Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,27

the subdivision. Car insurance alone is over $1,800 a month for the Coffens. There are college tuitions to grow. There’s retirement. There’s an urn.

Yes, Bob has fallen into the most predictable trap that exists in middle age: He’s devolved into a function. He does the stuff he has to do. He buys the stuff he has to purchase. He goes places to keep the peace, waddles down the path of least resistance. He’s devoid of identity. He’s a thing.

And he resents himself for walking into this booby trap. Resents that it’s his fault. It was his responsibility to build a life for himself that kept valuing his art. It was his, not Jane’s, not the kids. It was nobody else’s duty to make sure Coffen kept building games that sated his creative streak. He had to be in charge of carving the time to stay an artist, not a for-hire hack who builds games about bestiality. It was up to Bob to take care of Bob, just like everyone else on the planet has to take care of themselves. So why was this so hard for him? Why couldn’t Coffen set aside a few nights a week to do what used to bring him so much pleasure, so much identity? The late nights were there, though he spent his free time killing time, drinking vodka and surfing the Internet for the pristine nether regions of unabashed coeds.

It isn’t lost on Coffen that the thing he loves doing most, building nuanced worlds in his games, is the one thing he can’t do in his own life. And if he can do it, he has no idea how to get started. Games always come with menus, instructions that explain how to play them, how to navigate and thrive in this environment, how to work toward winning. So what’s the real-world equivalent of that? What’s out there to teach Coffen?

Bob wakes up on a beanbag in the conference room. It’s Saturday morning, and being at the office is in no way restoring Coffen’s self-esteem. Not that there’s much that he should feel good about anyway. At least he made some headway on Scroo Dat Pooch. At least by fixating on the game he found a way to ignore the horrid levels of shame slamming in his psyche.

Today, however, before his groggy mind goes back to work, his nose alerts him to a delectable presence in his proximity.

French toast.

Coffen trails it to the kitchen and sees one of the building’s janitors, Ace, standing at the stove, a bottle of rum sitting on the countertop. Coffen often sees Ace around the office, but they never converse, save for the occasional tragic workplace platitude—Man, do I got a case of the Mondays! I’m jonesing for a siesta! Friday can’t come fast enough, huh?

Ace isn’t clad in his official janitor garb—in fact, he’s not clad in much at all, wearing an open bathrobe showing yellow boxer shorts. It makes Coffen think of Gotthorm, if Gotthorm decided to let himself go. Wow, does Bob wish Gotthorm would let himself go …

“Jesus, you scared me,” Ace says.

Protocol might dictate a bathrobe-cinch once he sees Coffen enter the galley, but it appears that Ace isn’t one for standard operating procedures.

“You sleeping here, too?” Ace asks.

Coffen pauses at this, ponders office rumors, premature stories of divorce, rueful glances from coworkers half his age, chomping for his job. Show no weakness! “Nope. Putting in some extra hours.”

Ace smiles. “Then neither am I. And I definitely didn’t take a bath in one of the tubs in LapLand. That’s for sure.”

LapLand is one of the unusual accoutrements that DG offers its employees. It’s a room that has two endless pools—ten-foot tubs in which employees can swim against a manufactured current, covering great distances without ever moving from one freestyling or backstroking spot. Not only are these pools available for any employee to enjoy, but safety is key: There’s a lifeguard on duty, should anybody cramp up in a tub, sink to the bottom, and require immediate resuscitation.

“There are showers here, you know,” Bob says.

“Indeed there are. But LapLand has a certain je ne sais quoi. Not that I bathed there in the first place.”

“I’ve never gone in that room the whole time I’ve worked here,” Coffen says.

“You should. It’s marvelous. Hey, is your ass hungry?”

“Sure.”

“Sorry for cursing,” Ace says. “I’ve got a problem with it, and the problem is that I love cursing. It’s a situation I’m aware of. How can I not be