“You can’t touch my stuff, you bitch,” says the angry voice over the phone.
“Don’t call me that, Lucas. I’m your mother,” Lynda says while covering her eyes, willing her rage to be controlled.
“When you take my piece, you become a bitch, you bitch.”
Lynda’s gaze falls on the NAA Mini-Revolver lying in her open purse on her desk.
“Your piece?!” she says, her voice louder. “This is a weapon, Lucas. It kills people. I cannot allow that.”
“Who the fuck you think you’re talking to, bitch. Allow this, allow that. I’m an adult.”
“You’re 16 years old, for God’s sake,” Lynda yells, her rage unleashed. “What would you need a gun for?”
“I’m a businessman, you b—”
“Aargh!” Lynda smashes the phone handset on its base.
A few tears find their way out of her eyes, despite her failed attempt to hold them back.
She takes a few deep breaths to unsuccessfully swallow the sob that is crawling up on her throat.
Her wet eyes fall on the gun again. Reaching into her purse, she takes the gun out. This is the first time that she holds a gun. It feels weird. Turning it left and right, she inspects its different parts. The gun is pointing at her when her finger reaches the trigger.
“Was it Lucas?” Lynda hears Sheryl’s harrowing voice. Panicked by that, she hurriedly hides the gun behind the purse.
Sheryl is standing by the office’s door, wearing a disingenuous smile.
“Who?… Why?… Yes. How do you know?” Lynda sputters.
“The whole building could hear you. Is it his drug problems again? Poor Lynda!” Sheryl says, her tone reeking from condescension.
“No, no, no. Lucas doesn’t have a drug problem. It was just that one time, with friends. Mostly their fault. Recreational, it was. That one time. It’s over now. He’s OK. It was recreational.”
While smiling, Sheryl calmly watches Lynda’s misery in saving her prestige. When Lynda finishes, Sheryl says nothing for a few moments, which is like pushing a knife slowly into Lynda’s chest. She finishes that with a big open-mouth smile.
Feeling destroyed, Lynda gulps in desperation. Having no more to say, she turns her gaze down, on the revolver.
“Parenting. It’s such a hard thing, isn’t it?” Sheryl does not know when to shut up.
Lynda’s hand reaches the gun.
“What do you… did you want anything?” Lynda asks, her finger on the trigger.
“I came over to say I’m sorry,” Sheryl says, eyes bright. “But this is Harvard, the university for the best. So… yeah.”
“Did you win the tenure position then?” Lynda asks, a fresh sorrow burning in her voice.
“No. Not yet. Only Dean knows about that. I mean your EuroCom symposium paper.”
“What about it?”
“Oh, you don’t know yet? Poor Lynda. It was rejected. Strongly rejected. Close call.”
“How do you know?”
“You know. I have my connections in the program committee. But don’t feel bad. It was quite competitive this year. Lots of great papers got rejected.”
“Yours too?”
“No,” Sheryl says and leaves promptly, leaving Lynda whimpering in the pain of the invisible bullet that was just shot at her heart. It is worse than an actual bullet. It eats the victim from inside. It kills the soul, draining the last smidgens of hope and love that were nesting in it. Such a despicable crime, and yet nobody goes to jail for it.
Her melancholy mood gradually fading into an unleashed wrath, she breathes heavily like a raging bull. Smashing her clenched fist on the desk, she storms out of her office.
Teeth clenched and eyebrows pulled down together, Lynda storms into the dean’s office, only to find it empty, except for the black suit with gold pinstripes that hangs on the wall. But she is here to talk to the man who hides behind the suit.
Leaving the door agape, she stays in the empty office for a few moments, willing herself to calm. Floor-to-ceiling shelves are filled with PhD dissertations, symposium proceedings, and books, one thicker than the other. The name Prof. Martin Hofstadter shines on the spine of the books that are stacked up on the desk. There must be 12 or 13 of them.
Her heartbeat back to normal, she turns to leave when she meets the dean at the door, surprised and excited. Clothed in a dark gray shirt, his sleeves are rolled up.
“Lynda!” Ryan, in the dean’s persona, says excitedly. “Glad I found you. I need to tell you something.”
Lynda pulls Dean Martin into his office, shutting the door behind.
“No, no, no, I need to talk to you,” she says, stabbing Martin in the chest with her finger.
“You recognize me?!” Ryan asks, pleasantly surprised. Looking down at Lynda, he can smell her hair. Impulsively he takes a deep sniff.
“What do you mean, Martin?”
“Oh, you meant to talk to Martin,” Ryan responds, just remembering his new character, Dean Martin Hofstadter.
“Cut it out, Martin. I’m being serious. I need to know.”
“Let me go first,” Martin says. “It’s really important what I have to say.”
“Martin,” she shouts.
“What?” he asks, jumping back a bit.
“I need to know.”
“What?” he asks louder.
“Will I get it… the tenure position?”
“Oh Lynda, you know the committee’s decision is not final yet. The committee will share their rating in the next meeting, which is when I’ll announce it,” Martin says as if he reads from a manual.
“Cut the crap, Martin,” Lynda growls, stabbing him again with her finger. “The committee is just your puppet, and you know it. Everybody knows it. You wrote the rules. This is your game.”
“Speaking of games,” Martin says, taking a step back to safety. “I really need to talk to you.”
“You owe me, Martin. Don’t change the subject. You owe me that much.”
Martin’s back hits the wall of his small office. He remembers Rajneesh’s advice. Once in the game, he has to play along, or otherwise Lynda would not take him seriously. He should not rush it; just play along, until he finds the right moment to ease Lynda into the truth; that she is just a prisoner, trapped in a game. Yes. That would be the smart play; the rational next move to win this game.
Before the thought has a chance to root, it breaks quickly when Martin reads on Lynda’s face all the pain that she is going through. His aching heart takes charge and pushes the commanding brain back into the visitor seat. He cannot see Lynda going through this agony for any moment longer. He has to tell her, and he has to do it now.
“All right, I’ll tell you. I promise. Honestly. But first I have something much more important to tell you now. Come, sit here. Please… Please… Please.”
“All right, I’m listening.”
Martin takes a deep breath. “It’s all just a game,” he says and pauses, expecting a surprised reaction.
“Of course it is. That is what I just told you. It’s your game. If you can just tell me my rating—”
“No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I’m not talking about tenure, job, career, and stuff. The whole thing is a game. Everything. Everything you know, you touch, you feel, it’s all just part of the game.”
“What in heaven’s name are you babbling about?”
Closing his eyes, Martin takes a deep breath.
“How many years have we known each other?” he asks, opening his eyes.
“Ever since you hired me as an assistant professor. On April 4th my 8-year contract will be concluded.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do. I’ve told you things that even my ex doesn’t know about. What’s going on Martin? You’re freaking me out.”
Martin holds Lynda’s hands, directly looking her in the eye.
“What if I tell you this is not the real life? That the entire planet is just a very advanced video game that simulates life with uncanny similarities. That everything happens to us, on this planet, it… just doesn’t matter. It might not be obvious now, but once we have exited the game, once we are awakened in the other life, the real life, then we laugh at how ridiculous it was to take this game seriously.”
Lynda flinches, separating her hand from Martin’s. Tilting her head, she gives Martin a condescending look.
Breathing heavily, Martin can hear his heart pounding. It beats faster every second that Lynda is silent.
“Really Martin?” she says finally. “Is that supposed to be the gist of the wisdom of Professor Martin Hofstadter, the honorable dean of the department of physics? Religion?—”
“No, no, no. I’m not talking—”
“I’m coming to your office, all miserable and vulnerable, as a friend, asking for help, and you give me what? Religion bullshit.”
“Lynda. Listen to—”
“I asked you a simple question. No, no. You listen to me. I asked you a simple question. After all we have been through, the least you could do is level with me. Am I gonna get it?”
Martin lets out a deep sigh of disappointment. Looking right, he finds the visitor chair in front of his desk, pulls it toward him, and slowly leans back in it. “Your rating is pretty good,” he says reluctantly with a squeaky voice. “It’s actually very impressive in the history of our faculty.”
“So? Will I get the tenure?”
“The thing is that—”
“Oh, not the fucking thing—”
“The ratings of the other two candidates are good too. It’s actually very close. When the game reaches a tie like this, it usually goes in favor of the gamer… ah, I mean the candidate that is more… more… how should one put it?… likable,” Martin says, breaking the gaze.
“And I’m not… likable?” Lynda asks, hatred surfacing on her face.
Biting his lip, Martin looks away.
“Martin,” she calls but doesn’t get a response. “Answer me?” she rages.
“You never credit your colleagues in your papers,” Martin shouts, turning to her again.
“Well… because they never contributed shit. What am I supposed to credit them for?” she shouts back.
“Their students collaborated on the papers,” Martin says, grinding his teeth, “and the rule—”
“And I did credit the students, every single one of them. Students are not slaves of their supervisors so that their masters get repaid with the title credit. What kind of morality shit is that?—”
“Morality is not the issue here.”
“Since when? Comes from the guy who just tried to shove religion bullshit down my throat. On what planet—”
“On this planet,” Martin shouts, slamming his hand on the desk. “That is the rules of this game. That is what I’m trying to tell you. This game… this… this life… it’s nothing but a stupid game. Money, prestige, positions, respect, tenure; They are all nothing. They mean nothing after you exit the game. It’s a game. Get it in your head, Lynda. It’s just a game. It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”
Out of breath, Martin cannot say another word.
With a blank face, Lynda watches him calm down. Splinters of hurt, rage, and pity briefly make their ways onto her face, never quite settling on it.
“Says the guy who always wins,” she says condescendingly. She slightly leans forward. “Tell me, Martin. Tell me what lines did you cross when you followed the rules of the game, Dean Martin Hofstadter? What moral lines.”
“Not always,” Martin says with a hoarse voice and then takes a moment to clear his throat. “But yes, I learn the rules, and I follow them, and I’m good at it. And I’m not apologizing for it. This is a game, and I’m here to win it.” He tries to say it shamelessly, but somehow shame crawls all over his tone. “Your middle-class, made-up morality is nothing but a tranquilizer for the losers. I won’t let it hold me back,” he says, finishing with a trembling voice.
Noticing his shaking hand, he retracts it from the desk.
Lynda watches him for a few seconds. He seems miserable, on the verge of shivering.
“You see, Martin,” she says slowly, letting a triumphant smile slightly show on her face. “That’s the difference between you and me. My middle-class morality comes from within. If there is any truth in this made-up world, as you put it, it’s gotta come from your heart.” She puts her palm on her chest. “The rules of the outside world might be made up, but what you feel in here is not.”
“I love you.” Martin finds himself saying that.
“What?!”
“I always did since the 8th grad. I thought I could get over you, but I couldn’t. All the video games in the world, they could never fill your place in my heart.”
“I wasn’t even in Boston in the 8th grade,” Lynda says, bewildered.
“Let’s exit the game, you and I together.” Martin leans way forward to hold her hand. “When we wake up from this goddamn game, I swear to God, I’ll do anything for your happiness, anything.” Slipping off the chair, Martin falls to his knees.
“Martin, you don’t make sense,” Lynda says worryingly, looking down at Martin who is kneeling before her. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m not Martin. I’m Ryan. Your classmate,” Martin says, clasping Lynda’s hand. “And I’m here to save you from the game. I’ve endangered my life to enter Uranus—”
“Enter what now?!” Lynda asks, pressing her butt against the desk.
“Just for you. I’m telling you I love you, goddamn it. How can you be so cold?”
“OK. Shh.” Leaning forward, Lynda puts her forehead on Martin’s. “Shh. OK. It’s OK, Martin.” Holding his face in her hands, she looks right into his eyes. “I believe you. It’s OK. All right. Let’s… Let’s just… It’s gonna be OK.”
“So, you’ll come with me?” Martin asks, hope blooming on his face.
“Sure. Where to?”
“To Earth,” he replies excitedly, standing up. “We can exit Uranus together, you and I. It’s very easy, I can remind you.”
“Sure,” Lynda says hesitantly. “Yeah. Why not? Let’s quit this fucking game together. Fuck it. Right?”
“Great! That’s the spirit. Let’s go,” Martin says, pulling her hand.
“Maybe not just right now. How about after the committee’s meeting? Can you wait a few hours… for me?” she asks, offering a flirtatious smile.
“You still care about the damn tenure! I thought I convinced you it’s just a game.”
“Oh yeah, you did, big time. I do believe it’s just a game. But… it’s a game that I wasted eight years of my youth on that, my marriage, my drug-addict son, my everything. I gotta see how it ends. You understand, right?”
“Of course, of course,” Martin says, his excitement almost gone. He sits back on his chair.
Lynda stands up the moment he leans back. “OK, see you in the meeting, I guess.”
“You’re leaving!”
“Have to run to the big amphitheater in Building K. Malcolm is about to present his first symposium paper.”
“Malcolm… your PhD student?” Martin asks, surprised.
“I promised to be there for him, for… you know, moral support.”
“Well, you are a better person than I am,” Martin says, standing up. He leans forward for a kiss goodbye when Lynda turns away.
“Ha, that always has been true,” she says, opening the door. She leaves the office, leaving Martin standing there with puckered lips.
“Yes, it has,” Martin mutters, while listening to Lynda step away. “Yes, it has.”
“Lynda, wait,” he yells, running out of the office.
Lynda stops and turns to him.
“Not that it matters, but you might actually have a chance to win this game. I would try to reach out to the program committee of EuroCom. Prof. Zhang must be the chair. If your paper is accepted, that will add 0.12 points to your rating, enough to guarantee your tenure.”
A bitter smile gradually conquers Lynda’s face.
“Always good with the rules, aren’t you, Dean Martin. Sure, I’ll come prepared for a celebration,” she says and turns before her face twists into an unfamiliar expression.
Clothed in his gold-pinstripe black suit, Martin is about to enter the conference room when Lynda, carrying a laptop and her purse, appears from the end of the hallway. Martin, excited to see Lynda, waits up for her, almost blocking the door. Phased out, his eyes are locked on Lynda and her every move. It is as if the world around him has turned into incomprehensible zeros and ones, and she is the only sensible entity that gives meaning to them. Other colleagues arrive in the meanwhile. Their greetings unanswered, they maneuver to get by him and join the committee meeting in the conference room.
“Where were you?” Martin asks Lynda when she arrives. “I called you like a thousand times.”
“Just came back from the symposium.”
“I didn’t get the update on your EuroCom submission. We need that for the rating—”
“It’s OK, Martin,” Lynda says, gently touching his arm. “It’s OK. I’m ready to exit, together, forever,” she says and enters the conference room.
Martin is left there puzzled. Although he smiles, somehow Lynda’s absolute calmness is unnerving for him. He snaps out of it eventually when a participant clears his throat. Entering the room, he shuts the glass door, which is covered with newspapers—the norm at the department for confidential meetings.
All the faculty members have already gathered there, waiting for the dean to commence. To show respect, some stand up for him but not all the way.
“Please,” Dean Martin says without looking at them. “It’s not necessary. Please.”
They sit back, some even before hearing that from the dean.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Dean Martin starts after sitting at the head of the conference room table. “Honorable members of the faculty. Thanks for coming to this special meeting of the committee. I know this is a very busy season and most of you have submission deadlines to meet. But as you know, last month Professor Ullman, after 43 years of hard, honest, fruitful work decided to move on to our emeritus club and thus effectively relinquish his tenure position.”
“Finally,” Mr. Balakrishnan whispers to Ms. Chung.
“And we all are deeply saddened by that,” Dean Martin continues. “Isn’t that true, Professor Balakrishnan?”
Embarrassed, or pretending to be, Prof. Balakrishnan turns his face down.
“But fortunately, we have three strong gamers, I mean candidates, who are approaching the end of their tenure-track program and are eligible to fill this open position. The due process is undertaken according to the rules of the game… ah… excuse me, I mean of the faculty, and the decision is made based on the ratings that you have cast. This meeting is to announce the winner, the new member of our tenure family, and to wish the best of luck for the other two candidates in their academic career, wherever they will be.”
Martin’s gaze falls on Lynda. She looks deeply disturbed, her face still holding on to the disingenuous smile.
Her face split into a wide grin, Sheryl has her hands on the conference table, hunching, prepared to stand up as the next member of the tenure club and to shake hands with Dean Martin.
Martin manages to detach his concerned gaze from Lynda’s unsettled look. Whatever is up with her, is going to be over in a few moments, Martin thinks. We will exit this stupid game and wake up together in the real world, next to each other.
Reassured by these thoughts, he stands up, taking a paper out of his inside pocket.
“The winning score is the outstanding 9.78, which belongs to Ms.—”
BANG. BANG.
Martin feels tremendous pain in his chest. His fingers are covered with blood when he touches them on the painful spot. He has received two shots in his chest. Breathing heavily, he slowly looks up. All the brave faculty members are lying on the ground, covering their heads. Except for Sheryl, who seems to be frozen, still hunching for her proudest moment to be called a winner.
His vision getting blurry, Martin turns his gaze to the other side of the conference table. Looking like an outraged bear, Lynda is standing there, holding an NAA Mini-Revolver. It is pointed at Sheryl. Martin shakes his head. “No, Lynda,” he mutters.
As if she has heard it, Lynda makes eye contact with him. Two bullets in his chest, near his heart, Ryan is hurt, both literally and figuratively. My baby shot me down, Ryan hears Nancy Sinatra’s song in his head. But all he can think about is to save Lynda. He does not have any strength left to converse but his begging eyes speak a thousand words.
Without saying another word, Lynda turns the gun away from Sheryl, holding it on her own temple.
“NO-O-O-O,” Martin whimpers while closing his eyes.
BANG.
Hitting the ground, Martin falls on his back when he hears the last shot.
“I wanna exit. I don’t wanna play anymore,” he whines before passing out.