* * *
—
You are in a hotel, just outside of San Simeon.
Sadie has fallen asleep, so you go down to the bar. Sam is there. Your friend, who never drinks, is drinking.
You ask him if he wants company, and he shrugs and says, “Do what you want.” You sit down on the stool next to him.
“I don’t know how it happened,” you say lamely. “I don’t think either of us meant for it to happen.”
“I don’t have even one iota of desire to hear the story,” he says. He is drunk, but he doesn’t sound drunk yet, only edgy and nasty. “What you have with Sadie is nothing like what I have with Sadie, so it doesn’t even matter. You can fuck anyone,” he says. “You can’t make games with anyone, though.”
“I make games with both of you,” you point out. “I named Ichigo, for God’s sake. I have been with both of you every step of the way. You can’t say I haven’t been here.”
“You’ve been here, sure. But you’re fundamentally unimportant. If you weren’t here, it would be someone else. You’re a tamer of horses. You’re an NPC, Marx.”
An NPC is a character that is not playable by a gamer. It is an AI extra that gives a programmed world verisimilitude. The NPC can be a best friend, a talking computer, a child, a parent, a lover, a robot, a gruff platoon leader, or the villain. Sam, however, means this as an insult—in addition to calling you unimportant, he’s saying you’re boring and predictable. But the fact is, there is no game without the NPCs.
“There’s no game without the NPCs,” you tell him. “There’s just some bullshit hero, wandering around with no one to talk to and nothing to do.”
Sam orders another shot of Grey Goose, and you tell him he’s had enough. “You’re not my father,” Sam says.
The bartender looks at you, and you order a beer.
“I wish I’d never met you,” Sam says. “I wish we’d never been roommates. I wish I’d never introduced you to Sadie.” Sam is starting to slur his words.
“Sadie doesn’t belong to you.”
“She does,” Sam says. “She’s mine. And you knew that, and you pursued her anyway.”
“No. People don’t belong to each other.”
“Why not?” Sam says. “Why not?”
“Sam.”
“Are you going to marry her?” Sam asks. He says “marry” like he means “murder.”
“Not at the moment.”
“What’s so great about marriage? What’s so great about sex? What’s so great about making babies or playing house? Why can’t you belong to the person with whom you share your work?”
“Because there is life, and there is work,” you say. “And they aren’t the same.”
“They’re the same for me.”
“Maybe they’re not the same for Sadie.”
“Maybe they’re not,” Sam says quietly. “I’m so screwed up, Marx. If I hadn’t been such a screwed-up coward, maybe I’d be the one going up to Sadie’s hotel room. I know it’s my fault. I know I had time.” Sam puts his head down on the mahogany bar and he begins to weep. “No one loves me,” he says.
“I love you, brother. You’re my best friend.” You pay the bar tab, and you help Sam up to his room. He goes into the bathroom, and he closes his door, and then you hear him throwing up.
You sit on Sam’s hotel bed. You turn on the television and a rerun of a medical show is playing. A man has brain cancer, and he is going to die, unless he has an experimental brain surgery. But in the end, the experimental brain surgery kills him anyway. It is strange, you think, how much people hate going to doctors, but how much they love watching shows about doctors.
Sam is taking longer than you’d expect so you call his name, “Sam?”
When he doesn’t answer, you go into the bathroom, and he’s standing in front of the mirror with a pair of grooming kit scissors. He’s hacked off approximately half of his hair.
“I got vomit on it,” he says, “And it wouldn’t wash off, so I cut it. Now I want to shave the whole thing, but I’m too drunk.”
Without commentary, you take the scissors from him, and you cut off the rest of his hair, and then you take out his electric shaver, and you shave his hair down as close as you can.
“Who’s the NPC now?” you say to him. “I’m the one with the controller. I’m the one with the task.”
“You find your crazy roommate in the bathroom. He’s cut off half of his hair in a fit of nonsensical despair. What do you do?” Sam says, imitating the form of interactive fiction. He runs his fingers through his hair. “Don’t tell Sadie about any of this.”
“Brother, I think she’ll notice.” You take his head in your hands and you kiss him on the crown.
* * *
—
You are in the lobby of Unfair Games.
“You guys play a lot of games?” You’re both stalling and you genuinely want to know.
“Some,” Red Bandanna says.
“Which ones?” you ask. “Don’t worry. It’s a professional question. I’m interested to know what people are playing.”
They report that they play Half-Life 2, Halo 2, Unreal Tournament, and Call of Duty. Gordon, who is sitting under the desk, comments, “You guys sure like shooters.”
“No one asked for your opinion, fat-ass,” Red Bandanna says.
Years ago, you were on a panel about violence and games, and the most knowledgeable among you was a guy in a corduroy jacket with elbow patches, who’d literally written a book on the subject. He said that most, if not all, gamers were able to make the distinction between playing a violent game and committing a violent act, and that kids might even become psychologically healthier from indulging violent fantasies through play. You are no expert, but what you know is this: No human has ever been murdered with a video game weapon.
You look at your phone. Five minutes have passed since you called Sam.
You go to the mini fridge underneath Gordon’s desk. “You want a Fiji water? We have some PowerBars back here, too.”
Red Bandanna shakes his head, but Black Bandanna accepts the drink. He lifts up his bandanna to drink, and you can see his face. Boyish, a gathering of tender, red marks, irregularly stubbled.
“So, what’s your beef with Mazer?” you say. “From what I can tell, you guys aren’t playing any of our games.”
“It’s Mapleworld,” Black Bandanna says.
“Don’t fucking tell him,” Red Bandanna says.
“Why? He’ll find out soon enough,” Black Bandanna says. “His wife got married to a woman in Mapleworld, and now she left him for the woman she married, and…”
“Fuck you,” Red Bandanna says to his partner. “That’s none of his fucking business.”
“So, you blame Sam.”
“Who’s Sam?” Red Bandanna says.
“Mayor Mazer.”
“I blame Mazer. And I will have my vengeance,” he says, speaking like a character in a video game that has been poorly translated.