Mikiria

Vren. Bri. Doh. Gred.

Did you ever get a tune into your head that just wouldn’t go away? One that you didn’t even recognize, or have any idea where you first heard it, but there it was anyway? Day after day? Well, this wasn’t exactly a tune, but rather four nonsense words that had been randomly popping into my head every few days for several months now, and they were just as irritating. Wondering absently what they could mean, I wearily tossed my briefcase (containing my lunch rather than papers of any importance) onto my chair and turned on the PC. Another day in Cubicle 49, I thought, another day of my life down the drain.

A cartoon image of a woman with spiky cyan hair appeared on the screen as the operating system loaded. Good morning, Ryoko, I thought to myself, and automatically checked my phone for messages. Pleased to find none waiting, I picked up a mug from my desk and walked over to the drinking fountain to fill it with water, returning just as the image disappeared from the screen to be replaced by a network login box. A university records office had to be one of the least exciting places on Earth, I thought to myself, and being located in Fontana, California didn’t help much.

"Was that Ryoko?" said a cheery voice behind me. "Cool!" I turned to see one of the student assistants grinning at me, a slender but athletic young woman a few inches shorter than me with an improbable mane of sandy-colored hair topping off a lively, distinctly mischievous face. "I’m Kiri," she announced brightly. "Ryoko’s one of my favorite characters from Tenchi Muyo. You into anime too?" (Just in case you’ve been living in a cave for the past decade, I suppose I should explain that "anime" is what used to be known as "Japanimation," a genre with a devoted worldwide following, especially among science fiction enthusiasts).

"I am when I can afford it," I replied, rather bemused. Student assistants didn’t usually deign to talk to staff except when they had to. Generation gap and all that, I supposed. "Expensive stuff, though. My name’s Wilbur, by the way."

"I know," she said. "Wilbur Barton. It’s in the staff directory. Can I call you Will? Wilbur always reminds me of--who was that horse again--"

"Mr. Ed," I said helpfully. "Actually, Wilbur was his owner, but I knew who you meant."

She looked at the screen again, now with its corporate-dull login window waiting. "Tenchi’s my favorite series. Have you ever seen the whole thing?"

"No, not really," I answered, wondering when I could get to work. Not that I particularly wanted to; it was a dull, routine paper-pushing job that any trained monkey could do, but it did pay the bills. "I’ve only seen the first two episodes."

She only hesitated for a moment. "Why don’t you come over to my place and watch it with me? I’ve just gotten the new DVD reissue of all thirteen episodes." I suddenly felt oddly disoriented, as if I’d wandered into a play without realizing it. Seeing my surprise, she added rapidly, "I’m not from this town, and I really don’t know many people here. And most of these students seem to think animation is just for kids." Clearly sensing weakness like any efficient predator, she threw in the clincher. "And I’ll make dinner. Deal?"

By this time I was really beginning to wonder what I was getting myself into, but as she started scribbling her address on the back of a five-part carbon form I decided what the hell, what could I lose? She tied up the transaction with a brisk "Five-thirty, then?" and as I nodded dumbly she was already disappearing back into the student work area down the hall.

I slowly sat down, staring at her nearly illegible handwriting, trying to reassure myself that I hadn’t just hallucinated the whole thing. "Wilbur," said one of the other clerks, seeing that I was now free, "Ms. D’Arcangelo wants to see you." I shuddered involuntarily, my train of thought now irretrievably derailed.