Katya looked around at the office of the Immigration and Naturalization Service; she liked the officer who was assigned to interview her. Behind him was an official seal of the United States. She wanted asylum from her native country, Russia. She had been in Los Angeles for about two and a half years, but her interview had finally arrived; this was her chance to become a citizen.
Her friends had convinced her to pretend she was gay, and put, on her application, the fact that she had been persecuted back in Russia. This strategy had been working for Russians, they said. They had found people who knew how to fill out the application, knew what kinds of stories worked, knew what to say. They had helped her with the application. She tried to concentrate on the stories that they had put in there together, involving being persecuted for her sexual orientation. She couldn't go back to Moscow, she would say, because it was known there that she was gay, and they would persecute her.
The problem was, she wasn’t gay. She had come to LA originally to be with Ivan, a guy she had met back in Moscow. She liked the place, liked the lifestyle, and the beach, and the nightlife; however, the relationship with Ivan hadn't worked out. Some of her friends had advised her to simply fall in love with an American guy, get married, go that route. She had her eye on a few American men, and a few Russian guys too, but nothing serious had materialized. Actually, she hadn't thought much about being straight vs. being gay; LA was surely different from Moscow in that regard, but until today it hadn't been her concern. Now, ironically, her ability to stay here depended on it.
Her interviewer was a friendly young guy named Anders, but he set about asking questions in a businesslike way, and asked her to tell about her life in LA, her job, her apartment, her friends, her future. She remembered the story that she had put on the application and tried to stick to it. He asked questions quickly, trying to trip her up or find signs of a memorized story or scripted answer. He wanted to make sure that she genuinely needed asylum for reasons of persecution in her home country; if she was merely here because she liked it, that wasn't a good enough reason to let her in.
The afternoon sun set through the window behind him and she could see the haze of the city, and hear city noises out the window. Why did she want to stay? She had work, and friends, and it was light and warm all the time, unlike Moscow, which was dark and bitterly cold.
Moscow wasn't completely dark, of course; she thought about the warm glow in the butcher's shop and the colors of her aunt's kitchen. There were parts of it she missed, like the food, the seasons, the television; she even missed the snow, sometimes. But when she got to LA she'd noticed how the beach and the sun made it lively all the time, and she didn't miss Moscow's long winters that turned into long springs and just kept everyone inside and miserable for months on end. In LA everyone was out there, out there all the time, running to the beach, shopping, texting, going outside, and it went on 24 hours a day. No time to get depressed. Perfect for Katya.
And then there was the dream. Lots of people, herself included, had come to LA with the dream of "making it" in television, or movies, or whatever. Looking at Anders, she was sure he was familiar with the dream, but she wouldn't mention it to him, didn't want him to think it was part of her reason. To her, it was a small thing, maybe; she was pretty sure, by now, she wouldn't be discovered, and might not know what to do if she were. But the dream, she thought, put everyone on their best behavior. A friend of hers had made a disparaging comment about the dream, a broken dream, a nightmare, but she tried not to think about it. She tried to focus on the situation at hand.
Anders started asking questions about her sex life, romance, that kind of thing, and now she became more uncomfortable and had to work harder to hide her discomfort. She didn't like talking about this stuff anyway, and it got worse when she was pretending to be gay. She tried blushing and just apologizing for not wanting to give away details. But he kept on. He wanted proof that she really was gay.
As the pressure in the room rose quickly, images flashed through her mind, of friends here in LA, of the butcher in Moscow, of romantic encounters in both places. She tried to concentrate on her story of being gay, but couldn't. Finally she exploded. "I'm not gay," she said, "I don't even like gay people." Anders was shocked, but he had his answer here; the interview was over. He reminded her gently that she should, in a general way, begin packing her bags to go back to Moscow.
She stood up, looked around, and again saw the sun, and haze, out the window. A wave of emotion came over her. She'd told the truth, and, as a result, lost LA, lost the dream, lost everything. It no longer mattered, though. She was on her way home, finally.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Q-demon
Carmella Quinn's life was turned upside down one day when her husband, a Methodist minister in a small town in Minnesota, was killed at his church by a crazed gunman who then killed himself. Who was this boy, who had come up from the Cities one Sunday? What was going on? Carmella herself was in Fargo that weekend taking care of her elderly mother, but rushed back to town, of course, as soon as she heard the news.
The kid had yelled "Q-Demon!" as he shot and just by chance, an investigator googled it; he found that "Q-Demon" had a huge online reputation and was discussed in various forums throughout the internet. Apparently the Reverend Quinn had gotten online as "Q-Demon," found his way to a place where virtual people killed each other, and was the most ruthless of all killers; he was a master of the game. He was hated and despised by everyone who played the game; he was virtually unbeatable.
Carmella knew that her husband had had this passion for online gaming. In fact it was a part of Second Life, an online universe, that he would go to, and, as he explained it, everyone who found their way to this place knew the rules of the game. You went in there, and you tried to survive, and people tried to kill you, and it was all a game; if you died, you merely had to start over, make a new "avatar," which was an online persona, and jump back into the place. It was humiliating, of course, for the losers, when somebody would kill them, because their avatars were now dead and they would have to go through a process to build a new one which often included getting decent virtual clothes.
Carmella thought back to a time when she had been at a party with her husband, and, in a small group that included a teenager and a couple of ministers who were discussing online games, he vainly mentioned his involvement in this game; the teenager, rather than being impressed, recoiled in horror when he found out that her husband was actually who he was. It struck her as odd, even then, because one would imagine that success in these games would be something that would be mutually admirable; anyone who played it would admire someone else who had achieved some measure of success in it, and maybe even ask him for some insider tricks. Not so in this case; the guy had actually backed off and disappeared, and she didn't see him again in the party. The party had been some function of Methodist ministers and movers and shakers, in the Cities, and she had forgotten about it until this moment, when she was trying to recall what she knew of her husband's involvement in this game.
As she told the investigators, he'd play maybe an hour or two a night, mostly after she herself had gone to bed, she didn't really know. She was aware of it and asked him, at least once, about the inherent contradiction of being a Christian minister and at the same time, killing people, albeit virtually, at night. He had shrugged it off, basically, by saying that it was just a game. Everyone knew it was a game. You went in there knowing someone could kill you.
It was not just that he was good at it, the investigator said. He was great at it. He was unbeatable. And, he said, it's not just that you kill people. Apparently you taunt them when you do it. You say, "Got you, Newb," or some variant, with "Newb" referring to a newbie or someone who is not as good at it as others. And people can get pretty good at this taunting, or rather, they can taunt in such ways that it really stings.
"This is not to say that your husband was in any way responsible for what happened", the investigator pointed out. He wanted Carmella to rest assured that the young man who had killed him had simply gone over the edge, mentally, and that it literally could have happened to anyone, people like this lash out almost randomly, it seems, or at least there's no accounting for it really. The investigator, satisfied with what he'd figured out already, was ready to drop the case; it really wasn't all that complicated.
This didn't help Carmella, though, who had two problems. The first was what to tell folks in the small town, who all knew the Reverend Quinn as a kind and gentle minister, but who had no inkling of his dark side, or his apparently unresolved issues with anger. The second had to do with forgiveness. It was one thing to forgive a mentally unbalanced kid, who got online, confused the game and reality, and somehow found a gun; it would be another to forgive her husband.
It was during that conversation with the investigator, though, that she saw a picture of the shooter, and he looked familiar. In fact, as time went by, she became more and more convinced that he was the teenager at the party. She could find out for sure, simply by asking questions in the Methodist community; was this the same boy that was at that particular party? Rather than finding out for sure, though, she avoided the situation; the less she knew, she figured, the better. It was a small town, and she was well aware that people were talking behind her back, and often bold enough to just approach her and ask her. It seemed as if people would bait her, asking what on earth would make a kid from the Cities come up here and do such a thing, but she would just shrug her shoulders, and avoid the question. "It was just one of those things," someone once said to her, and it kind of stuck in her mind, but most of the time she couldn't even say that.
The kid had yelled "Q-Demon!" as he shot and just by chance, an investigator googled it; he found that "Q-Demon" had a huge online reputation and was discussed in various forums throughout the internet. Apparently the Reverend Quinn had gotten online as "Q-Demon," found his way to a place where virtual people killed each other, and was the most ruthless of all killers; he was a master of the game. He was hated and despised by everyone who played the game; he was virtually unbeatable.
Carmella knew that her husband had had this passion for online gaming. In fact it was a part of Second Life, an online universe, that he would go to, and, as he explained it, everyone who found their way to this place knew the rules of the game. You went in there, and you tried to survive, and people tried to kill you, and it was all a game; if you died, you merely had to start over, make a new "avatar," which was an online persona, and jump back into the place. It was humiliating, of course, for the losers, when somebody would kill them, because their avatars were now dead and they would have to go through a process to build a new one which often included getting decent virtual clothes.
Carmella thought back to a time when she had been at a party with her husband, and, in a small group that included a teenager and a couple of ministers who were discussing online games, he vainly mentioned his involvement in this game; the teenager, rather than being impressed, recoiled in horror when he found out that her husband was actually who he was. It struck her as odd, even then, because one would imagine that success in these games would be something that would be mutually admirable; anyone who played it would admire someone else who had achieved some measure of success in it, and maybe even ask him for some insider tricks. Not so in this case; the guy had actually backed off and disappeared, and she didn't see him again in the party. The party had been some function of Methodist ministers and movers and shakers, in the Cities, and she had forgotten about it until this moment, when she was trying to recall what she knew of her husband's involvement in this game.
As she told the investigators, he'd play maybe an hour or two a night, mostly after she herself had gone to bed, she didn't really know. She was aware of it and asked him, at least once, about the inherent contradiction of being a Christian minister and at the same time, killing people, albeit virtually, at night. He had shrugged it off, basically, by saying that it was just a game. Everyone knew it was a game. You went in there knowing someone could kill you.
It was not just that he was good at it, the investigator said. He was great at it. He was unbeatable. And, he said, it's not just that you kill people. Apparently you taunt them when you do it. You say, "Got you, Newb," or some variant, with "Newb" referring to a newbie or someone who is not as good at it as others. And people can get pretty good at this taunting, or rather, they can taunt in such ways that it really stings.
"This is not to say that your husband was in any way responsible for what happened", the investigator pointed out. He wanted Carmella to rest assured that the young man who had killed him had simply gone over the edge, mentally, and that it literally could have happened to anyone, people like this lash out almost randomly, it seems, or at least there's no accounting for it really. The investigator, satisfied with what he'd figured out already, was ready to drop the case; it really wasn't all that complicated.
This didn't help Carmella, though, who had two problems. The first was what to tell folks in the small town, who all knew the Reverend Quinn as a kind and gentle minister, but who had no inkling of his dark side, or his apparently unresolved issues with anger. The second had to do with forgiveness. It was one thing to forgive a mentally unbalanced kid, who got online, confused the game and reality, and somehow found a gun; it would be another to forgive her husband.
It was during that conversation with the investigator, though, that she saw a picture of the shooter, and he looked familiar. In fact, as time went by, she became more and more convinced that he was the teenager at the party. She could find out for sure, simply by asking questions in the Methodist community; was this the same boy that was at that particular party? Rather than finding out for sure, though, she avoided the situation; the less she knew, she figured, the better. It was a small town, and she was well aware that people were talking behind her back, and often bold enough to just approach her and ask her. It seemed as if people would bait her, asking what on earth would make a kid from the Cities come up here and do such a thing, but she would just shrug her shoulders, and avoid the question. "It was just one of those things," someone once said to her, and it kind of stuck in her mind, but most of the time she couldn't even say that.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Trial and error
Barbara bought a ticket and boarded a plane for central Florida before she could have doubts or undo it. She heard about the case because she was watching a lot of television; here was this woman, who had allegedly killed her own daughter, looking impassively into the camera as if nothing had happened. It made Barbara's blood boil. She herself had no daughter, only an eleven-year-old son and a husband who may or may not be able to handle things with her gone, but they were understanding; they hardly objected when she left. Be sure to bring in the mail, she told her husband; I'm expecting a small check. Don't forget to feed the cats.
Central Florida was steamy and she made her way to the center of town where the courthouse was, and checked into the nearest motel she could find that had a vacancy. She had to try two or three, but one was acceptable, not full, not too pricey, and as soon as she'd freshened up a bit she made her way back to the courthouse where a line had formed to gain entrance into the trial the following morning. She had a spot in line that was between an older gentleman and a young foul-mouthed tattoo-covered young lady; the line wasn't moving at all, but there was plenty to watch as it seemed fights might break out over the earlier places in line. A policeman watched warily and tried not to intervene. The sultry sun put everyone on edge. To live here, Barbara decided, one must have air conditioning, a television and lots to drink.
In this time, which was actually about three hours, she made friends with a woman named Joan, who apparently was from this very city, but a little out of town, and invited her over to lunch. You may have to buy some of the supplies, she said, but you'd be welcome to come over to our house and sit with us for a while you're here in town. Seems pretty lonely to be in a city like this all by yourself, she said. Barbara hadn't thought of it.
Her sense of outrage against the mother who had killed her young child was still with her that night when she turned on the local news. The local news had the story on in much more detail, and was fully aware that the nation was watching this particular trial because of its sordidness, and a grim fascination with someone who would apparently kill her own daughter so she could go out and party a little more.
Barbara took ice from the machine outside her room, and turned on her own room airconditioning unit on full blast as she watched the news. She thought about her husband and son briefly but was soon brought into the news story again, and fixated on the young woman. The motel was full and there was a lot of noise, both in the hallway and in the courtyard outside the room, but the airconditioner and the television drowned it out and she focused. Finally she fell asleep. She had gotten sunburned standing in line, and it hurt when she rolled over.
In the morning she was let into the trial with her little entrance ticket stub, and picked a seat near the back. The trial was actually somewhat boring from back there, but she soon developed a fascination for the prosecutor, who was her main ally in delivering justice to this woman. It was as if she, Barbara, had come all the way to central Florida to ensure that justice be done to this woman, who seemed, as she sat in her seat, the epitome of evil. The prosecutor hammered away, trying to prove she did it. The defense attorney was equally aggressive; he of course was the enemy. And where did all the spectators come from? She could only guess. The trial had drawn her, all the way from south Texas; she had dropped everything; she had flown here, rented a motel, and stood in line just to be here. What were their stories? She could only guess.
She found it interesting to compare the evening news, back at the hotel, with what she had seen. What she considered important was not exactly the same for them; however, most of what they said was true. Their camera also had a different angle; however, it was all the same people.
So it went for several days; it settled into a routine. She stood in line to get tickets, sometimes for several hours; she attended as much of the trial as she could; she left only for lunch or to call home. She never missed the evening news or the recap of the trial. She didn't venture out much to see the city, or go out at night in search of anything, even a movie. When she called home everyone was ok; they were living on pizza and stale cookies, and her husband had wrecked his truck, but aside from that, it was life as usual. They missed her. They'd fed the cat at least once. They wondered when she'd come back.
Back in the courthouse her fascination for the prosecutor grew; she studied his ring trying to convince herself that he wasn't married. He was everything her husband wasn't; he was educated, well-dressed, methodical, articulate, polite; of course, part of this was his job. Sometimes she'd realize that she was deluding himself; what would he do, fall for her? She doubted it. Nevertheless the details of the trial itself were less and less interesting to her; she was already convinced that the woman was guilty. Only the prosecutor held her attention, and even he was beginning to not look as good.
Standing in line was, in some ways, more interesting than the trial itself. The police's attempts to keep order were sometimes futile. Joan came back, however, and had a long talk with her. Apparently Joan was not interested in this particular trial, but was at the courthouse because her husband had been thrown in jail about a month ago; she was having trouble supporting her daughter and elderly mother; in desperation she came to the courthouse hoping to resolve the husband's case, but unsuccessfully. Again she invited Barbara over for lunch. Maybe Saturday? Barbara agreed to the possibility; she was taking it one day at a time.
By Friday, though, she was pretty sure she would stay through the weekend, and agreed that Joan would pick her up Saturday morning for the long bus ride out to Joan's house. In order to stay through to the next week, she had to make some calls back in Texas; one was to her workplace, where they readily agreed to give her a few more days, and another was to her husband, to make sure it was ok with him also. He was beginning to get a little edgy, but so far no big disasters.
On Saturday Joan arrived at her motel, though not until ten thirty, and they got on a bus and rode all the way through the city to a god-forsaken part of it where Joan lived. Somewhere in the middle of the bus ride, looking out at the empty corners of the city, Barbara did some soul-searching. As the trial had increased its national exposure, she had become less interested in that and more just curious why she herself had been drawn all the way here, so far from where she belonged. Whereas at first it seemed necessary that she be here as witness, to make sure justice was done, now that seemed like a totally futile objective. Joan listened patiently to her story of her frustrations with her husband but Joan was clearly jealous that she even had a husband, free and clear of the prison system and all the baggage that hers seemed to have.
When they got off there was a small convenience store and they went shopping for lunch supplies; Barbara paid, and they walked the last seven or eight blocks to Joan's house. Joan's house was a tiny two-room bungalow on a crowded street. The single living room was dominated by a large television; on the show it was tuned to, talking heads, involved parties, were discussing the trial, of course, and the people in it. A shy, hungry-looking little girl appeared in the doorway of a bedroom; she appeared to be about six, and was introduced as Joan's daughter. Joan's mother, unable to move easily, watched the television impassively. They spread out the groceries on the table; it was Barbara's contribution. It might keep this hungry young girl from starving one more day, she figured, as she watched the girl eyeing the food carefully.
There was a pot of macaroni and cheese from boxes, bread and lunchmeat, milk, chips, soda, and some fruit; it seemed like a feast to the young girl, who wolfed it down. They kept the television on as they ate. Outside it was steamy and uncomfortable; they didn't even try to take anything outside, even the sodas. In the cool airconditioned living room they watched them discuss the trial, over and over, back and forth.
And somewhere in there, Barbara had her fill; she decided that she didn't want to hear another word of the trial, and didn't even care how it turned out. As she watched the young girl eat, she realized, maybe this is why I'm here, so this poor girl gets one good meal; it doesn't seem she's had another for quite some time. After they'd finished and cleaned up, she said goodbye to Joan, took the long bus back to town and checked out of the motel; she took the next flight back to Texas, and, when asked what she'd been doing in Florida, she said she was just visiting friends.
Central Florida was steamy and she made her way to the center of town where the courthouse was, and checked into the nearest motel she could find that had a vacancy. She had to try two or three, but one was acceptable, not full, not too pricey, and as soon as she'd freshened up a bit she made her way back to the courthouse where a line had formed to gain entrance into the trial the following morning. She had a spot in line that was between an older gentleman and a young foul-mouthed tattoo-covered young lady; the line wasn't moving at all, but there was plenty to watch as it seemed fights might break out over the earlier places in line. A policeman watched warily and tried not to intervene. The sultry sun put everyone on edge. To live here, Barbara decided, one must have air conditioning, a television and lots to drink.
In this time, which was actually about three hours, she made friends with a woman named Joan, who apparently was from this very city, but a little out of town, and invited her over to lunch. You may have to buy some of the supplies, she said, but you'd be welcome to come over to our house and sit with us for a while you're here in town. Seems pretty lonely to be in a city like this all by yourself, she said. Barbara hadn't thought of it.
Her sense of outrage against the mother who had killed her young child was still with her that night when she turned on the local news. The local news had the story on in much more detail, and was fully aware that the nation was watching this particular trial because of its sordidness, and a grim fascination with someone who would apparently kill her own daughter so she could go out and party a little more.
Barbara took ice from the machine outside her room, and turned on her own room airconditioning unit on full blast as she watched the news. She thought about her husband and son briefly but was soon brought into the news story again, and fixated on the young woman. The motel was full and there was a lot of noise, both in the hallway and in the courtyard outside the room, but the airconditioner and the television drowned it out and she focused. Finally she fell asleep. She had gotten sunburned standing in line, and it hurt when she rolled over.
In the morning she was let into the trial with her little entrance ticket stub, and picked a seat near the back. The trial was actually somewhat boring from back there, but she soon developed a fascination for the prosecutor, who was her main ally in delivering justice to this woman. It was as if she, Barbara, had come all the way to central Florida to ensure that justice be done to this woman, who seemed, as she sat in her seat, the epitome of evil. The prosecutor hammered away, trying to prove she did it. The defense attorney was equally aggressive; he of course was the enemy. And where did all the spectators come from? She could only guess. The trial had drawn her, all the way from south Texas; she had dropped everything; she had flown here, rented a motel, and stood in line just to be here. What were their stories? She could only guess.
She found it interesting to compare the evening news, back at the hotel, with what she had seen. What she considered important was not exactly the same for them; however, most of what they said was true. Their camera also had a different angle; however, it was all the same people.
So it went for several days; it settled into a routine. She stood in line to get tickets, sometimes for several hours; she attended as much of the trial as she could; she left only for lunch or to call home. She never missed the evening news or the recap of the trial. She didn't venture out much to see the city, or go out at night in search of anything, even a movie. When she called home everyone was ok; they were living on pizza and stale cookies, and her husband had wrecked his truck, but aside from that, it was life as usual. They missed her. They'd fed the cat at least once. They wondered when she'd come back.
Back in the courthouse her fascination for the prosecutor grew; she studied his ring trying to convince herself that he wasn't married. He was everything her husband wasn't; he was educated, well-dressed, methodical, articulate, polite; of course, part of this was his job. Sometimes she'd realize that she was deluding himself; what would he do, fall for her? She doubted it. Nevertheless the details of the trial itself were less and less interesting to her; she was already convinced that the woman was guilty. Only the prosecutor held her attention, and even he was beginning to not look as good.
Standing in line was, in some ways, more interesting than the trial itself. The police's attempts to keep order were sometimes futile. Joan came back, however, and had a long talk with her. Apparently Joan was not interested in this particular trial, but was at the courthouse because her husband had been thrown in jail about a month ago; she was having trouble supporting her daughter and elderly mother; in desperation she came to the courthouse hoping to resolve the husband's case, but unsuccessfully. Again she invited Barbara over for lunch. Maybe Saturday? Barbara agreed to the possibility; she was taking it one day at a time.
By Friday, though, she was pretty sure she would stay through the weekend, and agreed that Joan would pick her up Saturday morning for the long bus ride out to Joan's house. In order to stay through to the next week, she had to make some calls back in Texas; one was to her workplace, where they readily agreed to give her a few more days, and another was to her husband, to make sure it was ok with him also. He was beginning to get a little edgy, but so far no big disasters.
On Saturday Joan arrived at her motel, though not until ten thirty, and they got on a bus and rode all the way through the city to a god-forsaken part of it where Joan lived. Somewhere in the middle of the bus ride, looking out at the empty corners of the city, Barbara did some soul-searching. As the trial had increased its national exposure, she had become less interested in that and more just curious why she herself had been drawn all the way here, so far from where she belonged. Whereas at first it seemed necessary that she be here as witness, to make sure justice was done, now that seemed like a totally futile objective. Joan listened patiently to her story of her frustrations with her husband but Joan was clearly jealous that she even had a husband, free and clear of the prison system and all the baggage that hers seemed to have.
When they got off there was a small convenience store and they went shopping for lunch supplies; Barbara paid, and they walked the last seven or eight blocks to Joan's house. Joan's house was a tiny two-room bungalow on a crowded street. The single living room was dominated by a large television; on the show it was tuned to, talking heads, involved parties, were discussing the trial, of course, and the people in it. A shy, hungry-looking little girl appeared in the doorway of a bedroom; she appeared to be about six, and was introduced as Joan's daughter. Joan's mother, unable to move easily, watched the television impassively. They spread out the groceries on the table; it was Barbara's contribution. It might keep this hungry young girl from starving one more day, she figured, as she watched the girl eyeing the food carefully.
There was a pot of macaroni and cheese from boxes, bread and lunchmeat, milk, chips, soda, and some fruit; it seemed like a feast to the young girl, who wolfed it down. They kept the television on as they ate. Outside it was steamy and uncomfortable; they didn't even try to take anything outside, even the sodas. In the cool airconditioned living room they watched them discuss the trial, over and over, back and forth.
And somewhere in there, Barbara had her fill; she decided that she didn't want to hear another word of the trial, and didn't even care how it turned out. As she watched the young girl eat, she realized, maybe this is why I'm here, so this poor girl gets one good meal; it doesn't seem she's had another for quite some time. After they'd finished and cleaned up, she said goodbye to Joan, took the long bus back to town and checked out of the motel; she took the next flight back to Texas, and, when asked what she'd been doing in Florida, she said she was just visiting friends.
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