“Five dollars? That’s it. This is Panzer Dragoon Orta. I could sell this on E-bay for ninety bucks. And you’re telling me that all I get for a trade-in is five,” says a 6-foot tall brute with nacho cheese on his “I’m a Cylon” t-shirt.

“Technically, five dollars in store credit. If you want cash, I can give you one fifty. Really, it’s a pretty good deal if you trade in multiple games at one time. See, look at this ad. If you trade your game in with four other games and make a reservation you’ll get 30% trade-in value towards the purchase of the reservation. So that makes this raises the five dollar trade-in to about seven dollars in credit,” replies the GameStop clerk.

“Whatever,” the brute says. “Just give me the five.”

“Right,” the clerk replies. “And would you like to put this towards a reservation of God of War III?”

The brute exits the store and joins the crowd making its way to the mall’s exit. Mike, our clerk, locks the store’s door and reaches up for the bottom of the theft-proof steel gate, his eye catching his watch. 9:30PM? Fuck, he should have been closing up half an hour ago. Why wouldn’t that guy just leave? Or at least wipe the cheese off his shirt?

He counts out the drawer. A couple thousand and change all in a glorified Ziploc bag. He presses down the “we don’t trust our own employees” pressure sensitive ink seal, tosses the bag with all its dough in the back of the store safe and locks up the office. Everyone calls it the office, but it’s really just a 3’ x 3’ converted broom closet in the back. They all joke how they’d kill to work in an office. Any office. Even one like the broom closet. But preferably one like the TV show.

Outside the mall, a couple kids in a Dodge Intrepid carve out donuts in a fresh inch of snow. Must have flurried during the eight-hour shift, he thinks. Maybe he should start leaving more often for lunch. Eating Panda Express so often can’t be good for him. The Intrepid comes dangerously close to Mike’s car, the wheel’s kicking up winter sludge across the driver’s side window. Mike mumbles some empty threat, but secretly wishes the two cars would collide. Then he could take the insurance money on his 90 something Oldsmobile and put it towards something useful like night classes in programming.

Mike’s apartment is cold. Again. They better fix the heater before January or else he will start complaining about it to his mother, he thinks as he takes his ceremonious welcome home shit. He plops two toaster strudels in the toaster and himself on the couch. He bats Pickles, his cat, away and sprawls way out.

Mornings are hard. Shower. Shave. Deodorize. This morning he’s out of deodorant. Why, he mouths to the mirror, don’t you just buy four cans at a time? Breakfast. Iron. There are no cleans clothes so he irons the same black shirt from yesterday, then sprays it with some Lysol. Then sprays some of that under his armpits. Shoes. Wallet. Keys. And car.

The first few hours at work pass quickly. It’s early. Mostly moms picking up games for their kids before work. The mail arrives. He unboxes everything in the back. There are a dozen or so of an obscure Japanese RPG. Wonder if it’s any good. Then, at the bottom, a letter.

To Mike Cabot.

Mike puts his finger under the seal and peels it back, ripping open the nice envelope. He pulls out a note.

Dear Mike Cabot.

I spoke with you on the phone last week. John. I asked you a few questions about what shooter to buy my youngest son. You were thoughtful with your answers and showed an incredible understanding of not just what makes a game good, but what makes it affecting.

I guess I should be transparent. My name is John Romero. I created DOOM. I think you’ve heard of it. ☺ This letter is an invite for you to visit my office. Every so often, I feel it’s my duty to help someone out. Someone who really deserves it. Someone who was like the old me who needs the help of the new me. If that makes sense. I’m not much of a writer, more of a designer – I’m sure you understand.

Included is a voucher for Midwest Airlines. Planes depart from Topeka to Austin twice a day. You know where to find me.

Your new friend and mentor,
John Romero

Mike folds the note, stuffs it in his pocket and runs out the store, through the mall and onto the parking lot. Those kids in the Intrepid are dicking around again. Whirling across the ice. They really get so close to the parked cars. Mike scampers forward. Those kids, he thinks, should slow down. And almost like they hear Mike through some empathic telepathy, those kids do slow down sort of. The sixteen-year-old pimple face behind the wheel steps on the brakes, but the wheels below him can’t catch on that inch of snow now turned inch of ice. The vehicle glides across the parking lot like a twelve hundred pound ballerina right into Mike Cabot’s arms, which reach out saying “No, not today” and then into his chest, bunting his heavy frame across the blacktop.

Mike wakes up to the pungent smell of burnt strudel. It’s 11PM and he’s back in his apartment. He never left. He feels his arms. His face. He checks his pockets and finds some lent but nothing else. No note. He eats the browned strudels, opens up his backpack and pulls out the copy of Panzer Dragoon Orta. Five dollars. What a steal.