Part 1: Impetus

(The creation of a modern religious myth as told by some kids on the subway.)

I don’t remember it perfectly, but I remember the basic gist.

The lights were a bit too bright, the floor a little too sticky, and the breasts on the dancer in front of me a bit too …pneumatic. She smiled at me in an almost maternal way and I paid a dollar for the bizarre version of attention. I sipped my coffee.

It was 1998 and I wasn’t feeling too well. I had tagged along on a trip to Washington D.C. in order to get my head on straight. I was broke, unemployed, and had just been dumped by two women on account of my sleeping with two women, which I suppose makes sense. I had seventy-two dollars in my pocket, the last of my money on Earth. I was supposed to be sleeping, but the room I was sharing with my dad had only one bed and I had drawn the "floor" straw. The worst part was that none of this was actually what was bothering me.

So I wandered. I wasn’t sure how long I had walked before I found the place.

Bad neighborhood but my head wasn’t on straight anyway and I was probably looking for trouble at that point. You gotta wonder about a strip club with a less than ten dollar cover.

A reassuring hand on my shoulder startled me.

"Hey, Blondie, wanna buy me a drink?"

I looked up. She was certainly cute- Haitian, I was guessing. Naturally voluptuous – a stripper’s body- and crammed into a positively pornographic pink dress designed for ease of removal in spike heels. I smiled despite the fact that I knew this girl’s interest in me was somewhere between apathy and loathing. This was her job, and I was willing to pay what I could for the conversation. She’d try and get me to buy a lap dance, and I’d try to pretend that she actually wanted ME to pay for it as opposed to anyone else.

"You don’t look like a regular."

"I’m not. I’m from Jersey."

"That’s not what I meant."

I looked up and realized that I was one of maybe five white guys in here, and the only one not dressed in Tommy Hilfiger with a white baseball cap on my head.

"Oh." I mumbled. "I guess I didn’t notice."

"That’s okay. I like something different, every once in a while. I’m actually an actress."

"I figured."

"You did?"

"Yeah, I been in strip clubs before. Most girls aren’t so believable when fishing for a lap dance."

She smirked and eased into the seat more.

"And what do you do?"

"I’m…uh… a freelance game designer, I guess."

"Oh, I just love Mario."

"No, no… I do published book games, you know… like…um… Vampire or D&D."

I mumbled the last bit, failing to conceal my embarrassment.

"I had a brother that did that. You write those?"

"For what it’s worth." I swigged more coffee.

"What’s that pay?"

"Ah, there’s the problem. You see, I’d love to accompany you to the back room, but it pays nothing, apparently. Hence the coffee and the crappy tips to your friends despite their obvious physical assets. They deserve a lot more than I can pay, but I don’t see the point of not sitting up front in a place like this."

"Huh?"

"This has been something I’ve wanted to do since I was ten, but I naively studied the form and style of Design rather than the business, and the simple fact is that there is none. I’m broke. There’s more money in soiled underwear."

"Don’t remind me." She muttered.

"So I’m trained for a field that can’t support anyone. I’m sorry to have…uh… deluded you, I can’t go in the back room."

"That’s okay. You’re harmless and I need a break. This way I can finish my drink in peace before the manager catches me."

"What’s your name?"

"Crystal."

"Your real name."

She brightened. "Veronica. You’ve done this before."

"Veronica, I’m Sean. Pleased to meet you. "

She shook my hand in a businesslike manner.

"Well, Sean, it looks to me like you’re feeling sorry for yourself. We get a lot of that in here."

"Yeah, probably."

"Well, what is your game about?"

"Um…" The question had shocked me. "I don’t have my own game… I write for other companies. They have the games and I expand on what they’ve done."

"Well, hell. There you go."

I straightened, as though slapped. She made perfect sense.

"’Course you don’t make any money, you’re a "game designer" that ain’t got no game."

I stared, dumbfounded. Of course. Of course!

She stood up.

"Well, My drink is finished. I appreciate that. Listen, you should go down to the Smithsonian tomorrow, there’s an exhibit on George Lucas. Worth a look."

"How did you know I…-"

"Because IG-88 is sticking out of your coat pocket. I gotta go- that’s my cue."

I watched her dance the rest of her set, and left silently.

The exhibit was amazing, nearly a religious experience for such a die-hard Jedi wannabe as myself. I stared at everything, drinking it in, trying to glean as much inspiration as I could. While my ideas appealed to me, nothing revolutionary occurred. I took as many different free pamphlets as I could and left, hoping to blow some of the last of my cash on my rumbling stomach.

I rapidly found a church of the holy arches and planted myself in with a quarter-pounder and coke. I needed something new, something edgy, something sacred. Something no one had ever had the stones to consider before. Hours ticked by. I stared out the window.

Nothing. I started to feel worse. Uninspired and alone. Lost. I got up to throw away the tray full of empty paper and slammed, chest-first, into a busy suit-and tie type. He looked over my scraggly form and checked himself for ketchup stains.

"Jesus Christ, watch where you’re going!"

I smiled at him.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much."

----

Sean Jaffe is the designer of The Last Exodus.