By Eric Choi
Published in Game On! edited by Stephen Kotowych and Tony Pi, Zombies Need Brains, ISBN 978–1‑940709–58‑1, 2023, pp.137–146. First publication earnings from “Random Access Memory” were donated to the Veterans Transition Network.
Blinking lights. Cheerful electronic jingles. Maze-like rows of machines with brightly colored graphics. The occasional robotic declaration of “Winner! Gagnant!” An all-you-can-eat buffet, and as much alcohol as a person could drink. No windows, no clocks. A timeless place of skewed chance and artificial happiness.
Walid Malikzada was not happy.
This place offended him, both as a mathematician and as a Muslim. Walid held degrees in math and physics from Kabul University. He had worked with Canadians in Afghanistan as a Pashto interpreter for thirteen years, first with the Canadian Armed Forces in Kandahar and later at the Canadian embassy in Kabul. Somehow, he survived those final chaotic days as the Taliban closed in to reclaim what had then been called Hamid Karzai International Airport. The Canadian soldiers had been ordered to only let those with Canadian passports through the security perimeter. Walid would never forget the young Canadian Army master corporal who recognized him and risked his career by looking the other way as he was hustled aboard a Royal Canadian Air Force transport that eventually departed barely three-quarters full.
All to end up at this place, as a security guard at Casino Tyche in South Cove, Ontario.
“Excuse me, mister?”
Walid turned and faced a young woman in jeans and a Roots Canada hoodie.
“There’s this weird guy at the slots,” she said. “He won’t leave.”
“People are allowed to play as long as they like,” Walid replied. “There’s no time limit.”
She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. Something’s really weird about this guy. You have to come see.”
Walid sighed. He followed the young woman past the blackjack tables and through the rows of video poker terminals before arriving at the video slot machines. A bald man in track pants and a gray T‑shirt sat on a stool in front of one of the new consoles. There was nobody at the machines on either side of him, and Walid was just about to ask the young woman why she couldn’t play one of those when he caught the unmistakable smell of urine.
Suppressing a grimace, Walid approached the man and tapped his shoulder. “Sir?”
Oblivious to the touch, the man just stared at the screen, his mouth hanging slightly open, a large damp spot spreading across the crotch of his pants. The only discernable movement was that of his finger pressing the spin button every couple of seconds. Bar cherry bar. Star seven bar. Cherry cherry diamond. Horseshoe cherry dollar…
“Sir?” Walid gently shook the man’s shoulder and still got no reaction. Looking around, he felt a moment of relief when he spotted the other security guard Neetu Agarwal. He waved her over.
As Neetu approached, her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth and nose.
“Please go to the security office,” he said. “Call 911.”
§
Walid sat down in front of a computer at the South Cove Public Library. At another computer nearby, a teenager was playing a first-person shooter game without a headset. Walid tensed at the simulated sounds of gunfire and explosions. He flexed his fingers and took a few deep breaths to calm himself before launching a browser and opening his webmail.
The inbox was full of robo-messages from Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada, auto-replies to his inquiries on the status of his sister Shahla’s application for resettlement. He had submitted the application sixteen months ago, completing it on her behalf because the forms were only in English or French and she knew neither. The robo-emails had been the only response, and phone calls had proven futile. He once managed to reach the local member of Parliament who, not being in the governing party, could do little but offer sympathy.
Walid donned a headset and started a call. After a few moments of a jaunty jingle playing over a headshot of his sister, she appeared on screen.
“Tsenga yee, Shahla,” said Walid.
“Salaam alaikum, Walid.” Shahla was fifteen years younger than her brother, but her face was gaunt and her hair streaked with gray. Before the return of the Taliban, she had been an accomplished professional with a psychology degree from Kabul University. Behind her, Walid could see the spartan furnishings of her dimly lit one-room apartment in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. The sky outside the window was dark. At a small table against the far wall, his nephews were playing panjpar.
Shahla turned. “Firash! Ragi! Come say hello to your Aka Walid.”
The boys reluctantly put down their cards and shambled to the camera, making some perfunctory small talk with their uncle before returning to their game.
“How are you?” asked Walid.
Shahla glanced over her shoulder, then leaned closer to the screen. “We are not well, Walid,” she said quietly. “We can’t stay in Pakistan. You know our visas expired two months ago. I’m so afraid every time I see a police officer. We weren’t supposed to be here this long.”
Walid clenched his jaw. Shahla had spent her savings to get to Pakistan. She had done this because one of the robo-emails from IRCC said the Government of Canada would only offer resettlement help to Afghans who had already gotten themselves out of the country.
“I’m sorry Walid,” she continued, “but I need to ask for more money. I have not eaten meat in days. I save it for the boys. I’ve sold the last belongings we can spare. We need money…for food.” She did not need to say “and bribes”.
Walid closed his eyes and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Za ta sara meena laram, Walid.”
“Za ta sara meena kawam.” He ended the call, took off the headset, and buried his face in his hands.
The teenager at the next computer was getting up to leave. Walid saw he was wearing a grey T‑shirt and track pants, like the poor man who had been so strangely mesmerized at the slot machine. He thought for a moment, then typed a few words into a search engine. A handful of social media posts came up describing similar incidents at casinos across Canada and the U.S.
§
Walid knocked on the door of the manager’s office.
“Come in.”
Eugene Trimble, the manager of Casino Tyche, was a thin-haired middle-aged man with coke-bottle glasses. He was hunched over his computer, playing solitaire.
“Hey, Wally!” Trimble flashed a snaggly smile, his teeth chipped and stained from years of cigarettes and double-sweet coffee. “Why are you still here? Aren’t you done for the day?”
“I just came off shift, yes,” Walid said. “May I discuss something with you?”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Trimble,” Walid began, “I’ve been working here for more than a year. Do you think I’ve done my job well?”
“Sure thing, Wally,” said Trimble. “You’ve been fine.”
“In that case, I was wondering…” Walid rubbed his hands nervously. “I was wondering…if it might be possible to have an increase in salary.”
The smile abruptly vanished. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“I see,” Walid said quietly.
“You have to understand, the gaming business is a tough one.” Trimble held up a thumb and index finger. “Our margins are razor thin.”
“I see,” Walid said again.
“Look, I get it, OK? Times are tough. The cost of everything is going up.” Trimble clasped his hands on the desk. “If you need help, why don’t you just go to the food bank?”
Walid stiffened. “The food bank is for people who really need it.”
Trimble shrugged. “Well, you’re like a refugee from Armenia or something, right? Who’s to say your need isn’t greater than anyone else’s?”
They were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. Walid started to speak, but the door flew open before he could say anything. Neetu Agarwal tumbled into the room. “There’s two guys fighting at the slot machines!”
Walid ran after her, followed by a sweaty and out-of-breath Trimble. They pushed their way through the gawkers encircling the belligerents, a pair of disheveled middle-aged men. The slot machine at the end of the row had been tipped over and lay on its side on the floor. One of the men took a step towards the other.
“I was back there, and you took me away!” he screamed. “You took me out of it. Why can’t you mind your own fucking business!”
The other man took a step back, raising his hands to shield his face.
Walid stepped into the fray, intending to hold back the attacker. He braced himself for a blow but was shocked when the man suddenly collapsed into his arms and started sobbing.
“I went back, and he made it stop!”
Walid blinked. He had expected alcohol on the man’s breath, but smelled none.
“I was with her! It’s not fair! It’s not fair…”
Walid gently lowered the man until he was sitting on the floor. Neetu brought ice packs and towels.
“Gentlemen, you c‑can’t…can’t fight in here! This is a high-class establishment!” Trimble said between heaving breaths. “I want both of you out of here, now. Don’t make me call the police.” He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, then motioned to Walid and Neetu and pointed at the slot machine on the floor. “Get that straightened out.”
They brought the console upright and pushed it back against the second-to-last machine in the row. The unit appeared undamaged. Walid pulled out and then replaced the power cord to reset the device. As he did so, he noticed a small decal near the power supply with the words “Myriad Games Inc.” and “Certified TrueRandomTM”.
§
The headshot of his sister stared at him from the screen as the jaunty electronic jingle played on. She did not connect.
Walid swiped the screen to end the call. He had finally purchased a second-hand phone, but Canadian mobile data and calling plans were so costly he still often used the wifi at the public library. It was expensive for him to be calling Rawalpindi from his apartment, but he had not heard from Shahla for several days and was worried.
He went to the kitchenette and made a pot of kahwa tea. The local store did not have cardamom so he had to substitute nutmeg. He poured himself a cup. The smell and flavor took him right back to many happy hours at the Kabul University chess club, where he would savor an istikhan of kahwa while surveying the board and contemplating his next move.
In the casino fight that he and Neetu had broken up, one of the men had yelled something about being “back there”. Looking through social media, he found more posts about people having bizarre experiences at slot machines. Some of the posts mentioned the new machines from Myriad Games. Most players never experienced anything unusual, but those who did claimed playing the Myriad slots triggered memories. Not vague recollections, but completely vivid and full sensory realities with sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell. It was, in the words of one post, “just like being there”.
The recall was total, but it was also random. Players would press the spin button and a new memory would come up, but they had no control over which. One moment a person could find themselves at their wedding, and the next they were back in high school getting the crap beaten out of them by bullies.
The earliest post was just a few months old, around the time the new Myriad slot machines became widely available.
The phone began to vibrate. An unknown number with a +92 country code appeared on the screen.
“Salaam?” It was very loud, and Walid thought he heard people speaking Urdu.
“Walid, it’s Shahla!”
“Shahla!” He gripped the phone tighter. “Where are you?”
“Oh, Walid! I don’t have much time. They’re letting me make this call.”
“What’s going on? Who’s letting –” He figured it out a split second before she said it.
“I’m at the police station. They came for us, Walid! There’s an order for our immediate deportation. They told us to bring only what we could carry.”
A knot formed in Walid’s stomach. “Are Ragi and Firash with you?”
“Yes, we’re all here.”
“W‑what’s going to happen?” Walid stammered.
“They’re going to take us to the border, to Torkham.” The phone went silent, and for a moment Walid feared the call had dropped. “– you to find someone. I don’t know, maybe cousin Tariq in Jalalabad. I need a male relative to meet me in Torkham to take me into the country. I cannot travel inside Afghanistan without an adult male relative.”
Walid choked back a sob. The Pakistani authorities were going to send them across the border regardless, but if there was no male relative to meet them on the Afghan side they would be arrested by the so-called Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice.
“Do you understand, my dear brother? Do you know what needs to be done?”
“Yes,” said Walid as his voice broke. “I understand.”