Chapter 10: Emancipation

“Happy Birthday...” Peter cringed as soon as the voices rose in song,”—to you...” He sat in his usual spot at Round Table Pizza, surrounded by friends on his 17th birthday. God, please make it stop! He grimaced as they continued belting out the stupid lyrics. Kathy appeared from the kitchen area with two employees carrying a large, decorated cake. She and Al tried to get him to enjoy a big party, maybe at the Space Needle, but he preferred a simple celebration. Despite his insistence, they packed the pizzeria and even brought his sister from across the state, something he couldn’t do unless he were bleeding out in the ER.

“Come on!” Veronica scolded him with a punch in the arm. She sat beside him in the booth. “Cheer up. Or I’ll make them sing it again.” He refused to wear the idiotic dunce cap like the rest and glared at his girlfriend when she bent over to blow a party favor in his face, hitting his nose.

Alan sat across from him, wearing a shit-eating grin at his friend’s discomfort. “Yeah. Happy up, Sonny! Give us a speech!”

The only other awkwardly out-of-place person was Arty, who sat in the adjacent booth backed up to the arcade. He was surrounded by half a dozen native kids determined to deplete the restaurant of Root Beer. His presence was mandated by the other two partners, who felt it was good to drag him out of his mom’s basement occasionally. Kathy’s loud cousins kept him trapped in the booth when they weren’t challenging him to bouts of might and skill in the arcade.

“Very well,” Peter grumbled as Kathy relit the candles on his giant cake. “I think you all suck!”

Amid jeers, he fumed over the fuss. “Quit bitching, make a wish, and blow,” Veronica chided.

I already got it! He took a breath and extinguished the candles. March 11th, 1991 not only marked his 17th birthday—but also his emancipation. Complete freedom to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with whomever he wanted. He and Kathy booked a seven-day Alaskan Cruise in April to celebrate.

Aside from the large cake, another booth was reserved for presents and cards from guests and those who couldn’t attend. One parcel had UK stamps. It was from Monty and Allister, who had just returned from weeks of scouting real estate in Hawaii. Peter and Kathy became fast friends with the two amicable ‘gents’ and accepted invitations to explore the area for future returns. They entrusted the two capitalists to help them navigate the red tape and financial ‘codswallop’—becoming informal partners in the property asset business.

The twins sent a card wishing Peter the best for his ‘coming-of-age’ celebration. A note offered a brief update on the ‘princely’ returns from their joint ventures. Peter asked to reinvest any profits from his and Kathy’s part into the next play.

Jeremiah spent afternoons with the couple, helping them set up offshore ‘tax exemption vehicles to protect their money from ‘erosion.’ This involved multiple Trust funds for them and their immediate loved ones. Veronica was set up so she wouldn’t worry about her living expenses while focusing on her veterinary studies. She needn’t concern herself with money issues again, but that did not distract or stifle her ambition.

At Jeremiah’s recommendation, PAAK Gaming Company filed for incorporation in Wyoming, where the first limited liability companies were established. This required a ‘board meeting’ to draft and ratify the charter. Once the forms and fees were submitted in Cheyenne, Peter, Alan, Arty, and Kathy transformed their partnership into PAAK Gaming, LLC.

After the party, they opted for a quick meeting. Peter cited all the company figures and projections from memory.

“We’re licensing 18 games with ORCA, and our projected quarterly royalty distribution is $73,556 each,” he smiled between his sister and girlfriend, across from Alan and Arty. “Give or take a few dollars.”

The Korean boy whistled appreciatively. “How ‘bout them apples?” he mused, glancing at the red-haired nerd beside him.

“We have no pending games to offer them, and frankly, I haven’t been thinking about it lately,” Peter continued. He kissed Kathy’s head resting against his shoulder. “When I last spoke with Jason in February, he hinted at making an offer for sole proprietorship.”

“ORCA wants to buy us out?” Alan exclaimed after finishing his Dr. Pepper.

“It’s premature to guess, but we’ve been turning over a tidy profit for them,” Peter replied, studying the new partner’s thoughtful expression. “But we should keep this in mind moving forward.” He nodded at the carrot top, “What’s on your mind, Arty?”

The man across from him twitched at being called out and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Um ... I was thinking about future acquisitions,” he began as he studied the tall, frosted glass before him. “I know this guy ... a kid, actually.”

They waited patiently for him to continue.

“He writes games?”

Arty shrugged, “A game. He wrote it in C++ for superior object orientation, but it incorporates C.”

Peter and Alan focused on the programmer. “I’ve read a lot about OOP support,” Al interjected. “It seems to be slower, but the coding is more efficient.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “What kind of game?”

“It’s a simulation variant ... and hella cool to play,” Arty said eagerly, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve been helping him with the classes and objects.” He drew their attention to the table surface and began gesturing. “It’s a 3D model of a town or village, and the player has to build everything to develop it into a modern city. You control every aspect of the village’s development, from political leadership to public works, education, facilities, and attractions. Your progress is determined by population growth.

“Brian is excellent, but if we expanded it, we could create a massive programming engine for various Sim scenarios—from medieval lands with warring neighbors to Caribbean merchants with pirates.” The others smiled inwardly as Arty became more animated.

“I was considering a Victorian Steampunk concept variation.”

Kathy squealed, “Oh my God! I love Jeter!”

Veronica was less intrigued. “Anyone have quarters?” she asked as she shimmied out of the booth.

Peter pursed his lips as he considered Arty’s words. “When you say, ‘if we took it,’ what do you mean? Is this kid willing to collaborate with us?”

The red-headed programmer snorted, “I talked to him a week ago, and he’s lost interest. It’s just sitting on floppies in a shoe box on his shelf.”

“Would he consider selling to us?” Alan asked.

Arty smiled, “I asked him that the other day.”

Peter sighed, “And?”

The red-haired partner grinned eagerly, “He gaffed at me and said, ‘Not for a thousand bucks!’.”

Brian Gatz was a 14-year-old, six and a half feet tall black kid. Arty arranged for Peter and Alan to see him at his home. Meeting the skinny giant, it was clear he now preferred basketball over programming. His room was a shrine to the sport, while his customized computer gathered dust. He produced a shoebox, sorted through some 3.5-inch floppies, and loaded up ‘The Village’ on his computer. Arty took over the demo as Peter and Alan looked on. The display was unimpressive, showing a boxy town like a chessboard. Still, the characters moved lifelike. Arty showed how features generated revenue for upgrades. There was no sound, and the animation was sketchy, but the real-time sequencing amazed them. Alan tried it while Peter suggested fixes to the object orientation protocols. They energetically discussed the C++ coding engine Brian had developed for several minutes before Peter held up a hand.

“I’ve seen enough,” he stated calmly before turning to the black youth, sitting on his bed, spinning a basketball on his fingertip. He set the ball down and looked back at them with a bored expression. “Brian, you told Arty you wouldn’t sell your game for a ‘thousand dollars,’ right?”

The black youth shrugged. “Never said I wasn’t open to a deal. What do you want with my game, and how much will you pay?”

“Direct and to the point,” Peter smiled. “Just how I like it.” He spent a few minutes describing how PAAK, LLC operated. He intended to take the game, strip it to its base roots, upgrade the 16-bit graphics, and add a musical score. The rest was reengineering the code to make the game better, bigger, and vastly superior to the demo.

“The only thing left of your original work will be the skeleton we rebuild it on,” Alan added.

“So, what’s in it for me?” Brian asked curtly.

“I won’t lie to you,” Peter stated plainly. “There’s a shit-ton of work before we can create a new version of your original game. It’ll take weeks or months to meet PAAK standards. Once that’s done, we’ll license it to ORCA and enjoy a nice return on our investment. Here’s my offer,” he held up one finger. “Option one is you lease us the rights to redevelop your software. I’ll pay you $3,000 upfront and offer you one percent of all the profits PAAK Gaming receives from the original game. We’ll likely use the engine to create other models, but those will be ours to own and license.”

He could tell by the boy’s glinting eyes that he had his attention.

“What are my other options?”

“I’ll buy it outright. You give up any rights to the game or future developments from your base program,” Peter answered, “The sales agreement will be simpler ... a single-page contract, and you’ll be paid immediately.”

“How much?”

Peter hesitated and pretended to consider while Alan and Arty looked at him curiously. Finally, he sighed as he reached a decision, “Twenty-five.”

The tall black kid nearly hit his head as he sprang off his bed, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Twenty-five THOUSAND dollars?” He gawked at the company CEO.

Peter nodded. “Payable upfront upon signing a contract with the discussed terms,” he replied. “I can have the agreement drafted by tomorrow if you want. A parent or legal guardian must be present to sign with you.”

“Is this legit?” the boy asked suspiciously.

“You have my word,” Peter replied firmly. “If you let us take the disks today, I’ll give you a thousand cash up front.”

“Hell, motherfuckin’ yeah!” Brian yelled excitedly, dancing around his room. Instead of a handshake, he demanded a hand clasp and a fist bump. Everyone was smiling as he cried for his mom and ejected the floppy from his computer, adding it to the stack in the shoe box. He led them to the kitchen where a rotund, middle-aged black woman stood with her back to the sink and a lit cigarette in her hand. Brian set the box on the table, grinning, and pointed at Peter. “Tell her what you just done told me!”

Peter introduced himself to the large woman and handed her his business card. He reiterated their discussion in the boy’s room as he pulled out his wallet and counted out ten $100 bills. Both watched him intently as he deliberately set each bill on the table in a fan pattern. “I will come by with my financial advisor and a contract tomorrow afternoon with a check for the remaining $24,000.” he finished.

“See, momma?” the tall boy laughed. “Now I got us enough to pay all our way for a while.” He hugged her affectionately. She said nothing as she stabbed her smoke out and looked back at him curtly.

“As long as you keep up with your studies and get that scholarship,” she retorted. But her tone was soft as she nodded in agreement.

After exchanging handshakes, Peter, Alan, and Arty collected the box of disks and left. They rode back to Peter’s house in his BMW.

“Don’t you think twenty-five grand was a bit steep?” Alan asked his best friend.

Peter snorted, “Dude after we re-build this engine and start cranking out different genre games using the same model—that will seem like pennies.” He smiled at the traffic. “That shoebox is worth millions. And we got it for a song.” Neither of his passengers noted the change in his demeanor as he spoke—his sub-conscience divided by the present and its vague outlook toward the future.

Peter’s home buzzed with electronic activity in late March and early April. Computers were set up on the dining table for Alan and Arty while Peter worked on his upgraded Beast at his desk. Kathy moved between instruments, recording and mixing scores to enhance the game’s experience. One moment, she’d record a jaunty penny whistle melody signaling the early villagers gathering wood—next, an ominous base mix on her keyboard signaling an attack.

They drew straws to decide who would run out for food and snacks, and the Alphas (Kat’s colloquialism for Alan and Arty) would often stay the night, allowing them to work late.

One morning, over coffee, Peter remarked on Alan’s recent freedom.

“Mom and Dad are on a cruise,” he replied while reading the Times’ comic section.

Peter glanced up from the IBD spread on the table. He had to restrict his reading space because the PCs occupied most of the surface. “Since when has your mom ever taken a vacation? I thought she lived at the store.”