Don't Leave Me Hanging

In 2007, I owned and wore the best t-shirt in existence. It was merch from a German sausage house (a wursthaus) handed down through two generations to me. It was white and baggy. I liked that. The shirt had history. The front of this superior tee depicted lederhosen straps. They mimicked what it actually looked like to wear braces, a great gimmick and all, but the real feature of the design was hidden on the back, a picture which I so rarely viewed myself, but which nevertheless instilled pride and confidence in the wearer: me. Up the top, beneath the back of my neck, the name of the wursthaus was displayed. And then below that, the shirt followed through with a gut punch of a pun, a real home runner. It read: where the bier got the wurst of me. 

At thirteen, I didn’t think comedy got any better. And as I was the owner of the shirt, I was the owner of the joke, The Great Deliverer, The Comedian, Joel of German Descent. In my schools growing up, Germans were in limited supply; I felt my heritage put me in some exclusive club. I had a boosted level of respect for the other krauts on the playground and felt they should therefore have some inherent disposition towards me. Often I used my pedigree to associate myself with the cooler kids, the ones that just so happened to be German too. “Yea, no biggie,” I’d say to my friends after Lucas Handley greeted me in the hallway, “We understand each other; we’re the same, you see.” 

And, “Guten tag,” I’d say to cool-kid Julian Attrill.

And, “Hi, Jarran,” I’d say in a balloon-squeak voice to the illustrious Jarran Pfefferkorn.

Jarran Pfefferkorn—what a name, what an icon, what a personality. Throughout primary school, the man amassed popularity points from a myriad of channels: the uniqueness and ring of his full name; the proximity of his house and thus ability to walk home during lunchtimes; his dynamic athleticism and skill with a soccer ball; the fact he was old for his year and in the year above mine; his lean torso and chiseled visage; the way he exuded cool. Of course I tried to associate myself, rub shoulders with him hoping that the Pfefferkorn sheen would transfer itself onto me. I grasped for my German association with Jarran as an infant does for a teat, and tried to tie this connection between us.

Thus far, I have received two compliments from Jarran. Both are some of my most vivid memories. The first was in 2005 when I performed a backflip for him in the northwestern quadrant of the Korora School soccer field. He said, “That’s so cool.” And I swooned, lay down in the grass and blamed my faintness on the rotation of the flip. The second compliment came in late 2007. We were both in our separate high schools by then but returned to Korora one Saturday to witness the annual fete. I went with my friend Darcy—a guy almost defined by his incessant playful mockery. And I wore my favourite wursthaus shirt, because why wouldn’t I? It was a fucking epic tee.

At about one o’clock, Darcy joined the canteen line toward the front of the school, this while I stood and waited about six paces away on the rough concrete of the teacher’s ten-car parking lot whence most pedestrians enter. The sun was warm. My shadow was almost directly below my feet. And when I looked up to the entrance, framed between the two teal wing walls of the driveway, there was Jarran Pfefferkorn, approaching.

I touched my German shirt. German blood coursed through me. My lungs surged, and as he came I said, “Hi, Jarran.” And he looked at me. He looked and saw the lederhosen printed on the front of my tee. His lips kind of twisted upward in this cool, indifferent-but-somewhat-entertained expression. He said, “Hey, nice shirt.” Holy shit. Holy shit. Jarran Pfefferkorn just talked to me. Jarran Pfefferkorn just complimented me. I thanked him. And I thanked him again. And then, don’t tell me why, but then, I made the wurst decision of my life—

I’ve been playing Disco Elysium. In it, I’m this drug addicted, amnesia-suffering, drop kick of a cop trying to solve a murder in a realist, post-war fantasy. The game is affecting me—affecting the way my body and mind behave.

When I obsess over a video game, the rules and mechanics of that game seep into my subconscious, and reality starts to bend and look like the virtual in-game engine. With Disco Elysium, this means that certain fragments of my brain have become personified, means that roll checks are executed to see if I succeed in attempted tasks, means that my self-esteem is measured as a blue health bar in the bottom corner of my vision. In the real world, I now internally roll check to see if I burnt the toast. My spinal fluid warns me against crossing the road and my biceps yell at me, command me to show off on public pull-up bars. Even my memories are distorted by this virtual lens—particularly memories from 2007.

There’s this scene in-game that has wheedled its way into my hippocampus and overlaid itself on existing stories there. At about the 25 hour mark, there’s this heightened moment where you think, I should high-five my cop partner, Kim. At first glance, this might not seem like much, but this act comes with oodles of risk. Kim Kitsuragi is straight edge, standoffish, often looks at you with disapproval or disgust, and if he rejects your offered high-five in this moment, it’s sure to damage your Morale, sure to deplete that blue bar of health which you by no accounts want to deplete because when you do, it hurts, hurts like in your gut. Your vision flashes, and you hear a hollow gong that sounds like your soul evaporating, and the story takes a negative tack for the worse. All the personified fragments of your brain warn you against this high-five.

Empathy: Kim doesn’t approve. Why would he high-five you now?

Interfacing: You’re off balance after that celebration; your high-five is likely to miss.

Half Light: Yes, swing your hand as hard as you can. Break his wrist!

Conceptualisation: A high-five is a plebeian gesture for those unseemly.

But don’t you want to build a relationship with the cool Kim Kitsuragi? Don’t you want some of that cool-guy sheen slapped off on your palm? So you raise your hand to the air in that universal gesture, a public call for another’s approval, a motion that you cannot rewind, revise, renege on because if you do, all will see, and you’ll hear that soul-sucking sound. 

Kim notices your palm. He stares intently. Your stomach flutters. Your whole ribcage teeters on the verge of collapse. Then, you bite your bottom lip, look away, wince, look back. You roll check, and Kim Kitsuragi, comes in with a firm, exhalant slap.

—Jarran Pfefferkorn complimented the front of my shirt and my brain fragments spoke in rapid succession.

Savoir Faire: You’re just as cool as him. Shrug your shoulders like his compliment meant nothing.

Composure: Be chill. Take steady breaths.

Logic: He liked the front of the shirt; he will therefore love the back.

Visual Calculus: His trajectory is taking him past you; say something quick.

So in the panic of this situation, in want for approval from the illustrious Pfefferkorn, I said to him, “Thanks… wanna see the back?” 

And in the same moment, I turned my body, hunched my shoulders to unwrinkle the hilarious text for reading. It was a motion that could not be undone. In the same way you can’t hide an unreciprocated high-five, I could not disguise this approval-seeking spin. In my turned state, I waited. I gave Jarran three seconds, then six. He’s cool, I thought, but that does not automatically render him illiterate. My personified brain-fragments flung their doubts.

Authority: Make him laugh at the joke.

Half Light: Yes, twist his arm until he howls.

Encyclopedia: The average reading speed of cool kids is 112 words per minute.

Inland Empire: The letters fell off the back.

After ten seconds, nothing. So, I pivoted back around. And in the spot where Jarran had been, in the direction I had shrugged my shoulders, I found only empty air. My roll check failed. My vision flashed. My blue bar shrank and disappeared, and my soul seemed to leave my open mouth. The world was witness to my shame, my rejection—the world here being Darcy, The Tormentor with his forever-mockery, who saw the whole exchange.