorrow.”
“I will. One thousand words. Nothing will stop me.”

I need for you to write today. I wish you could just sit and type. I realise you can’t. Of course it hurts to watch you destroy things I spent days making for you. But do whatever you must. I don’t want to leave you.

>get clamp
Yours, weet-bix.

>put clamp on nose
You’ve put the binder clip on your nose.

You glance over at the book again and actually whinge out loud, “But I’ll keep wondering if I’m missing something if I don’t read it.”

>write
You try again. But then you hear MC Dingo rhyme “casino” and “albino” and it breaks your concentration entirely. When I put oz-hop on your platyPod, I wasn’t really thinking of it as writing music.

>raise left eyebrow
A mechanical Aussie voice announces, “Now playing Warren Tim Harried: Greatest Hits” (Hooray! Our favourite!)

>raise left eyebrow
A mechanical Oz voice announces, “Now playing Primrose Meanwell.” She’s the friend from uni I was telling you about. Absolutely the shyest person–then last week I get an e-mail announcing she’s recorded an album!

>write
Primrose’s singing doesn’t distract you at all. At uni she told me that she liked wearing clothes the same colour as the dining hall walls so that she was maximally inconspicuous.

Unfortunately, however, within a few minutes you are distracted by the scene out your window. A second zombie enters the park from the east, holding a sign. The first zombie looks relieved.

>examine window
(standing up first)
Your window is immediately behind your desk, about two metres high and one wide. It has an old grey blind, which is raised.

On the sill I am a bit surprised to see a lighter.

You look out the window. The sign held by the zombie says “Zombies Was People Too”. Another pair of people dressed up as zombies enter the park. One holds a sign saying “Undead and Proud!”

Primrose sings about how she likes to write in her journal.

>examine blind
I wish the blind was more colourful. It’s raised. There’s a cord.

>pull cord
You pull the cord and nothing happens. You complained to me about this weeks ago and I explained what the problem likely was and how to fix it. Remember?

>get on desk
You climb onto your desk. Be careful, honeytoast.

You’re looking out the window again. There are maybe a dozen zombies in the park now, lurching and milling about. Two unfurl a blood-spattered banner that says, “What do we want? Brains! When do we want them? Brains!”

>examine blind
You can see what’s wrong with the blind now. The little whatever is stuck.* This is easy: you can just FIX it.

>fix whatever
You squint at the whatever for awhile and fiddle. Squint, fiddle, still stuck. I think when I said you could easily fix it what I really meant was that, if I were there, I could easily fix it.

Squint, fiddle, SNAP. You did it! Or, wait, maybe you broke it.

Looking closer, you’ve definitely broken the whatever. Perhaps you’ve also fixed it. I can’t tell.

>pull cord
You pull the cord and the blind lowers halfway, then stops.

You are thinking about your bag again. “Why am I always so forgetful?” you say aloud. “Why am always I so disorganized?” Lorikeet, dwelling on it won’t help. “I know!” you exclaim. “Why do I always dwell on everything?”

>get off desk
You do, wallaroo.

On the desk are some pitiful little plastic shards, a photograph, your computer, my itinerary and a pile you cannot even contemplate. A stupendously intricate origami trophy sits on top of the cabinet. A wastebasket is on the floor.

>examine cabinet
It’s University Drab, about a metre high with a silly fake wood front. It’s closed and locked.

On top of the cabinet is still a stupendously intricate origami trophy.

>examine trophy
You trained for months and had to run the entire race in the rain. A chintzy little medal after all that? You deserve better! So afterwards I took the big sign I’d held up for you and spent two days folding it into a proper trophy.

Primrose sings about how she has a special purple pen that she uses when she writes about boys. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a lead singer whose voice is so inconspicuous.

>get trophy
Yours, marble munch. I have to confess, I think the trophy is absolutely sublime.

>unfold trophy
You take the trophy I made for you and methodically unfold it. I cannot decide whether to be exasperated or moved by how you are so careful not to tear it. You’re now holding a crumply sign, about a metre square.

Unbelievable. Un-be-[bother]ing-lievable.

Remember? That night sitting on the swings, shortly after we started dating? I was emphatic that we had to end this before we got serious.
”But, Violet,” you said, “I’m already serious.”
“Coming to Wisconsin was supposed to be a great adventure. I didn’t know it was so cold. I thought Madison was bigger. I miss my family. My friends are all leaving when they finish their MFAs. Mine is already done. We only have a future if I stay. And if I stay, I would just be waiting.”

We had that conversation the day after you turned 28, because I was determined to break up with you and thought only a cretin would dump someone on their birthday.

You convinced me to stay. You said you would be done in a year, a year and a half at the most. Instead: two years now. Two years. And this is what you need to do because you can’t just sit your [bother] down and write?

I know you aren’t doing this to hurt me. I’ll try go back to being Your Upbeat Aussie Girlfriend. But, honestly: what am I supposed to think here? How am I supposed to feel?

>examine sign
It’s all crumply now. The bright fuchsia letters say:

You are my
FAVOURITE!

You look over at the book again. You know you don’t actually need to read it today.

>cover window with sign
(putting the crumply sign on the sill)
You put the sign on the sill. The sign and the blind together now block the view out your window entirely.

>write
(first sitting on chair)
You start typing! “Arguably the most compelling theory of...” You frown. You change “compelling” to “cogent.” You change it back. You change “arguably” to “inarguably.” You change it back.

You’re stalling. You look fretfully over at the book. You’re thinking about how you need to read it, aren’t you? Ugh.

>examine bookcase
(standing up first)
Primrose makes me feel dreary. If we’re getting up again, let’s listen to Warren. I’ll switch us back before you write.

Two weeks ago:
“Violet. Take this. Do not give it back to me for a month.”
“Is this your car key?”
“Just the trunk. The boot. I put all the books from my office in there.”
“You said you just needed to read one more book and then you were ready to write.”
“And you pointed out that I’ve said that several times before. You’re right. I’ve read enough. I just need to get what’s in my head onto the computer.”

Of course I’m so used to seeing your bookcase full that it’s strange now to see it nearly empty.

On the second shelf is a book. On the bottom shelf is a smartly-done snowglobe.

>examine book
This is the latest “last book you really must read before you are able to write your dissertation without a nagging feeling that there is one more book you really must read.” If you start reading it now, hours will go by, and you won’t write your thousand words.

Warren Tim Harried is playing “Please Don’t (My Grandma Gave Me That)” from Runt with an Accordion, recorded when he was fourteen years old.

>get book
Why did you pick up the book? If you start reading it, you won’t stop, and holding it in your hands is just going to make you want to read it even more.

>examine lighter
The lighter is promoting some race car driver whose car is #67. Our Number.

I was tipsy at a party and you were one of four random dudes trying to talk to me at once. I interrupted to tell my favourite joke. “Why is six afraid of seven?”
“Because seven eight–”
“No!” I shouted, “Because seven [the sickest thing I could come up with at the moment] nine.”

The other men chuckled uncomfortably. You laughed so hard you spit Guinness on my face. That was when I decided I liked you.

I see the way you are looking down at the book. You want to read it. You need to resist.

>get lighter
Yours, gumnut. It’s hard for me to be enthusiastic about lighters as a woman who owns her own blowtorch.

You fiddle with the cover of the book. You’re thinking that you could just read the Table of Contents. And maybe the Acknowledgements.

>burn book
Gee, budgie. Far be it from me to be the moral conscience when fire is involved, but that’s a library book. There’s bound to be a hefty fine. And it seems a little insane. If you really want to, we can, but it shouldn’t be a rash decision.

>burn book
I was secretly hoping you would. You light the book on fire and it burns magnificently! Yay! That was epic to watch, and now we don’t have to deal with you being tempted anymore to read.

The coughing and light smoke damage are well worth it. I’ll go halfsies on the library fine.

As for the sprinkler: nothing. Not one drop. Don’t even pretend to be surprised to learn that the University gives graduate students offices in a death-trap.

>write
(first switching platyPod back to Primrose)
(then sitting on chair)
You type a sentence, just like that. Then another! But the third sentence is tricky; it includes a semicolon. Now you are just shuffling words around with cut and paste.

I know, this is why you like having a pen and paper when you write, to work out the phrasing of tougher sentences. You try tracing your finger on the desk but it doesn’t help.

>examine cactus
(standing up first)
Okay, but I’m switching to Professor Detective instead of Primrose. I’ll switch us back again when you are ready to write.

Supposedly the cactus belonged to a business school professor who left Madison for another university in a snit. An accidental transposition of numbers on a form caused it to be moved in here instead of University Botanical Disposal, and your department won’t pay to move it again so it’s been here for years.

Obtrusive, sure, but at least it hides that ugly pipe leading up to the sprinkler on your wall. Plus plants are cheery. I’m glad the pot is too heavy for you to be able to move it yourself.

>examine pipe
The garish chrome pipe was obviously added sometime after the building was built, in response to some amendment to the fire code. It is flush against the wall and runs all the way up to a sprinkler that is only a few inches from the ceiling.

Professor Detective explains to Undergraduate Constable Duffy that a murderer who escapes justice will invariably kill again, and the same logic applies to plagiarists.

>examine sprinkler
Remember? Last October:
“Hey, wallaroo, why is there a pen between the sprinkler and the ceiling?”
“It’s been there since I moved in.”
“How could somebody even wedge a pen up in there like that?”
“It’s even more mysterious considering that the previous occupant of this office was a dwarf.”
“Marty! He was hilarious! Remember the prank with the disappearing ink toner cartridge?”
“That was mostly you, dear. All Marty did was slip it in Julia’s printer before her big presentation.”

>examine pen
It’s a bright lavender tube, like the brand of gel-ink pen that Marty used to use. There are some scratchings on the side that look like letters, but from here you cannot read what it says.

>examine mess
It’s detritus from teaching, a couple unfinished side projects, and the earlier dissertation topic that you asked We Never Speak Of Again. It’s been accumulating and now makes you feel too overwhelmed even to contemplate.

Except today, when you absolutely must write, you are feeling an overwhelming urge to tidy it.

(BTW: you know full well that Marty is not a dwarf. He isn’t even especially short.*)

>tidy mess
You pick up one thing, then put it back down. You pick up another then put that down. You start thinking that what you really need is comprehensive office-straightening solution. You’re thinking about making a diagram, maybe a spreadsheet.

STOP. This is not what you should be doing today.

Out of the pile, however, you do pick up a potato gem.

>examine square
It’s about 10 centimetres square and has a message handwritten in purple on it. One corner is a double piece stitched over so that it is like a tiny pouch.

In the “pouch” is a small chip.

You are thinking about your bag again. Honestly, you probably don’t even really need a pen, except now you’re obsessing about how you’d have a pen if only you hadn’t forgotten your bag.

>remove chip from pouch
Yours, fruit cup.

(The rubber is really strong and stretchy for how thin it is, isn’t it? I got it from a company that makes weapons-grade slingshots.)

>put tater tot in pouch
(I always forget they aren’t called potato gems here. Just like I can never remember that it’s “cotton candy” instead of “fairy floss.”)

As strong and stretchy as the rubber is, you basically have a slingshot now that something is in the pouch. You could SHOOT SOMETHING. If I’m going to patent this, I should think about whether this unanticipated functionality exposes me to any legal risk.

>shoot pen
You’re a very good shot. I guess you were serious about that spooky bowhunting uncle. The tater tot misses the pen by less than half an inch and hits the wall, where it shatters.

I think you’ve the right idea, though. One more shot and I bet you’ll hit it.

>examine globe
It’s a glass globe with a plain wooden bottom. Inside is a happy winter scene, with a paunchy, smiling figurine in a white outfit and snow up to his ankles. His hands look like they are covered with chocolate.

>get globe
Yours, spongemuffin. I still can’t believe I stayed up two nights straight making it.

Professor Detective is doing a crossword during a faculty meeting when suddenly the lights go out and a woman screams.

>shake globe
You shake the globe vigorously. The snow starts swirling around the globe, turning pink and then red.

Remember? Watching television at midnight:
“The Saskatoon Strangler. He killed six people before being arrested by the mounties in 1986.”
“A documentary about a serial killer at bedtime?”
“Only six people, Violet. Plus, he worked as a confectioner!”
“If I can’t sleep, you can’t complain about the noise when I start working on something.”

>examine globe
The snow is now a blood red blizzard roiling around the figurine in the middle, whose eyes now gleam sinister and whose hands now look like they are covered in blood instead of chocolate.

>throw globe at pen
I love that globe. I let you have it because you kept saying it was brilliant.

I understand that it is probably the object here you can throw most accurately. But, of course it’s going to shatter. If you really think you need that pen in order to write today–ugh. Just don’t miss, okay?

>throw globe at pen
You aim carefully and throw. The globe hits the side of the sprinkler and shatters. That wasn’t even especially close. I guess your crazy stories of Little League trauma weren’t exaggerations.

At least the figurine looks undamaged. And you recognise now that the wooden base of the snowglobe was just a coaster of yours that I stole.

>get figurine
Yours, spicy biscuit. Be careful with it.

The Confounder has Professor Detective tied up in his secret hideout next to the cyclotron. The Confounder cackles and taunts, “Let’s see if tenure will save you now.”

>put figurine in pouch
Done. I’m not sure I like this.

>shoot pen
The Saskastoon Strangler sails through the air and hits the pen headfirst, knocking it loose. The pen falls to the floor. The figurine careens ahead into the wall and shatters.

I spent thirty-seven hours straight working on that figurine. I know I said to do “whatever you must.” It still hurts to watch what that “must” is taking from us.

Ultimately, yes, I understand. Then again, I’m speaking just as your imaginary rendition of me. Actual-Me was already fed up enough to buy a plane ticket; I’m not sure how you expect to explain this.

>get pen
Yours, nutter butter.

>write
(first switching platyPod back to Primrose)
(then sitting on chair)
You are ready. But when you take the cap off the pen, purple gunk sprays out and all over your clothes.

Marty! I don’t know how he rigged that. I also don’t know why men conclude that the best way of expressing anguish over me is through some display of mechanical cleverness. Remember Colin and the 50-foot aluminium peacock?

The pen itself actually works. Of course, your clothes are ruined. Worse, you are starting to itch.

>write
You are scratching yourself as soon as you start trying to type. You itch all over. It’s just getting worse as the purple gunk soaks in.

>remove clothes
(first standing up)
You place your clothes neatly next to the cactus.

So now you’re standing in your office naked, with a red binder clip on your nose and what looks like a furry three-legged space creature on your head. You also have a rancid-meaty bubble-gummy taste in your mouth, some smoke damage to your walls, and a lot to explain to Actual-Me.

You are ready to write now. I can feel it.

>write
(first sitting on chair)
You write two more sentences. I can tell you’re feeling more confident. I knew you could do this. You conclude the first paragraph with an especially provocative participle. Then you hit enter and realise:

You have to pee.

Unbelievable. This must be an anxiety thing. You are killing me.

>pee in wastebasket
(standing up first)
Done, ick. I hope you don’t make the nice custodian take care of that.

>write
(first sitting on chair)
You write a second paragraph. Then a third. You’re past a thousand words within a few hours. You decide you want to finish the entire section. You do. Not your best prose, but that isn’t the point. Julia and the zombies have long gone when you finish, which you are thankful for when you need to run naked out to the car.

You rehearse what you want to tell me all the way home. Instead, there’s a note on the door:

  Gone. Sorry.

Violet

You had to have known I was going to leave you anyway. All the clues were there.

“SURPRISE!” thirty people jump up and shout when you open the door. Good thing you were covering your [bother] with the pages you wrote.

One hour and three drinks later, you aren’t even that embarrassed. I pull you into the kitchen and kiss you.

“You said you wanted something twisted for your birthday.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of you in peculiar lingerie.”
“I spent much of today hyperventilating thinking it was too cruel.”
“I figured out some important things today. So, at worst, it was an extremely instructive cruel.”
“I’ll still understand if you’re angry.”
“You’re the one who’s going to be angry. I have to tell you something about the snowglobe. And the origami trophy. And–”

I put my hand on your chest to stop you. “I’ve a confession that supersedes yours.”

I open up my laptop and show you. On my screen is your office, as seen from the vent above the door.

Of course you’re bewildered. I explain: “When I was hiding your birthday present, I rigged a camera up there. Not to spy! Or, not to spy like that. I needed to know when you were coming home for the party. I thought it would just be you at your computer. I didn’t know you’d end up naked and peeing in a wastebasket.”

“I spent the entire day imagining that you were watching me,” you say. “Maybe it only worked because you actually were.”
“Watching you break everything was maddening,” I tell you, “but I’m still here. I understand, even. Sort of. So long as you understand that you’re only getting store-bought presents for a while.”

We’ve reached the hard part. “I’m committed to this, budgie. But I don’t know what we’re going to do with you.”
”No, Violet. What are we going to do with you? My turn is done. It’s the only fair thing.”
“You’ve been miserable. You’ll be happier this way.”
“I’m already happier. Today made it so clear. This is not what I’m meant to be doing with my life. I know, I’ve spent six years in graduate school, I should be crying right now. Instead I feel wonderful. I love you so much.”

Me too, wallaroo.

Three weeks later we are holding hands in the supereconomy section of a flight to Australia. My brother is lending me money to open a curiosities shop. He’s found you a job at a comic book shop until you decide what’s next.

* * *