The Autumn Engagement

FREEZE FRAMED FAILURE

A poorly rendered three-dimensional kaleidoscope of advertisements and spectators, colorfully dressed in the latest fashions, flickered and became very pixilated whenever the music started to play. During the worst moment, the inset speakers in the ceiling would rattle with a tinny-sounding rendition of the Andromeda Galaxy's premiere orchestra playing the Star Spangled Banner. The music sputtered, and the three kids sitting behind the dugout actually froze for a full second as the visiting team leapt to their feet, erupting in triumphant cheers. The World Historians Society had recorded every minute detail of the baseball game.

Moments prior, it had been the bottom of the ninth inning. The visiting British Willows were one run down, had a runner on second, and one of its premiere batters was facing the wicked arm of the Cascadia Chateau's prize pitcher.

Janus Franko still felt a twinge of excitement as the eight month-old game footage played in a sim-3D staccato on the worker class apartment walls. Perfect calm had controlled his movements on the mound, giving no visual indication that the ball might fly astray. However, moments after the ball left his hand, he knew it would sink too early.

Janus switched off the playback. He could still smell the ambrosia of champagne and salmon completing the affluent ambiance of the high-class suite he once occupied. The cornucopia-dream of fame, fantastic wealth and perfect love had been in his grasp and still he longed to savor its succulent flavors. While he had expected the triumvirate - fame, wealth, and love - to come hand-in-hand with success, he was not prepared for all three to be stripped away within the hour following the Chateau's loss.

At his worst, he nearly managed to believe that his love for Priscilla was only a ruse, and that his lost fortune didn't matter as much as the lump in his chest told him it did. But he could not bring himself to forget the parties that came with excessive wealth, fame, and perfect love. Gazing at the chalky apartment walls, he wished he had ordered a copy of the Winter Festival from two years prior. His companionship with Priscilla had been at its best that evening. Gowned in a radiant near-translucent gown, she had acted as though she was with him for his company, not his success.

He mused on the irony of three-dimensional video technology: he could only freeze-frame his failures.

And without a crystal clear reminder of his successes, he could only replay his failure. Between replaying the episode of his errant pitch and the climactic finale of his accounts being drained and Priscilla walking out on him, he simply frittered away his time. Baseball had been his life, his vitality, and the vindication of his existence.

Lately, he had turned to writing down cuss words on bits of paper, wadding them up, and studying the trajectory as he flicked them at Priscilla's picture. His spine would tingle and his lips would curl in the vague outline of a sneer whenever the more exotic cusses made contact with her mouth. In such moments of miniscule success, he fancied she had just spoken that particular word and committed a grave faux pas.