Jonathan Foer - Here I Am

“Can I ask what’s fun about that?”

“Really?”

“In your own words.”

“If it isn’t obvious, I don’t know how to explain it.”

“And is it difficult to train them?”

“It’s super easy. You basically just give them a great home, and they’ll want to come back.”

“What makes a home great?”

“It’s spacious, in direct sunlight, and the chicken wire enclosing it is too tightly meshed for his head to fit through and get stuck.”

“That does sound nice.”

“And the bottom is lined with grassy sod, which is changed regularly. And he has a bath, which is cleaned regularly.”

“Right.”

“And lots of tasty treats, like endive, berries, buckwheat, flax, mung bean sprouts, vetch.”

“Vetch?”

“I don’t know, I read it.”

“How spacious a cage are we talking about?”

“Really great would be six by nine.”

“Six by nine what ?”

“Feet. Six-foot width and length, nine-foot height.”

“And where would we put such a spacious cage?”

“In my room.”

“We’d have to raise the ceiling.”

“Is that something we could do?”

“No.”

“So it could be a bit less tall and still OK.”

“And what if it doesn’t like its home?”

“It will.”

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“Mom, it will , because I’m going to do all of the things you’re supposed to do to create a great home that it loves.”

“I’m just asking what if.”

“Mom.”

“I can’t ask a question?”

“I guess it doesn’t come back. OK? It goes and keeps going.”

It took only a week for Sam to forget that there were such things as homing pigeons in the world — he learned that there were such things as Nerf guns in the world — but Julia never forgot what he said: It goes and keeps going .

“Why not,” she said to Mark, wishing there were a nearby surface to rap her knuckles against. “Let’s have a drink drink.”

“Only one?”

“You’re right,” she said, preening the underside of her wing before a flight that would reveal the comfort of her cage. “It’s probably too late for that.”

It had been more than eight hours since they’d driven home in silence from the vet’s office, four hundred ninety minutes of avoiding each other in the house. There were ingredients, but there was no will, so Jacob microwaved burritos. He arranged a dozen baby carrots that had no chance of being eaten, and a heaping dollop of hummus so Julia could see the amount missing from the container when she returned. He brought the food up to Max’s room, knocked, and entered.

“I didn’t say come in.”

“I wasn’t asking for permission. Just giving you time to take your finger out of your nose.”

Max put his finger into his nose. Jacob put the plate on the desk.

“Wat’cha doin’?”

“I’cha not doin’ nothin’,” Max said, turning the iPad facedown.

“Seriously, what?”

“Seriously, nothing.”

“What, dirty movies? Buying stuff on my credit card?”

“No.”

“Looking up home euthanasia recipes?”

“Not at all funny.”

“Then what?”

“Other Life.”

“I didn’t know you played that.”

“No one plays it.”

“Right. I didn’t know you did it.”

“I don’t, really. Sam won’t let me.”

“But the cat’s away.”

“I guess so.”

“I won’t rat you out.”

“Thanks.”

“Get it? Cat’s away? Rat you out?”

“Sure.”

“What’s the deal with that, anyway? It’s a game?”

“It’s not a game.”

“No?”

“It’s a community.”

“Well, I don’t know about that ,” Jacob said, unable to resist using his most belittling voice.

“No,” Max said, “you don’t.”

“But isn’t it more — to my understanding, anyway — more like a bunch of people who pay a monthly membership to gather and explore an, I don’t know, imagined landscape together?”

“No, it’s not like synagogue.”

“Well played.”

“Thanks for the food. See ya.”

“Whatever it is,” Jacob said, trying again, “it looks cool. From what I’ve been able to see. From a distance.”

Max plugged his speech orifice with a burrito.

“Really,” Jacob said, sidling up. “I’m curious. I know Sam plays — I mean, does —this all the time, and I want to see what it’s all about.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You realize I won a National Jewish Book Award at the age of twenty-four?”

Max turned the iPad faceup, swiped it bright, and said, “I’m currently recruiting work valences for a resonance promotion. Then I can barter for some psychic upholstery and—”

“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.”