I sit
gazing into my rapidly cooling coffee. It’s two in the afternoon on a sunny day
in a sleepy New York bistro. Nintendo, sitting across from me
laughs uproariously into his cell phone and says his goodbyes to the caller,
closing it and setting it beside his untouched cup.

"That was Time magazine,â he says.
âThey want to do an interview with me this week.â

âI know,â I say. âYou just agreed to
meet them Friday after lunch.â Nintendo nods and takes out his Blackberry,
tapping at the tiny keys and smiling.

âMmm,â he says.

âThat was the day we were going jet
skiing on Drake Lake,â I say pointedly. Nintendo stops
tapping and looks at me as if waking from a dream.

âCan we make that Saturday?â he asks
and starts to check his Blackberry. âNext Thursdayâsorry, the Tuesday after
that?â I look at Nintendo as he starts to pencil me in and my shoulders slump.

It was
never like this before. We met in 1985 when we were both very young. It was one
of those friendships that you find yourself holding up as the yardstick to
every relationship. He was fun back then, and honest. We"d play at exploring castles,
rescuing princesses, battling fire-breathing monsters and all the other things
kids find to do. We grew up together and our friendship only became stronger.
We played better, smarter games, went Kart racing and got into RPGs exploring
vast imaginary worlds. He learned new skills and I learned from him.

Then came
high school and college and we still kept in touch, even though we saw each other
less. I hooked up with an ex-girlfriend of his, who was a little more mature
then either of us, causing an undeniable rift – yet still every time we met it
was like we were kids again, but with encounters tempered by our newfound view
of the world. The imaginary lands never seemed more vivid and real.

Of course
people change. They grow up and move on to greener pastures with the
inevitability of little Jackie Paper. The last time I saw Nintendo he wasnât
doing too well. The imagination was there in his work, but he was having an
awful time of getting people to really pay attention to it. I was frankly
worried about him, but the distance between us was growing vast and noticeable.
We kept in touch; we both got jobs and moved in different directions. The way
it always goes.

Next thing
I know, itâs New Yearâs 2006 and heâs calling me up, blind drunk and very
happy. His business ventures in Japan, America and Europe are all paying off so well, he can
barely get the stock in to meet demand. Iâm so incredibly happy for my old
friend and tell him so, but for the first time it doesnât seem like heâs
listening to me. Then he calls me the wrong name. I mention it, and he mumbles
something and hangs up.

Itâs July
15^th 2008. Today. I havenât seen Nintendo for four years and heâs sitting across
from me in the bistro, with the world at his feet.

âI saw your work with the space
project,â I offer, âGreat stuff.â He looks up at me from his iPhone.

âThanks,â he beams. âWhat did you
think of the sports programmes?â

âAlso good,â I say diplomatically. I
donât want to bring any personal feelings of indifference into the
conversation. Iâm trying to be as positive as I can be, but itâs hard when heâs
received seven calls since weâve been sat here. I feel like the proverbial
third wheel.

âAnd what about that music project?
That looks like great fun doesnât it?â

Not wanting
to be painfully honest, I change the subject. âAre you planning any more
projects based on your old creations?â I ask hopefully. Nintendoâs brow creases.

âThatâs a lot of effort for
not much return,â he says absently, ordering us both another coffee. âThe last
one took three years to make and made substantially less profit than a cheap
little Carnival I set up in two days.

âBut it was such a great piece of
work,â I press on. âSurely thatâs what counts in the end; building something of
substance, something of merit. Something that will last and future generations
can appreciate.â He looks stumped and chews thoughtfully on a biscotti. Then
Time magazine calls and Iâm alone again for fifteen minutes.

âSo Iâll
put you down for jet skiing on Duck Lake on Tuesday the twenty-ninth, OK?â
Nintendo repeats.

âDrake Lake,â I say quietly and nod.

âSwell,â he says, rising from the
table, throwing down a handful of bills. âListen, I have to run, Iâve got to be
on the Tonight Show, and they start recording in three hours.â

âIâll see you later,â I say, locking
eyes with him. He smiles, but his eyes are on his Blackberry again.

And you
know what? In a few years time, when the standard of his work is at an all time
low, his new friends have all deserted him and heâs no longer the man of the
hour, he may come to me, deflated and contemplative, with plans and ideas that
more closely resemble the heights he reached as an imaginative child with a
world of potential. On that day, when I could crow and sneer at his downfall, I
will instead sit back and look at his new ideas and encourage him in doing what
he always did best; creating worlds that were bright and fun and innovative, and
of undeniable substance and quality.

I tell
myself this as I watch him go. Who knows what will happen to him, but if my
battered heart knows anything itâs that heâll always land on his feet, and Iâll
always be there for him.