STRIVIA™ 

“What we need is a start-up. Our own start-up.”

Barrett shifted her hips in their purple cycling shorts in the ergonomic chair, holding her iced skim decaf latte (grande) up toward the window where the air conditioner hummed miserably in the early June heat. Had to change that one, she thought.

“If can’t find a goddamn good job, you create one,” she added. Barrett spoke in italics and underlines.

Carter, hunched over his iphone, didn’t reply. The ice in his diet Coke had melted to a pale syrup and he hadn’t moved in the past hour.

“Where it’s at!” Barrett hammered. “Carter, we’re going into business – partnership, company. You know---idea, seed money, investors, marketing, website, Facebook page, royalties…..are you still synching?” she asked.

Carter peered at her through round tortoise-shell glasses, red hair tapering over his ears.

“Yes, almost done. What are you saying Barr?”

“What I’m saying, Carter, is that I have an idea. It sums up everything our capitalist society boosts: it’s a how-to game in capitalism. Go. With. It.”

Carter glared at his phone. “As soon as I’m synched.”

It was a motivational learning game. A tidbit of Trivia, a whiff of the acquisitive like Monopoly, except it involved acquiring degrees and great recommendations, a bit of Chance, a bit of Careers. Something of everything. 

And there it was. Two and a half months later, on a Monday, Petite Magnum of Park Slope had produced their model game or ‘maquette’ as Barrett liked to call it. 

STRIVIA™, complete with Bonus Cards, Professional Setback Cards, Motivation Cards, Promotion points, and a bunch of 3D printer-generated pieces (thank you 3D Baby of Prospect Heights)” 

HR Shirley; Headhunter Hilda; Gossip Gabby; Blackberry Bruce; Wall Street Willy; Daddy Bigbucks (she’d probably eliminate this one); 

Dr. Stresstest; Lizzy Lipstick; Nigel Spender; Shankar Dontaskhimagain; 

and a couple of others she’d come up with before it went to production. Hangover cards (miss one turn), Pregnancy Leave cards (miss three turns), You’re Fired! cards (sacrifice one of your pieces), Degree cards (BA, MA, PhD etc.) (collect an extra piece), etc.

@ @ @ @

The streets were hot and smelled like engine oil, rotting vegetables and cat piss. They struggled up the steps. She was flagging.

“I’m carrying the wine, hand me the soda, you carry the cheese. Maybe we should have just had a fruit and vegetable platter with cold meats? Is cheese ok in 88 degrees?” Carter muttered something about the air conditioner they hadn’t changed.

“Who’s had time? I mean who? We’ve been creating. Something big, Carter, wallow in it. Or bask or whatever. God I’m tired. They’ll be here in half an hour.”

Friends came over for Beaujolais and Brie, nuts and olives, Perrier and Coke, plus Ergun’s contribution of Turkish pomegranate and fig juice he made to supplement his small business in imported dates, nuts and spices (bought wholesale in the US). The apartment was crowded and it was clear at this point they couldn’t actually sit down and play the game there (minimum 2 players, maximum 8).

The STRIVIA™ board was laid out on the dining table, along with the 3D printed characters, the decks of cards, the gold counters for Promotion Points, instructions, and publicity brochure. Carter noticed Dr. Stresstest didn’t stand upright, and placed a small piece of gum on its 

underside. The display was impressive. People milled around. It felt like a gallery opening. 

“You can pick up the pieces, it’s fine, just please put them back,” Carter called through the crowd.

And sure enough, people loved it, signing the hand-made paper book as future sponsors: ‘Be at the Birth of this Fabulous Brooklyn Startup’ and ‘You are our Founding Sisters and Brothers’ and ‘Go STRIVIA™! 

Invest now!’  

“Is this like for career changers or anything?” asked the neighborhood dogwalker. The manager of their food co-op wanted to know if the game was appropriate for primary school kids, or more for high-schoolers. Ergun wondered if he could have the foreign translation franchise. Carter’s buddy Jared asked if it could motivate you if you were unemployed.

.

The party wound up at 2am.

 A total of fifty-eight people had signed the book.

“Quite a few Founders here,” Barrett remarked, whisking the crumbs to a corner. “They should be putting dollars into their Sister-and Brotherhood in the next few weeks.”

“Well……maybe we should’ve taken pledges right away, Barr, get real commitments” he said slowly. “It was a great event. They loved it. They loved the game, the whole gestalt. Creative ideas…..fantastic, that’s great. Tons of praise. Wonderful.” Barrett stared at him

“So what’s wrong, Carter? It was a huge success!”

“But I mean……weren’t we supposed to begin collecting money? You know, um…..seed money, so we can get actually get going?” 

“Oh”, said Barrett. “Holy holy shit!” said Barrett.  

@ @ @ @

The room was drenched in August sun when Barrett wandered into the main room. “Coffee,” she moaned to herself. Carter had already gone out, and would probably be back soon with her ritual cup, the cup that never runneth over, as she said to herself (her self-acknowledged best audience). In the morning it was a grande skim-milk latte with a dusting of chocolate powder

Today she/they had to follow up on the Founders list, take down names and e-mails and phone numbers and get back to    them while they still had (hopefully) over .08 per cent alcohol in their systems.

During the night she’d come up with two more characters for the rogue’s gallery: Dr. Don Ding, (company psychologist) and Hymie Krashtower (tech support), Carter would have to take care of the design and contact Steve at 3D Baby again. Barrett thought the board should be foldable, although Carter proposed a solid but flexible plastic (silicone?) that rolled up neatly in a tube. Oh, and she had to contact Educational Awareness, and that other game company in Holland.

She could hear Carter’s key in the door, and sure enough, there was coffee. With chocolate powder. He would have his calming Rooibos, but she needed coffee.

The day could begin.

& & &

Barrett Mallory Springer

The calling card. Carter would also need one. Drop the Mallory? Barrett Springer, more straightforward. With the Mallory it sounded a bit pretentious, too New England. But then so did Barrett. She’d go for the whole name, splashed in Helvetic font across the card, with Creative Enterprises on the line below. Creative Games? That was better-- hipper, less commercial. Commercial should be subtle, tucked away like a hem folded over twice, concealing odd threads. And for a logo, she’d ask Vivienne Park Designs. 

Vivienne sat at a high workbench facing a large computer screen with lines swirling rapidly that could set off seizures in almost anyone. She sat upright, her round red cushion curled neatly in the small of her back, and straight black bangs skimming thick, even eyebrows. Her mom brought in Korean lunches daily -- you could smell the food until 4 pm. It reminded Barrett she hadn’t eaten. The coffee had already drained through her system, leaving ample space for the future solids of lunch.

“Hiya Barrett” Vivienne said, eyes fixed on the screen.

“Well, a new project. Need cards.”

“Anything you ask for babe,” said Vivienne, still not looking over.

“Got a minute? Maybe two? It’ll be quick.”

Vivienne swiveled round to face her.

“Two minutes. Go.”

Vivienne came up with pale green folding cards, real engraving, and a discreet logo with tiny swirls in three colors. They kept the three names, and simply “Games”.

 Five minutes later Barrett was out the door and on her way to Kimchee Klassics for a quick platter. There was no mercy when she got hungry. Life could wait for lunch. Or was lunch in fact life?

@ @ @ @

Gracious was supposed to be meeting her at Bartel-Pritchett Square, which was round. The sun hit Barrett’s bare shoulders. Oh God, there was Charnelle. Barrett remembered she owed her fifty dollars from the last time they’d all gone out for drinks, with Barrett treating everyone and no purse. She wouldn’t flag down Charnelle, and Charnelle would pretend to forget the debt but wouldn’t.

The cycling shorts felt tight. The park was buzzing, but no sign of Gracious. The phone dinged, and sure enough, it was Gracious, stuck with a client who needed extensive adjustments to a very long dress. Gracious was the best seamstress around, but also loved to talk about Senegal (she was in fact half Nigerian) peppering her English with French expressions (why is there never the right English word!) The two of them spoke French together, as neither had many opportunities. 

Gracious Diawara Touré, ‘half-and-half’ had gone to Paris with Barrett for their junior year and spoke good French.  But her basic culture was East Coast, with good schooling thrown in. Gracious had met Steve on a return flight from Paris just before he set up 3D Baby.

“Hi Gracious! C’est quoi ça, j’attends ici…..” she was hot and irritated.

“Don’t worry, ma belle, j’arrive, j’arrive.” Which meant go get yourself a big ice-cream and wait on a park bench. Barrett would wait. Seemed she was always waiting. 

“Chérie, I’m sooo sorry I’m late,” she pouted, to which Barrett said “menteuse -  liar, mais c’est ok” kissing her on each cheek. 

“So listen, Steve thinks he can mix materials for the figurines and create special effects. You know….glitter, translucence, opaline reflections, the effect of folds in clothing. He’s psyched. He should upgrade his equipment soon, and this would really light a fire. He could also outsource the manufacture of figurines in plastic and metal. One way or the other--- he’s with you Barr!”

“Well that’s good,” Barrett was a bit glum. “I was wondering if it wasn’t just a crazy blip in my crazy life.”

“T’es pas folle, silly. You’re a Creative Person. Repeat to yourself: ‘I am Barrett, I am creative.”

“Stop the California Dreaming Gracious, this is 2025 and we live in Brooklyn and the world’s a mess. Trump, RFK Jr., Ukraine, Israel/Palestine…..whatever….that’s all real. This is just a game!”

“Barrett we need it – you need it! Let’s walk across the park to the Farmer’s Market. You forgot it was Saturday!”

The market was at its peak, with a variety of baked goods, fruit and vegetables, sausages, and salespeople explaining things were grown and produced with love and without chemicals, with rotation of crops and manure. Barrett loved it all but didn’t need another food lecture. She went for the smells, the tastes, the aura of good feeling pervading Grand Army Plaza. No one rushed, people shelled out ten dollars for tiny slabs of curated cheese and a sheet explaining all the sister cheeses. 

The two of them tasted four cheeses, and compared them to continental equivalents, talking French and giving each other meaningful looks.

“Hey! Ergun should have a stand here! But he’s not organic,” Gracious mused. “But yeah, pourquoi pas? There’s no law….but maybe you pay a lot to put a stand here. Mais oui….”

Gracious was checking messages. “How about I text him right now,” she said without looking up. 

They wandered over to Barnes & Noble, where Barrett wanted to see if  they had a copy of The Big Book of Games, which she’d actually ordered from the Community Bookstore out of loyalty, guilt, and, she thought, compassion. There might always be something interesting. Iced skim latte? Hey, maybe a Peachy-Luscious Iced Tea? Nah, she’d stick with the latte. And a crumbly muffin. Forget the tea.

@ @ @ @

They’d been excited and horrified that week, the news from the Israel and Palestine, where the violence had only slowed down. Ukraine, Russia…. grotesque week. And now the botched coup in Turkey. Carter and Jared were glued to the tv, grunting and cursing. They commiserated with Ergun, who’d stopped by, a huge crisis on top of the other world crises. 

 “The army’s always staging coups in Turkey, it’s a tradition,” Ergun reassured them. “They don’t like how things are going, so they stomp in with their weapons and take over until they think things are ok. Plus Erdogan treats the Kurds like shit. Talks democracy -- he’s a dictator.”. Ergun extracted a Corona from the fridge and sat back on Carter’s prickly kilim.

Yes, he had spoken to his mother and sister in Istanbul, who although badly frightened, were relieved now it was over. His brother Omer was in the army – Omer the obedient son.

@ @ @ @

Ergun was thrilled.It was on Science Daily, which he loved, taken from the scientific journal Nature, which had published it online that same day. How to resist aging. The legend of the fountain of youth had never died, it was simply reincarnated. Move over Ponce de Léon. 

“Pomegranate finally reveals its powerful anti-aging secret--Intestinal bacteria transform a molecule contained in the fruit with spectacular results……Urolithin A induces mitophagy and prolongs lifespan in C. elegans and increases muscle function in rodents”. *

He didn’t know what C.elegans was, but if it worked on rodents, well great! Fellow mammals. It was all there.

The magic ingredient: Ellagitannins.

Ergun whispered it to himself:

Ella. Gi. Tannins. Think Ella Fitzgerald. 

No……Elegy, Tannins. 

He would begin marketing his pomegranate-and-fig formula big-time.

The world might be in a mess, but he, Ergun would bring Ellagitannin magic right here to Brooklyn, New York, USA. 

He fumbled for his iphone12, which magically still worked, and called Barrett.

@ @ @ @

Barrett and Carter had a good arrangement: sharing their old rangy apartment with high ceilings and enough room to spread out, and under $4,000: a legal sublet from Carter’s uncle who’d moved to Costa Rica. 

‘Friends without benefits’ left the door open to other possibilities, which Barrett had not explored this year in the wake of the love affair with a Moroccan. It had ended with his return to Fez to marry a wife his wealthy family had found for him.

Thirty pounds heavier with grief and food, Barrett was ready for something different that would melt away the pounds and lighten her spirits. Something would happen sooner or later – her blond hair, pale face and big, green eyes were very appealing (she was told). But where were the guys? 

Carter had Jared, although this relationship wasn’t a big item in his life, as Carter liked his ‘minimal mindset’: minimum stress and minimum responsibility.

Ergun called, his voice breaking with excitement. 

“Barrett!! write something, please write up a pomegranate and fig juice brochure for me. You’re great with words. Barrett, please, for me, me, Ergun!

“Along with the translation rights for STRIVIA™?”

“Yes, yes, of course, I’m your friend!”

Another day, another project.

@ @ @ @

Two hours later Ergun called, his voice shaky. News had arrived: his mother had called him, hysterical. Omer had been arrested and was forbidden to speak to family, the authorities informed her. 

Barrett told him to come right over. She’d been on hold for half an hour at Fun and Games Inc, gave up and went back to her AP student’s French study guide. 

As Ergun hammered up the stairs she thought: Allah be fair, please God, be good to Omer.  Ergun collapsed in her arms sobbing. His slim frame felt heavy, burdened with news. Barrett held him for a long time. Kept on holding him. Slowly he raised his eyes with their long, dark wet lashes to her and, a little less slowly, he kissed her.

It was night when they woke up, full moon in July, its light gleaming through the window. A sweet night. The kilim was scratchy but so what? Her young Turk? 

No ….her Turkish lover?…….yes!

@ @ @ @

The following evening, Carter returned from Philadelphia with news that his Uncle Carl, visiting from Costa Rica, loved the STRIVIA™ project, and was fronting $30,000 for the manufacture of a STRIVIA™ gold series, limited edition of 100 (signed by the creators).

“Omygod, omygod. Omygod!” She texted Ergun, Gracious, Vivienne and Charnelle (to return the $50), as well as her parents (how were they these days?), the dogwalker, her brother who never called, and a generic, cheery message to the Founding Sisters and Brothers.

Ergun called just as she and Carter toasted with the leftover Beaujolais. 

“Barrett,” Ergun faltered. “Barrett I fly to Istanbul. I have to help family, this is big big crisis interlude.” He was lapsing into his earlier version of English. “It was wonderful…… what we did. I return very soon, I promise Barrett. Maybe September.” 

With a familiar numbness she wished him a safe trip and the release of Omer.

Positioning the wine glass on the ledge, Barrett looked out at the glazed moon. Carter noticed her sadness, and put his hand on her shoulder.

“What happened? Ergun’s text? I got one too --  I’m sure they’ll sort it out. The family has pull. Hey Barr – you ok?” 

“Don’t know. Don’t know. Ergun’s leaving for Turkey. I guess that…sort of says it. Does it.” He looked questioningly at her. 

“Poor Ergun,” she went on, thinking apoor Barrett. 

“Hope it’s not more of the same old same old same old.”

Carter left it at that, tactfully waiting for her to explain, whenever she was ready, or if. The next day, the next month perhaps. 

Carter and Barrett had their understanding, their friendship. 

He removed his hand from her shoulder, cleared away the half-full wine glasses and put the kettle on for his final mug of Rooibos. 

They had their apartment and they had their STRIVIA™: 

All good, all good.

__________________

Pomegranate references

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2016/07/160711120533.htm

and

http://www.nature.com/nm/journal/vaop/ncurrent/full/nm.4132.html