A story about an almost ordinary evening
My senior year of college, I lived in a dorm room with three of my friends, Adam, Peter, and Brian. Great guys. It was a suite on Washington Square Park West. It was on the top floor, right by the elevator, so stumbling through the hallways was optional. When you opened the door, you entered a small foyer with a bathroom. Peter and Brian had the room on the left with the better view. Adam and I had the slightly larger room to the right.
The suite itself was an accurate reflection of the personality of its residents, which is to say, not entirely presentable. The laundry facilities at the dorm were not ideal. Often, when my clothes would get dirty, I would bring more from home or buy some at the thrift store. The new clothes would then join their companions in enormous piles all over my room. You could get a good sense of the local cuisine by looking around at the takeout remnants riddling both sides of the suite. You could also get a sense for what life was like before the advent of refrigeration. We collected an array of cans and bottles, many of which doubled as ashtrays when they were empty. This was especially delightful when the bottles were clear. The actual ashtrays were also interesting. Think Cigarette Jenga. Every ashtray would support a tower of cigarette butts and ash. The goal was to deposit your leavings without knocking it over. If you did knock it over, you would dump it out on the floor and start anew.
Like many similarly situated young men throughout history, we enjoyed music, movies, and gaming, especially gaming. I had never had a gaming console before college. I was only allowed to play the “intellectual” Sierra games, like Leisure Suit Larry and Police Quest. Peter, in particular, was a very strong, exceedingly annoying player. In Goldeneye, you’d be going for the bulletproof vest, and suddenly a remote mine would detonate, ending your ambitions. When you would finally corner the guy, he would launch a grenade to kill you both, robbing you of the satisfaction and the points. The keen powers of observation and deduction I had developed playing the Sierra games were of limited use. To win, I would need an advantage.
A week or so before Thanksgiving, I went to the store and bought Perfect Dark, which was basically the sequel to Goldeneye. Peter and Adam had already gone home, and Brian had been staying with his girlfriend, Raquel. I would play the game for a few days on my own to learn the maps, find the choke points, and practice against the computer. Then I would exchange the cartridge for a new one, and pretend that I had bought it over the break. When we started playing, I would finally be on a level playing field.
I am alone in the suite, deep in my training. I am concerned with no one and no thing. I am dressed, but barely. Hair, wild. Cigarette, dangling. A knock. I pause the game and look through the peephole. Brian and Raquel. In other circumstances I might consider putting on a shirt and pants, but Shaolin monks wear only robes, so I open the door.
“Dude, it’s good to see you,” Brian says. Raquel looks a bit concerned.
“Ralph, are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m just playing a game.”
“Cool, keep playing. We’ll grab some food and come back. We can hang out.”
“Sounds great.”
I don’t think they notice what game I am playing, so the plan is still intact.
I resume my practice, now with a sense of urgency. A minute later, another knock.
This time I just open the door.
It is a man in his mid-fifties with reddish hair and a beard, wearing an alpine hat and a large backpack.
“Hi, I’m Brian’s dad.”
“Oh, you just missed him. He and Raquel went to get some food. You are welcome to come in and wait.”
I walk back into Brian and Peter’s room and gesture to Brian’s bed. It is the only place to sit other than my chair. Brian’s dad sits down and removes his hat, setting his backpack on the floor beside the bed. He takes out a notebook and pen and begins jotting something down. The game resumes.
About thirty minutes later, Brian and Raquel return. This time they just walk in. Shit.
“Oh hey, guys.”
Brian looks at me. He looks toward his bed, then back to me.
“Brian, it’s your dad.”
“That’s not my dad. The fuck?”
I look up at Brian.
“Ralph, dude, you’ve met my dad.”
The guy closes his notebook and tucks the pen back in his pocket. He puts on his hat and backpack and shows himself out.
The dorm rooms had the residents’ first names posted outside. He was probably looking for a different Brian.
After the break, I managed to win a few games.
I still want to know what Other Brian’s dad was writing.