Aerodynamics

Yesterday, we met at Maxim’s place. The meeting was supposed to revolve around our project, but when we arrived, we found Maxim upset and hungry. He had tried to order pizza for lunch, but no one answered the phone. A few days ago, the same thing happened with another pizzeria. Curious, he went to check if it was closed, and sure enough, there was a notice on the door stating that the place would be shut for three weeks due to tax violations. The notice bore the stamp of the local inspection authority. The other pizzeria he frequented was likely closed for the same reason.

Maxim had designated the numbers of these two pizzerias as his “friend numbers” with the telecom company, calling them almost daily. Now, he’d have to find another place to eat—a change he wasn’t particularly fond of. Recently, a new pizzeria opened in his neighborhood, but it would take time for Maxim to warm up to it.

Even before we had this project, Maxim would always show us his work on his laptop. At our last few meetings at his place, he’d display the graphics he created for the game. Typically, during the afternoon, there’d be a pizza on the table. The open pizza box reminded me of a laptop. When he finished eating, he’d close the pizza box and open the laptop lid in one fluid motion. He’d then go wash his hands while the computer booted up. That ritual marked the transition from leisure to work. This time, without a pizza box to close, the laptop remained shut.

Ian mentioned that he always picked up his pizza in person because delivery delays were too common. The pizzeria was near his place, but he had to cross a busy boulevard without a convenient pedestrian crossing. He told us about a quirky habit he’d developed: whenever he crossed the street hungry, holding a hot pizza, he hummed to himself, “Sam svoj pizza boy” (“I’m my own pizza boy”). The phrase first came to him during one such trip, and now he couldn’t stop thinking of it whenever he brought pizza home. He added that Sunday was the best day for this because traffic was light.

“If the inspections keep this up, there’ll be no place left to eat in the city,” Elena said.

“Has anyone checked if cola is still being delivered to Novi Sad?” Ian joked.

In the end, we convinced Maxim to order pizza from my go-to pizzeria. Only after he had eaten did we start discussing the project. Because of the delay, we skipped the part where we make specific plans and went straight to our brainstorming session—a casual discussion Maxim insists on having at the end of every meeting. It’s when we list ideas for additional features or ways to monetize the game.

This time, Elena found the brainstorming more stressful than casual. She explained that integrating new ideas into the game at this stage was almost impossible. These features could have been planned from the start, but now they would require significant changes. Maxim eventually conceded:

“Fine, we don’t have to add anything now. But let me dream, let me tell you what could be done. Maybe we can use these ideas in a future version, after the game’s release.”

These project discussions affected everyone differently. Ian and Maxim thrived on them, happily chatting for hours about game mechanics and different genre’s history. Elena, on the other hand, would get restless, eager to dive into work instead of talking about it. That’s why we never held team meetings at Elena’s place—she preferred cafes or someone else’s apartment so she could leave and get back to work whenever she wanted.

After the meeting, we all went home. I wanted to work on the game but felt too tired. I fell asleep quickly and dreamed about Maxim.

In the dream, Maxim was designing graphics for Formula 1 cars, specifically in charge of arranging and placing advertisements on the vehicles. We went together to a test track where the car was being inspected.

“Hold on, Davy,” he said. “Let me sort this out—they’ve messed up the vehicle again.”

I stood aside while Maxim argued with aerodynamic engineers and the driver silently watched. Maxim was upset that a part of the car’s surface wasn’t flat as he had requested, making it impossible to properly place the advertisement. The engineers were exasperated, clutching their heads, while Maxim insisted on his point. I felt so sorry for the engineers.

I woke up before seeing who gave in. My dad, also known as a ‘wake-up artist,’ likes to call early. This time he had some important news: my brother lost his job. The arrangement where he worked for Uncle Dane’s environmental organization while being funded by the university didn’t last long.