Don't Fuck with the Dungeonmaster
I have a new wart on my index finger, left hand...someone told me to
cover it in duct tape, so that's what I'm doing. Near my
locker,
Sexton, a goat boy with incomprehensible hair, makes fun of my black
fingers
and calls me faggot...he is fat and jiggling and so much is
wrong with him I don't know where to begin firing back so I just don't.
In study hall, I roll and roll and roll a twelve-sided die. It's my
favorite, possibly because it's the least useful. I like to use two
tens to make percentages, too, but not as much as I like to roll the
twelve...I wonder about base twelve, counting in it, living with twelve
toes like that School House Rock about the alien...I think if I try I
can train myself to think in base twelve. Hockey thinks it's a stupid
idea, but he's strictly a hack and slash psychopath, so what he thinks
about smart stuff doesn't really make much difference to what I will
and
won't do.
Hockey sings along to the WASP tape in his car stereo as he drives me
home, but knowing him the way I know him, I know for sure he's never
fucked, much less like a beast...the ice on the road up the bluff is
slowing the school bus in front of us down, and Hockey is threatening to
pass it on the blind curve ahead. I'm packing the bat...Hockey spits
Skoal juice into a Pepsi can, though he didn't finish the soda first,
and I think that's a waste.
At home, I need to use the bathroom, but my brother just got out of
there, and I hate a warm toilet seat because of all that it connotes.
It's worse at school, where the warmth is created anonymously...I use
the bathroom in my parents bedroom and wash up in a hurry...I leave,
always, before the flush has a chance to end, because when I was small I
used to think of the sound as a sort of countdown to a terrible explosion, and still sometimes
do...I want to get away before I'm blown through the wall...ripped apart
by hot, swift gusts of fiery air...scattered...my fingers embedded in
the plaster...my toes nailed to
the floor...my teeth, shrapnel.
Downstairs, I think about my game on Sunday. All my friends will come
by and I'll lead them through the latest installment of my campaign,
which is really staring to go...the political intrigue...the
kingmakers...the assassination of the Bishop...I also think about radon,
and how every time I run down the steps to my basement room, I'm
inhaling invisible, cancer-causing gases, and that some day they will
overwhelm me. I read Douglas Adams until bed.
On Saturday, Hockey, Keef, and Ryan all show up and we play for hours.
Ryan has some sort of numbers brain--but he can't spell "with" under pressure--so I discuss my base twelve
idea with him...he likes it, and falls into the whole thing pretty
quickly. Keith likes magic and the occult...he's always naming stuff
after Lovecraft characters. Hockey hacks, Hockey slashes; Hockey has a
flask full of a mix of every liquor in his dad's cabinet...a suicide to
end all suicides. He won't share...I sneak upstairs to the laundry
room, and get some stuff out of the cabinets above the dryer...I know it
will never be missed because my folks--my dad--drinks only beer and wine and this is strictly "company
booze." I have sake and some cherry
liquor. My face shakes whenever I pull from the glass. A lot of stuff
dies.
When they leave, Hockey's drunk and driving everyone home. I go
upstairs for dinner...I'd m drunk and seeing my parents. You'd think
they'd have noticed. We watch the news. We don't talk.
I stay up late watching TV and drawing and sort of reading, and at 2 am
my dad comes down and in a really angry whisper he says, "Go to bed," so
I flip off the TV...I try to sleep, but can't and decide to go outside
for a walk. I think about walking the couple of miles over to Hockey's
but figure he's asleep...and how weird would it be for me to just show
up at his place this late or early or whatever. He might think I had
some sort of thing for him, which I don't...I don't.
Sunday, we get together, just the two of us, and drive around for a
while, and I tell him all the ideas I have for next Saturday...I came up
with some great ideas on my late night/early morning walk in the snow,
and I tell him about them and how I thought I would stop by but thought
it would be weird. He doesn't say much except that it probably would've
been weird. We talk a little about weird. And then we stop talking,
and we sit quietly as he drives me home. Then, he says he remembered
something and can't make it next Saturday...I ask why. He's got
something to do that he just remembered, but he won't say what, and I
think it's pretty lame and I'm pretty fucking mad at him. He has to be
there because we all agreed. Hockey just says he can't. I tell him not
to pick me up on Monday, because I just remembered I had another ride.
I go inside and decide I'm going to kill off his character on Saturday,
and there's nothing he can do about it. I watch Blade Runner and go to
bed.
Monday morning, I get to school and see Hockey standing next to Sexton
in front of my locker. Hockey calls me fag and geek before Sexton has a
chance. They laugh and I tell Hockey his character is dead just before
I feel him hit me.