Chapter 1: I’m a Wizard Now But I Still Have No Powers

I don’t know who started it but according to internet legend, if you remain a virgin by the time you’re 30, you’ll become a “wizard” and gain magical powers. How? I don’t know; it was never properly explained. Best guess though is that it probably has something to do with chakra pathways and sexual frustration. The human body is capable of extraordinary things. Regardless of the veracity, all I know is that I grew up with that rumor and it stayed with me as a fond memory from a happier time.

My name is Nicole Machi and today, I became a wizard. Huzzah. Today was also Tanabata but that mattered a lot less outside of Japan and even less when you live in the part of America where you can look up at the night sky and can’t see the stars. Astronomers call it atmospheric extinction and meteorologists blame it on light pollution but I think the real reason is because people are so downtrodden that they’ve stopped looking up.

*Vrooom vrooom vrooom*

Somewhere down the hallway, a vacuum cleaner roared to life as a middle-aged Latino man named Miguel started his daily run. I don’t remember his last name but Miguel was the night shift janitor and we’d run into each other every so often whenever I pulled late or all-nighters. We’re not particularly close. We’d share nods and exchange greetings sometimes and then we’d both go back to work. Still, Miguel is probably the closest thing I have in my life to a friend as he’s the only person in the world who bothers to check up on me – even if it is just to see why the lights are still on.

It was 10:37 pm at Senator McCullen’s office and I was still here, quietly reading, typing, and v-look-upping values from my Excel spreadsheet to finish my report on Portland’s industrial shipping sector for the last quarter and my projections for next quarter’s general economic forecast. The results? Imports are down 11% and exports are down 52% year over year. Coke-grade coal mines are shutting down all across the state, which means steel demand and production is down, and every subsequent industry which sources steel is also down. America’s live cattle head count is at the lowest it’s been since the 1950’s. My conclusion? Industrial and agricultural collapse is imminent and we are totally screwed.

In case it wasn’t obvious, I’m a political analyst so it’s kind of my job to be morose and bitter about everything. I’m also a 90’s kid but that’s kind of redundant at this point. Some of my peers are purists who only consider kids born between 1982-1993 to be 90’s kids but I’m not because I believe every kid, even one born in the 90’s, who was shaped by the intersection of Biker Mice from Mars, Dippin’ Dots, and rumors about Marilyn Manson removing a rib to suck his own dick had equal claim to being a 90’s kid. My cut off? Not being old enough to go to school during 9/11 because that day marked the end of my childhood and every day that came after that was shit.

*Vrooom vrooom vrooom*

As I sat here hard at work, my small and overactive bladder told me to stand up, go to the toilet, and relieve myself before I developed an UTI or worse, bladder stones. Kidney stones are so last year – bladder stones are all the rage now. Why? Because kidney stones can often turn into bladder stones and the frequency of urinary ailments increases the older you age. It’s horrible, isn’t it? And to think: I used to look forward to birthdays.

Well, there’s no sense holding this in so I may as well do that and then call it a night. My report wasn’t exactly finished but I am a political analyst so it’s not like anything I analyze and report actually matters. After all, as a political analyst, my job is to look at facts, data, and make sensible recommendations to the higher-ups but Senator McCullen’s job, as an Oregon state senator, was to collect kickbacks from special interest groups and get reelected. Between introducing pork barrel bills and voting exactly as party leadership demands, there’s not a lot of room for good policy-making when you’re a sitting three-term senator. Jaded, right? But you know what’s even worse? Senator McCullen is actually very good at his job.

After returning from the washroom, I packed up my laptop and sundry things, walked out of the office, and headed towards the elevator on the 7th floor. As I was leaving, I saw Miguel in the hallway, reaching down and unplugging the vacuum so that he could presumably vacuum another portion of the aging and carpeted floor.

Even with his back turned towards me, I still felt my anxiety flare up because I knew that I was socially obligated to exchange words with Miguel. Shitakke mushrooms. And there was no getting around this either because much like how Lightning was trapped inside the world of Final Fantasy 13, I too was currently trapped inside a similar tunnel. I don’t know which page of the social contract it’s written on but I’m pretty sure it’s codified in law all across the planet because if we were in Japan, I would’ve been shouting “Otsukaresama deshita!” by now with the biggest smile plastered all over my face. Sigh. I tell ya, life’s not fair. Why must I, as God’s weakest soldier, constantly be tested by these unending trials and tribulations? Why couldn’t this happen to someone else? I mean, isn’t that the whole point of Jesus-sama?

And so, as I was pondering how I should best navigate this incredibly mundane yet stressful situation, somehow and without any prior warning, Miguel turned around mid gopnik-stance, looked up at me, and with a big bright smile, said, “Goodnight Miss Machi!”

I don’t know how he managed to sense my reiatsu but evidently he did. Originally, I had planned on just saying “Goodnight!” like a normal and well-adjusted human being but then my brain remembered that I wasn’t any of those things and what ended up happening was that I breathed in and then promptly choked on my social anxiety. The result? A catastrophic coughing fit where I almost died. I don’t even remember what Miguel did or said next – all I remember is how hot my face got and how quickly I ended up turning the corner in a frenzied attempt to board the elevator and hide my shame.

Please God, just let me die.

I’ve often heard people say that “Suffering builds character” but I don’t see how any of that is true considering that I suffer every day and I’m still pathetic. I mean, people don’t grow gills when they get waterboarded, they just suffer lung damage, PTSD, or die. How does that build “character”? And how is “character” supposed to help?

After suffering through excruciating relativistic seconds, I finally made my way to the elevator panel and pressed the button, only to be faced with grim realization that elevators don’t appear at will and had to be summoned. Fakku my Chungus life. I would’ve taken the stairs had I not been in my heels but that just didn’t seem like a good idea considering how often I trip, even on the best of days. Dejectedly, I rest my head up against the wall and tried to forget just how much character I was building.

*Vrooom vrooom vrooom*

Somewhere around the corner, the vacuum turned back on and shortly after that, the elevator arrived with a resounding *ding*. Though my body wasn’t quite finished processing all of this additional regret that had suddenly been tossed my way, nonetheless, I still felt a large sense of relief as these audio cues meant that this humiliating social interaction was finally over.

With heavy steps, I entered the elevator, turned around to face the elevator panel, and pressed B1, which was the floor where my car was parked. Then, I tried to think happy thoughts.

“Well, at least the day was over and the weekend’s here. Traffic is going to be good. Just walk it off. Just go home and forget about this or any other BS or the next 2 days,” I thought to myself.

As the doors slowly shut behind me, I looked out at the hallway one last time and that’s when I saw Miguel. With a look of pity, he smiled sheepishly at me and waved goodbye. Then, the doors closed shut and I began shuddering downwards.

Happy birthday to me.