Uncanny Philanthropy

[Jim Lewinski]

Five years. Seven days. Sixteen hours. Twenty-eight minutes. Jim glanced down at the plastic Casio strapped to his wrist, it greeted the afternoon with a soft chirrup, swollen by the seamless flow of conversation and the sounds of clattering coffee pots. It was peak time at Lazy Tides, the most popular coastal diner in Manhattan Beach, where the burgers were large and the waists petite. Beyond its open windows, waves of bronzed beach bums beseiged the panoramic waterfront, filling the air with an ambient buzz. On a pleasant coastal breeze drifted the familiar rythmn of salsa, all bubbly and hot, waitress hips swayed, glasses were tapped, and even the leaves of potted palm trees stirred in their moody corners. It was Jim's favourite retreat from Los Santos, and yet as he hunched over the last remnants of his tall vanilla shake, he found himself longing for somewhere else.

Thirty-six minutes had passed since his arrival. Forty-six since departing Redención House. In which time he'd ordered and eaten a pineapple teriyaki burger and a portion of onion rings, and also, in which time he'd seen just about everything there was to see on a day at the beach. Families, with dogs, eating ice cream, slapping sand from their shoes; pregnant waddling mothers in flowery frocks; greying fathers who cradle the sleepy little ones; terracotta lovers mingling on a bench, in the sand, upon the rocks, under the trees; olds friends having lunch; new friends having cocktails; a carpark of rumba-dancing pensioners; a coach of Mexican exchange students, rubbery faces squashed against the glass; and a pier full of pastel-coloured pundits with more money than sense. There was not a detail that went unnoticed, from the waitress's ill-fitting baby doll shoes, her hidden nicotene patch and the tell-tale cigarette stains on her fingers, to the left-handed cook who considered it à la mode to curse in French, and the clumsy footplay between business partners, while the trophy wife sipped tea, unaware of the amorous affair brewing under her nose.

And then there was nothing. Nothing else to be seen. It was just another empty moment of seconds ticking like minutes while Jim wallowed at his table, sucking idly at the straw until he achieved a thick gargling sound. Back in Los Santos, Alex braved a day of shopping with Lana, Ronnie and Scott played basketball, Aimee fawned over Cameron, Jaimie walked Spike in the park with Aidan and Tess in tow, Anna was resting with Tycho at her beck and call, Jake was running errands, and even Polly had managed to make herself scarce, which admittedly wasn't very difficult when you could vanish into thin air. In the end, when everyone else had plans, a trip to the coast on a summer's day sounded like the right thing to do. It was, however, becoming clear to him that it was difficult to run away from his troubles when they were all in his head. He needed a distraction, a new project with which to occupy himself, and that was when one walked in through the door.

[Uncanny]

"Oh my god, it's him!" muttered a gangly teenager to his spectacled, spotty, comic-book wielding cohorts. The geeky group sat in a booth, amid tall empty milkshake glasses, with the latest comic issues of various publications scattered across the table as if a convention had recently exploded. One was dressed as a Romulan, another as Iron Man, another as Kick-Ass, and two of them were dressed as Batman. The young man who spoke was wearing a rather impressive home-made orange hazard suit, with a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses with no glass in them. He'd tried his best to grow a goatee but failed, so had resorted to painting one on with brown kindergaarten paint - the non-toxic easy wash stuff found at toy stores.

Zack Soloman walked from the entrance to the diner over to the counter where the majority of the patrons were oblivious to his arrival. Just the way he liked it these days. He ordered "A chocolate shake, please! And two scoops of strawberry icecream, thanks." before sitting on a free stool and turning with his back to the counter. He looked back out onto the street. It was an awesome day. Bikini babes of all colours passed by, kids ran around with water pistols and the odd bomb to annoy strangers and tourists with, and old timers sat on benches in the shade of palm trees and bus stops, reading newspapers and catching up with old friends about old times. It was a pretty carefree day. Just like he used to be. But lately, he'd been down, not the old Zack he'd always been. But some sort of half-Zack, who felt more like sixty-five than twenty-five. But why? What was wrong? His parent's died in a fire a year ago. He felt like shit back then but he'd come to terms with it. So what was eating at him now?

"Here you go, sweetie." said the waitress as she placed a bowl of icecream in fornt of him. She returned a moment later with his milkshake.

"Thanks.". He handed over ten dollars. "Keep the change." was uttered amid a mouthfull of ice-cool chocolate slurped form the straw. Half comfort-food, half hot-day cooldown, he took a spoonful of strawberry icecream and devoured it. Mmm-mmm! he sighed out loud. He thought of his grandmother, back in Seattle, and her fondness of strawberry ice-cream. He missed her. And he knew she missed him. He'd go back eventually, he just needed time. Time for what though? What the hell was up with him!?

"We should go say hi!" said the Romulan.

"I'm too embarrased, he'll think we're losers!" said Iron Man.

"One of us should go over first" said the first Batman, who sounded extremely camp.

"Yeah!" said the second Batman, who's gruff Christian Bale voice was put on only to differentiate him from his less-masculine sounding doppleganger.

"But who should go over?" said Kick-Ass.

"The Freeman should go" said the Romulan.

"Yeah, Gordon! You go!" said Gay Batman

"Freeman! Freeman!" chanted Iron Man. The others joined in.

"Freeman! Freeman! Freeman! Freeman!"

The gangly teen in the hazard suit and awful painted ginger goatee reluctantly slid out of the booth and nervously approached Zack.

[Jim Lewinski]

There was something vaguely familiar about the stranger with the baggy shorts and bedraggled hair which sent Jim's head weaving like a serpent as he studied him across the room. When the exciteable voices behind him confirmed his suspicions, his legs started to bounce under the table, and yet, wonderfully, he could still not determine his identity. The boredom, once the albatross about his neck, had taken flight, borne on the winds of this fresh mystery. He sought out the voluptuous milf behind the counter and called out.

"A-yo, Rosie- your name is Rosie, right? - can I get another o' these?" he raised his empty glass, and gave it a hopeful shake.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, Jimbo..."

"Oh, yeah. Please, an-an-and thank you!" he grinned, a little giddy, and caught Gordon Freeman out of the corner of his eye, "I love it when she calls me Jimbo. Heh! Jim-bow!"

He found himself on the receiving end of an incredulous look, which was frankly quite rich coming from someone who painted beards onto his face, and who once jerked off to a picture of Chun Li. Yes, he'd overheard that conversation, too. Nevertheless, he nodded at the lone ice-cream-eating guy who had, bizarely, become the focus of every teenage boy in the diner and gave the costumed geek an encouraging thumbs up.

"I believe in you, Freeman."

And with baited breath, Jim watched the awkward kid approach the mystery man, and after a nervous clearing of the throat, he said, "Um, hey... are you... you know, Zack Solomon?"

"CHUN-LI-ONLY-ONCE-HA!"

[Uncanny]

Zack was about to answer the kid when there was quite possibly the most unexpected outburst ever to have been heard in a diner. Zack turned from his ice-cream to see who it was. Another kid sitting by himself in one of the booths. Zck smirked at the absurdity of what he'd said,. then turned back to the One Free man.

"Yeah, Zack Solomon. That's me, buddy. But never mind me! Are you Gordon Freeman?"

The teenager looked down at his costume, a little embarrassed.

"Killer costume, dude! I must have played those games a thousand times. Well, maybe more like three times, but they're still awesome, right?! What's the convention? or do you guys just normally dress like that?"

He glanced over and gave two thumbs up to the other boys at the table.

[Jim Lewinski]

Jim's attention was volleyed between Zack and the costumed guys, they flashed coy smiles and formed a defensive huddle over their comics, debating in heated undertones their foray into new social territory. Meanwhile, their friend squirmed, groping at his stifling hazard suit as if to prize from it all the right words. It was in that moment Jim discovered in him a fondness for geeks, they were a strange breed whose shared interests and blatant disregard for normality pushed them onto the fringes of society, where they shrugged off scrutiny and soldiered on in their garish outfits.

"Ah, uh... no, these aren't our normal clothes," Gordon answered sheepishly, "There was a thing, Generation Hero, a local convention. Pretty cool, that is if it's your kinda thing."

The guy, Zack, was polite and offered enthusiastic contributions between mouthfuls of strawberry ice-cream. It was largely small talk which was, curiously, all about the youngster, his costume, and the convention, and nothing about his raven-haired companion. The question remained: Who was Zack Solomon? Jim's impatience translated into a dramatic drum solo, using salt and pepper shakers, while he rolled the name around in his mouth over and over. That he simply didn't interrupt the conversation and blurt out his tormenting question, as was typically his wont, spoke volumes of his determination to figure it out alone. It was now a matter of principle.

"Famous person makes friends with comic nerd. A laid back, baggy, bedraggled-but-I-make-it-look-cool kinda guy, who is not involved in comics, otherwise nerd wouldn't have looked so surprised when he showed interest," here, Jim's gazed swept outside briefly, "No entourage, security, or press, so not that famous. Famous-but-not-that-famous. Famous-but-not-that-famous. Speaks in a Pennsylvanian drawl. Probably says gnarly a lot. Kinda looks like... kinda looks like..."

"Speaking to yourself again, Jimbo?" Rosie appeared, and deposited a fresh vanilla shake on the table, "You know that's the first sign of madness, right?"

"Lady, you've no idea."

Hunched forward, he wrapped his lips around the straw, and absently followed Rosie across the room, where he saw the geek brigade packing up their things. Heavy bags tossed over their shoulders, they moved as one and formed in a tight cluster around their friend, cradling open comic books in their arms. Clearly, it was time for autographs.

[Uncanny]

The Avengers approached like lemmings, holding out their comics in Zacks general direction with hope in their eyes.

"Oh. Hey guys. Uh, sure. Okay. I guess so. I mean, I'm not really big on comics, y'know. Mutants and aliens and all that stuff. Videogames, sure, y'know =- I can dig that. You get to blow shit up in a videogame. But sure, why the hell not - who's first?"

Gordon Freeman smiled and held out his copy of Anarky, issue #1. Zack gave an encouraging wink before signing his autograph across the front of it.

"There ya go, bud! Who knows, if they ever decide to make a comic out of Tony Hawks World Tour, maybe the value'll shoot up. Hold onto it, I'll be back in the half pipe soon enough!"

"Thanks, Zack!"

"Don't mention it pal - keep on rockin'! Okay, who's next..."

Professor Freeman stepped aside as his friends moved closer. He waited, just staring in awe at Zack. he was here, right now. In the flesh. Once they'd all got an autograph the boys shuffled outside and all crammed into a phonebooth together to make a hasty call. They beckoned for their hazard-suit clad associate to join them. Zack smiled.

"They're waiting for you Gordon...in the test chamber."

He swivelled around to finish his ice-cream.

[Jim Lewinski]

Tony Hawk. Half-pipe. Words struck him like blows, Jim reeled, and snapped upright. His straw was dripping milkshake into his lap. It was prized from his lips and planted back in its glass, which suddenly found itself sat on the lengthy counter, neighbouring a bowl of strawberry ice-cream. An alien gust of wind swept through the diner, carrying a flock of flittering napkins, Jim snatched one out of the air and applied it to his soiled jeans. Through thick-rimmed glasses, magnified eyes narrowed in deep contemplation.

"You know, I usually hate spoilers, but between you and me..." he paused, checking for snoops, "I never would've guessed who you were."

The napkin, having served its purpose, was rolled into a milky ball and tossed beyond the counter into a dangerously-full trash can on the other side. Pleased with his success, Jim resumed the conversation, first with an involuntary whistle, and then:

"That probably came out wrong. Hey buddy, if it's any consolation, I know who you are, I-I-I- just forgot, you know? Not biiig on skateboardin'. Tend to fall off. Once on a bus. Ha! Not on on a bus, that's more you're thing, and see, I told you I knew about you. Not everythin', o' course, that would be a little weird. And boring! Who-wants-to-live-in-a-world-where-everyone-knows-everythin'-about-everythin'-an'-everyone? Not me!"

Here, he swivelled his seat a quarter to the left and prodded a pair of rigid index fingers at his new, and as of yet speechless, friend. His voice took on a note of gravity.

"So, my question to you, buddy, is... do you use the word... gnarly?"

[Uncanny]

"Gnarly!? Y'know, it's not really for me. I guess I'm just not a big fan of the silent G. Gnome, gnat, gnaw..."

He nom-nommed on anorther spoonful of ice-cream which took the bowl down to just a quarter full.

"Nah - not my thing. I'm more a full-G kinda guy. Good and God and..."

He tried to think of something else.

"Good God, Ya'll!" he almost laughed quite a bit, but stopped himself by chugging down some milkshake.

"What about you, Champ! Do you use the word..."

He looked around, his eyes taking on a playful, somewhat paranoid glare.

"...tubular?"