Jag lumbered out of the kitchen and murmured for a while with Alyson the bartender before slumping onto the bench beside me.
Jag's real name was Jerome Andrew something-Italian-that-begins-with-G. As a kid, his mother had called him "Romy" and it took moving to the other side of the continent to shed that name.
"Yep". I took a sip of my drink.
"No more."
"Nope". I took another sip.
"My last night."
"Mmm. Hunh?" I held my glass in mid-air.
"Tomorrow I'm gonna... I don't know. I don't know!" Jag laughed and drummed the table. "It's been a while since I could say that!"
I took a sip. "What's up, man?"
"How was it tonight? Did you like it?"
"What?"
"Come on. The usual." He turned to look me in the face and saw me staring bemusedly. "The soup, dude. How was the soup?"
"Uh, good. Actually, yeah, I got the soup, and it was good. Yeah. Bern and Ellen had a taste and they liked it too. Yeah. It was good tonight. Better I think."
"Better?"
"Yeah, a little different. I mean it's always different, you know? You know I made that joke once about how the soup tasted like you just put one spoonful of everything you had in the kitchen? But it's always different. And it was different tonight. But in a good way."
"What way?"
"I don't know. Those other times it was like it was nearly there but just missed. Sometimes missed wide, but always missed. And tonight I think you nailed it."
Jag leaned back and sighed. "Yeah. Thanks man. I think I nailed it, too."
I took a few more sips while Jag stared through the little window in the door.
"It was my grandmother, you know?"
"What's that?" I put my drink down again.
"My grandmother. She was teaching me some of her recipes when I was a kid. There was this one soup recipe she had. It had been her grandmothers back in Europe. We left the stove and she sat down at the table and started writing it down. She was laughing and saying you should never write down the recipes; you should just remember them. Because if there's anything you forget, then it shouldn't be in there anyway. Plus, it's bad luck. So as she's getting to the last ingredient, the last step, she stiffens up and drops the pencil. She's having a stroke. I shout out and my brother runs in and she goes to the hospital. She's there for about a week before she died. One day when I'm alone with her in the bed I show her the paper she was writing on. She hasn't said a word now, but she looks at me and kind of moves her jaw, moves her hand, but then just goes back to sleep. She died the next day and I was upset that she was dead, but also because I never learned the last ingredient."
Jag shifted in his seat, still staring through the little window.
"I've done lots of things, had lots of jobs. I was happy when I got this job. I tried to do like my grandma taught me, tried to do things the way she did and her family did, back in Europe. I started including her recipes on the menu, but I held off on the soup because I didn't know how to do it right. But, when I had already done all the other recipes I tried making the soup. And each night I would stir in a different ingredient as the last step: a pinch of oregano, juice from a far of olives, a tablespoon of truffle oil, everything I could think of. And as I started getting bored of this job, tired of the repetition, I got more and more into perfecting this soup, and the more crazy things I tried. But this morning when I woke up I decided I was going to quit. I was going to give Charlie two weeks. I come in today and tell him and he's upset and he tells me not to come in tomorrow, I'm fired. Then he realizes he needs me at least for one more night, so I wash up and get started. The soup was on the menu, and I said to hell with it, but it turns out to be just right."
I took another sip, expecting Jag to finish, but he remained silent. "So, what was the missing ingredient?"
He turned to me. "Hmm? Oh. No, it wasn't like that. I had been making that same mistake all along. Grandma wasn't telling me to do something. She was telling me to do nothing. Leave it alone. Let the soup breathe a bit. Don't even stir it. Let it be."
Jag and I talked some more, about mundane things such as where he was going to look for another job, travel, women, etc. I haven't seen him since that night, although I heard he's running for office somewhere.
He hadn't eaten yet and looked around for somewhere to get a bite. The cafe only served cookies and what they called scones, but he didn't want that sort of thing. He could see a donut shop and a deli at the end of the street. Tom could imagine what they had to offer, and knew none of it would satisfy him.
There were at least two each of taco joints, Chinese take-out holes-in-the-wall and pizzerias within a couple of blocks from where he sat, but having eaten at all those places in the past, he knew he wouldn't go back except out of desperation.
Still, perhaps the food cart would be the best option, given the paucity of other choices.
He took another sip of coffee and looked into the cup. He could barely see his shadowed reflection looking back up, looking like a ghost. Tom realized the coffee wasn't very good. He studied the cart, looking for a menu painted on the outside, but finding none, although it was hard to tell: the whole thing was painted like a gypsy caravan or aged carnival wagon, with stripes and ribbons concealing any writing that might be there. A number of people stood near the cart; some waiting solemnly, others eating quietly, holding their food in both hands near their faces with heads bowed.
It was odd to see so many people eating near each other, eating while standing, so close to the cart; Tom was used to people grabbing a bagel or something on their way to somewhere else, not stopping to enjoy the act of eating. One young woman appeared to have planned just that, however, and walked briskly away from the cart after paying and started crossing the street, coming closer to the cafe. She slowed however, at the curb, and sniffed her food. She then stopped in the street, unwrapped the foil wrapper, and took a bite. Her eyes became dull and her shoulders dropped as she chewed.
She continued chewing without swallowing until a car sped around the corner and braked hard to avoid hitting the woman. She looked around, clearly disoriented and began walking in a circle, eventually making it to the curb where she sat down and continued eating. Through all of this, none of the other people eating lifted their heads.
A man in a suit paid for his food and began eating it right away, barely leaving room for the next person, who politely nudged him out of the way. The man turned and Tom could see that he was crying as he ate.
Tom put his coffee down and stood. It looked like a number of the people eating were crying. He looked at the woman sitting on the curb and saw tears running down her face.
He walked slowly down the street so he could look into the cart.
Tom remembered a story he had heard once about a woman in Mexico City who made what was known as 'The Cake of Tears'. When she was a teenager her mother spent one afternoon teaching her an old family recipe for small, sweet cakes made with strawberries. The mother went out to the store to get more eggs and was hit by a car and killed on the way back. The daughter wept for a month and it was only on the one-year anniversary of her mother's death that she tried to make the cakes her mother had showed her. The rest of the family ate the cakes and began crying as soon as they tasted them. The daughter had poured so much sadness into them that anyone who took a bite was overcome with grief. But as she watched her family cry, each tear they shed made her feel better; her own despair distributed to the others through the cakes.
So Tom expected a despondant young woman in the cart, imbuing all her food with grief and despair, but as he got closer he saw instead a middle-aged man and an older woman inside, grinning happily as they prepared each order.
He walked to the end of the line, deciding that even if he didn't order anything, he wanted to at least understand why everyone was crying.
He had to wait about 15 minutes before he could order, and while he waited he studied the cart, the people inside, and the customers waiting. The cart had no menu that he could see. As he got nearer, he could almost overhear the old woman in the cart talking quietly to each new customer in turn. The customers were reverent, saying little, staring hopefully up at the old woman in the window as she looked them over and said quiet words to the middle-aged man (her son?) next to her as he chopped up vegetables and stirred a few small pots, grinning the whole time.
He leaned closer to the woman in front of him in line and whispered, "What do they serve here?" The woman smiled sadly without looking at him. "Whatever you need."
Tom peered in the window. "I doesn't look like they have much room in there."
"It's enough."
"You've been here before?"
"This morning was my first time. This will be the fifth time." A tear fell down her cheek. "I don't know how much more I can take."
"Hunh? What are you talking about?"
"You'll know soon."
Finally Tom had his turn. The old woman looked very old, much older than Tom had thought earlier. She said, "You're new." Tom nodded. She smiled. "In 5 words, describe your 8th birthday." Tom didn't know what to say. "Uh... cake. friends. presents, uh..."
The woman continued smiling and held out her hands. Tom raised his arms toward the window and the woman took hold of his hands, staring into his eyes. "Tell me about the first time you made love." Tom blushed and tried to laugh. "Uh... her name was Sam, uh Samantha. She had light brown hair. We thought we were in love, but..." The old woman waited for him to continue. "It wasn't as good as either of us had hoped."
The woman continued smiling and gently rubbed Toms hands in hers while studying his face. She turned to her son and said a few words in a language Tom didn't recognize.
The woman looked back at Tom and said, "Six dollars and eighty-two cents, please."
The woman who had been standing in front of him in line was nearby quietly eating her food: some kind of salad. She was crying, but not as much as the others. She looked up at Tom. "I envy you," She said. "The first time."
Tom fumbled in his pockets and found a twenty and some pennies, which he handed up to the window. The old woman made change and said a few more words to her son.
The food was ready and the woman held out a small package with both hands, and Tom remembered taking communion as a child. He took it reverently, and like the others before him, barely staggered out of the way of the next customer before he unwrapped the wax paper and breathed in deeply through his nose. Inside was a sandwich of some kind, not extraordinary-looking, but it smelled absolutely delicious. He took a bite and immediately every muscle in his body tensed and then relaxed. He began salivating ferociously and every part of his mouth was overwhelmed with flavor. Even his teeth felt good as they broke through the crust of the bread, into the soft filling inside. He felt weak and had difficulty standing.
But as exhilarating as the first bite was, the second bite was less so - still absolutely delicious, but not quite as incredible. He began eating faster, trying to replicate that first bite, then chewed more slowly, trying to savor the food more to capture that first feeling.
Before long he felt warm tears welling in his eyes. The first tear was for joy, for the pleasure of the most delicious experience he had ever had. All the others were from knowing that no matter how long he lived he would never have this moment again.
So he cried while he ate, as slowly as possibe to savor every molecule. He sat down against a chain-link fence near the cart, oblivious of everything around him. He finished the sandwich, buried his face in his arms and cried some more. Then he stood and got back in line.
In this adventure/puzzle, you control Grady the robot with the arrow keys. You need to construct a rocket by finding the three parts and bringing them to the rocket frame.
The rocket parts are being held by various animals that you need to trade with or trap in order to get the parts.
To move around you need the appropriate upgrades (wheel, flipper, wing, etc) but you can only hold three at a time, and the animals steal the upgrades from you.
I was sitting on the train to Philly with about an hour to kill.
I completed the crossword and sudoku in the local paper but still had about 20 minutes, so I created a game for myself: what is the shortest pangram I can write that doesn't use any of the words of the example just given? (with the exception of the word, 'the')
I started flexing my brain by trying to shorten the original sentence. The original has 35 letters, but it can be adjusted to: "The quick brown fox jumps over lazy dogs" at 33 characters.
So my target is less than 33 characters, although that seems ambitious with only 7 letter repetitions.
After some time I came up with: "A jovial bird maps the fog, quacking in the waxy haze." (42 characters)
It could be a little shorter, but the sentence would lose some of its coherence and rhythm.
I encourage everyone to try and come up with their own.
AskOxford.com is a fun site to surf around on if you enjoy fooling around with words.
So I digested for half an hour or so and checked email, took a crap, gathered my bags, then headed out. I was north of the mall, and I had already been to the closest museum (Museum of Buildings, with exhibits on architecture and design. They had a nice gift shop although I hadn't bought anything) and didn't feel like walking far. So I headed to one of the $20 Chinatown bus places I had passed the day before.
]]> On the way I passed an arhitectural design company that specialized in 'green roofs'. They had very large pictures in the window that looked interesting and had a notice saying they gave tours on Tuesdays at 10am and 2pm. I looked at my watch and it was exactly 2pm, and it was Tuesday. At times like that I felt compelled to yield to the forces of nature, almost believing that there was a hidden force pushing me to follow certain paths. But I resisted; I didn't imagine the roof would look much different that their pictures.The day before the bus schedule had a 2:30pm and a 4pm bus both going to Penn station in New York, but when I asked they had a 3pm bus going to Chinatown. I read one of the local papers while I waited. The people who ran the bus were all Chinese, except for one black guy who chain smoked and put luggage underneath. He was very friendly, but I didn't know if he actually worked there or whether he expected a tip. I didn't tip him.
The guy sitting across from me was watching videos on his laptop of some Chinese show with the volume up so we could all enjoy it. The show reminded me of Mexican telenovellas: soap opera + detective show. It was annoying but I'm more able to tune out foreign languages than English. Behind me, two old white men seemed to be having a quiet conversation, but when I looked it was just one guy. He muttered to himself the entire trip. The driver didn't speak one word of English, which made me wonder whether he could read the highway signs. But he seemed a competant driver (I know I wouldn't trust myself to drive a bus).
I started a crossword puzzle and admired the red and yellow trees of the Maryland scenery, and occasionally glanced at the video across the aisle. The video-watcher saw me looking and actually angled his computer so I could see better. I had intended my look to suggest, 'hey man, everyone can hear that racket', but evidentally expressed too much sincere interest. I regretted a bit not spending more time in DC.
We got to Baltimore, then headed north to Philadelphia. We spent quite a long time navigating the streets of the Philly Chinatown. I hadn't realized how extensive it was and I felt a little hungry, although I was still digesting lunch.
I opened my computer, got out the headphones, and loaded up 'Spiderman 3'. The video-watcher was snoozing now and I didn't bother trying to include him. The movie was pretty bad and I gave up after 45 minutes or so. I switched to a week-old copy of 'The New Yorker'. Once we could see the New York skyline I looked out the window and admired the scale. I had been away for 3 and 1/2 weeks and had gotten out of synch with city living (DC doesn't count)
I texted a few friends, asking whether they would be up for dinner or drinks in the Chinatown area around 8, but nobody was.
At 8:00 we were dropped off at Pike St. and Madison St (not avenue), and I had no idea where we were. I saw a bridge looming a few blocks away and figured if I kept in on my right I would be heading north, and the subway stops would be north and west. (later I realized that it was the Manhattan Bridge which actually runs south to Brooklyn, so I was really headed east). For several blocks I passed streets I had never heard of (Rutgers, Clinton, Montgomery) and wondered if all the housing projects nearby meant cheaper rent around there. I finally found a part of the Lower East Side I recognized and navigated to a subway stop at Bleecker and LaFayette. The culture was quite different here, with bars and restaurants full of trendy people. A few people stared at me, one of them an actor I recognized. That sometimes happens but I can never understand why. Maybe I look like trouble, or maybe just don't seem to fit.
The train came quickly and I got on the last car. There was a bum surrounded by food wrappers and odor at the far end and everyone else on the car was crowded into the other half. I sat with them and finished my New Yorker. At 116th street I got out and followed a trail of rose petals on the sidewalk that must have been left from a wedding or something. They had probably been pretty several hours earlier, but they had all been walked on by this time.
I saw Manny handling the garbage in my building and I mentioned that the compressor in my fridge sounded like it was going. I think a bearing in the motor is bad and it's making a lot of noise. I told him it wasn't a big deal (I don't bother keeping food in there anyway since it just goes bad when I'm gone for weeks at a time) and he told me I was 'a good guy'. I joked it was because I don't complain, and he said some of the tenants call him for problems almost every day.
I got my mail, went upstairs, undressed, and didn't know what to do with myself.
]]>Peanuts, by Charles Bukowski Good clean fun from the Dirty Old Man
I woke up earlier than usual and after a visit to the restroom the cupboards reminded me that I didn't have any food in my apartment. I dressed in the clothes lying on the floor and when I went out I saw the door across the hall open.
Through the door I saw Frank Bourbon sitting in a chair putting on his favorite pair of socks. I can only guess that they were his favorite since he seemed to wear them every time I saw him and he seemed like the kind of person who would own a lot of socks.
And I recognized them because they were what I considered to be uniquely ugly, and I had given them to him. They had been a gift to me but I had never bothered to take off the wrapper, and a few months ago I happened to learn that he was going to be alone on his birthday. So I bought a pizza and some beer and spent the evening with Frank and I gave him the socks. He drank half of one beer and I drank the rest. After that I noticed that he always left his door open in the morning when he was getting ready for work. At least that was the case whenever I happened to be up and about that early.
Frank stopped when Janet from the 4th floor came down the stairs.
"Morning guys!"
"Hi Janet!"
"Janet."
We talked about the weather and such for a minute or two. She looked cute in her office clothes and Frank just stared at her, looking away whenever she turned her head toward him. Eventually she left and we both watched her leave. Then Frank locked his door and we went down the stoop and I said "Take it easy."
I assumed he would be turning left toward the bus stop but he kept walking with me, just a few paces behind. So I slowed to let him catch up.
"Not catching the bus?"
He looked at his watch. "Well, this next one is pretty crowded. I don't like to stand the whole way."
I didn't like standing on buses either. I'd be happy if I never ride a bus again.
"But won't you be late for work?"
"Well, the boss is traveling this week. No one'll notice if I'm late."
We kept walking. I was heading toward a diner around the corner. And it was clear that Frank was just following me. I had a headache and I felt myself getting irritated at him. I don't like the feeling of being irritated and I tried to force myself to be more pleasant.
"So," I said, "Your espresso machine not working?"
Frank had bought a very expensive birthday present for himself last year, a deluxe espresso machine that he had demonstrated for me that night I hung out with him. He didn't drink any that night because he didn't want to disturb his sleep, and I had to wonder why he drank stimulating beverages at all since he seemed so nervous to begin with.
He laughed. "No, it's fine. Had two cups this morning already."
We were at the entrance to the diner. "The coffee here isn't very good, but it's strong and hot"
"Sounds good!" He laughed.
We found two seats at the counter and I ordered two cups of coffee and wheat toast. To me, white toast doesn't have any flavor. With his elbows on the counter, Frank leaned in and spoke loudly. "And a cup for me and white toast."
"The second cup was for you, Frank."
We got that straightened out with the waitress and sat with our coffee, waiting for the bread to toast. I looked at the other patrons, mostly overweight guys in suits reading the sports section. I drank my coffee and got a refill. Frank took a sip of it black then put in a lot of milk.
"Pete," He said finally, "I got this letter that I wanted to talk to you about."
This was an entry for JayIsGames Casual Game Design Competition #3 I created with Joe Versoza.
It's a card game with a unique deck, containing up to 5 suits and up to 5 ranks. Unlike in a standard deck of cards, the suits are hierarchical, and also use a bit of rock-paper-scissor logic to determine what card beats another. Also, the ranks are hierarchical, as they are for regular cards, except in Parley the 'Spy' card (2-to-lowest rank) can beat the 'Queen' card (highest rank). Although it may sound complicated, it's pretty easy to pick up the rules after playing a round or two.
The new revision fixes problems with the AI bing too difficult.
]]>I looked at Arnie, who stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette, staring at nothing. He saw me staring and looked back without changing his expression or blinking his eyes. I looked away first.
"So." I said. Nothing moved but Bart's TV screen and Arnie's smoke.
I looked at Arnie, who stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette, staring at nothing. He saw me staring and looked back without changing his expression or blinking his eyes. I looked away first.
"So." I said. Nothing moved but Bart's TV screen and Arnie's smoke.
"So." I said. "Maybe one of you can sign for this, since it looks like Mr. Cooke isn't around."
Again, nothing moved.
I set the package on a workbench near the door.
"Or, tell you what. The signature is just a formality, anyway. Let's just forget it."
No reaction again, so I turned the knob on the door.
"I'll just get back to the office. Take it easy." I turned away to leave.
"Where do you think you're going?" Arnie had glided over, dropping his cigaratte and reaching into his jacket pocket at the same time.
Even Bart looked up from the TV, stretching his fat neck over his shoulder.
"Back to the office. I..." I smelled something hot.
"No you're not. You're waiting here."
I opened my mouth but Arnie interrupted again. "Don't make me wake Bart." Bart lowered his brow at me.
"OK." I didn't have much else to say. The hot smell was louder now.
I looked back and forth at Arnie and Bart until they both looked away again, first Arnie, then Bart.
Arnie and I saw the smoke at the same time. His cigarette had rolled under the couch; wisps of smoke had drifted from in between the cusions.
Bart readjusted himself, and changed the channel.
"Bart! Get up!" Arnie shouted without moving.
Bart turned around and glowered at Arnie.
"Stand up, Bart! You're on fire!"
Bart looked down at his hands and thighs, and a moment later smelled between his knees. He stood slowly, turned around, and looked at the bowl his butt had left in the couch cushion, which was slowly filling with heavy smoke. He looked up at Arnie, then back to the couch. Bart opened his mouth but said nothing.
For the first time, Arnie's face changed. His eyebrows climbed up under his hair and he awkwardly clambered over some chairs to the couch. He stared at it for a few seconds, then reached down and flipped it over on its front, knocking into Bart, who backed up into the TV, which fell to the floor, but managed to stay on. The movement of the couch forced a breeze of air into the smoldering couch and flames emerged where there had been just smoke. Arnie made a choking noise. Bart opened his mouth again. I jogged over to the couch, grabbed some cushions and began smothering the fire.
Arnie saw what I was doing and ran over to the table, grabbing half-empty cups of coffee and threw them at the couch. One landed on my back, one hit Bart in the belly, and the third splashed milk on the cushion I was using to smother the flames.
Despite my efforts, the fire was spreading. I shouted at Bart to get some water, but he didn't seem to understand. Arnie began throwing everything he could get his hands on at the couch, none of which helped.
Finally, he picked up the package I was delivering and got ready to throw it. I saw him just in time and tried to catch it but missed. The paper wrapping broke open and the contents spilled out; thousands of small white rectangles of paper scattered near the widening hole in the bottom of the couch. They were counterfeiting blanks: one-dollar bills that had been bleached white so that the images of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills could be printed on top of them. They began to burn.
I stood up. "Are you crazy!" At that moment, Mr. Cooke opened the door and walked in. He took the cigar from his mouth and looked at me. "Who are you?"
"Uh, I'm uh, the delivery guy."
Without turning away from me he said, "Bart, put out that fire." Bart walked over to a closet, lifted out a fire extinguisher, and put out the fire.
He looked at Arnie. "Arnie, what did I tell you about ashtrays?"
Then, the tv show American Idol had a songwriting contest, and I overhauled the song as an entry, making the structure more of a standard AABAB pop structure.
Anyway, it didn't get picked, but it's the nicest version yet.
http://matchstick.com/mp3/You_Tonight.mp3
G a b d C
Looking back at times that never were but maybe might have been
F e d C d a G C
If I remember only one thing from my life, I want it to be sitting here with you tonight
C e d F C e d F
Tell each other stories of the day that we met, paint each other pictures that we thought we'd forget
G a b d C
Side-by-side tomorrow's coming faster so I'm glad you're here.
F e d C d a G C
If I remember only one thing from my life, I want it to be sitting here with you tonight
G C F G C d
Remember all the times we walked out alone Standing shoulder-deep and chilled to the bone
C a G C a G C a G C a G
That's the way we were, That's the way we were close my eyes and I see, I see the way we were
C e d F C e d F
But yesterday is far away, at least so it seems. The hour is getting early, nearly quarter to three
G a b d C
One-by-one we're left alone again, just you and me.
F e d C d a G C
If I remember only one thing from my life, I want it to be sitting here with you tonight
G C F G C d
Remember all the dreams that seemed far away, but now look at us together today
C a G C a G C a G C a G
Now I say good-night, it's time to say good-night, morning's come, tomorrow's here, it's time to say good-night
F e d C d a G C
If I remember only one thing from my life, I want it to be sitting here with you tonight
G C F G C d
Remember all the dreams that seemed far away, but now look at us together today
C a G C a G C a G C a7 F
Now I say good-night, it's time to say good-night, morning's come, tomorrow's here, it's time to say good-night
It has 4 puzzles, three of which are original. Looking back, it's more of a prototype than a finished game. The tree puzzle in particular has potential to be developed into something interesting.
This game was developed over a few days as an entry in the DonationCoder.com Accessibility Game Design Competition.
The parameters were to simply make a 'switch game' (or alternately a game relying only on audio).
A switch game is a game with the simplest interface, a button that is either pressed or not - the space bar, mouse button, or other controller.
The idea is that people with limited mobility may not be able to use conventional game controllers.
Additionally, I consulted with representatives of the Univeristy of Delaware Center for Disability Studies in coming up with a game that could be played by people with a wide variety of abilities or disabilities.
In addition to the switch interface, some of the considerations were: