“What is it?” Chloe asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Where the hell is our server with the check?”
* * *
—
I was startled awake by my phone. I must have fallen asleep sometime after I got home from the restaurant. I stumbled around in the dark trying to track down the source of the blaring Pink Floyd song I’d chosen as my ringtone.
“Hello?”
“What the fuck, K?”
It was Chloe.
“What the fuck what?”
“You forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“What do you think?”
“This conversation is starting to feel like a test I’m failing. What’s going on?”
“Your horde of misfits is here at the arcade waiting for you.”
“Shit,” I said, jumping out of bed, “I’ll be right over.”
“Hurry up,” she said. “These animals are getting unruly.”
20
AN ASSHOLE IN A JOURNEY T-SHIRT
“What do you know about the game?” I asked as I leaned back against a racing game by Namco （via Atari） called Pole Position, and crossed my arms.
The group was mostly composed of the usual suspects, but there were a dozen or so new faces, which was always nice to see.
“It’s a dangerous thing. They sweep this shit under the fucking rug, man, but the government knows everything.” It was a thin man in his early thirties who’d spoken. He’d grown a spotty orange goatee since I’d seen him last.
“There are rumors about deaths connected to the game, yes,” I said. “Anybody else?”
“It’s been going on for centuries.” It was Sally Berkman, our resident Advanced Dungeons & Dragons librarian. She’d been here last time, along with Orange Goatee.
“There are many who believe that’s possible,” I said.
“What do you believe?” Sally asked.
“I think it’s probably true. There’s a consensus that the modern game began in 1959, but there’s growing evidence that Rabbits itself might be much older, going back centuries, millennia—or perhaps even longer.”
It felt good to have something familiar to focus on in light of recent events. Standing in the arcade surrounded by the sights and sounds of the old machines made me feel better—not back to normal by any stretch, but as close to it as I’d felt for quite some time.
“What I don’t understand, is…what makes you an expert?” A young man in a Journey T-shirt had spoken. He looked to be in his early twenties. I’d never seen him here before.
It was nice when the new blood was engaged this early, but I had the feeling this guy was going to be a problem.
“That’s a great question,” I said, “but it’s a question with a very complicated answer. Phones and other electronics into the box, please,” I said as I opened the large cedar chest with the graphic of the weird hunting scene stamped onto the top of it.
Once everybody had relinquished their devices, I closed the chest, placed my hands on top of it, and leaned forward dramatically.
“This is a game unlike any other,” I said, then stepped out from behind the chest and began to pace around the room.
“What does it mean to play a game? Is it possible to play without knowing all the rules? Is it possible to play and not even know you’re playing, to be unaware of the potential danger you’re facing?” I let that last sentence hang in the air for a moment before I walked over and put my hands on two game cabinets sitting next to each other: Space Ace and Donkey Kong Jr.
“Can anybody tell me the primary difference between these two games?” I said as I slipped a quarter into Space Ace and pressed the Player One Start button.
“One’s a cartoon, obviously,” said Orange Goatee, which resulted in a smattering of laughter.
“Yes, one is a cartoon, and that is important.” I let that linger, momentarily forgetting Baron wasn’t there. He’d been my plant for so long that I’d become accustomed to him stepping in to add flavor and drama when required.
“It’s a closed system, LaserDisc,” Chloe called out from somewhere near the back of the room.
“That’s right,” I said as I started playing the game. “Although Donkey Kong Jr.’s narrative is certainly not unlimited,” I continued, “there are far more potential outcomes and variables in that game compared to Don Bluth’s LaserDisc classic.”
I stepped away from the Space Ace machine and allowed the first of my lives to expire.