Playing GAmes

Everyone plays games. Some contests are zero-sum games…winner take all. Today you find yourself an unwilling participant in that one.

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A nice morning. Quiet. You’re sitting alone at the table having coffee. Birds sing, paper arrives on time, no emails and the dogs sleep. A peaceful day. So it begins. But nothing ever ends like it begins.

Deep down inside a nagging feeling troubles you. You know the kind, when something is just not right. It’s that low-grade foreboding, confirmation that your stars are not in sync today. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s there.

Maybe it’s your wife’s upcoming shopping spree. Or last night’s pizza. Strange. Could be the news. You glance at the headlines. Just more election crapola. Candidates snarling, clawing and gnashing each other’s character to shreds, playing games with concepts and hiding under falsehoods. Nothing new here.

The omen remains. You consult your horoscope. Total gibberish, one concocted by an unhinged gypsy strung out on speed: “Go hide in a closet, pray and avoid all human contact.”

You shudder, recalling advice found in a fortune cookie from at the Great Wall Chinese Buffet, the one you followed on a whim. The message read: “See Rock City.” That was it. You vividly recollect the events that occurred while driving up I-75 to Chattanooga.

It was the day your heart’s soft spot overruled sound judgment. So you picked up the hitchhiker hauling six cats in his backpack. You can’t remember if you were feeling humane toward cats or humans. You glance back at today’s horoscope about avoiding humans. You consider it, being reminded of the cat scat in your car.

Then suddenly she’s standing there. Your wife. Dressed up, looking sharp, fit to kill. Her smile says something’s up. And then it begins. Game on. You have no choice.

“Honey, do you notice anything different about me?”

A loaded question. Panic grips you. The premonition comes to life. You answer softly, “Sweetie, you look great. New dress?” It was a good swing, but you never touched the ball.

“Look again, honey.” She gives you a pass on the first miss. But guess work cuts both ways. You’ve been here before.

“Of course,” you say confidently, “So obvious. I love the new hair style.” You play the odds, because men rarely notice the slight changes in hair styles.

“No!” she says. Now in the proper context, ‘No’ is a harmless word. But it’s the exaggerated emphasis she places on it that troubles you. Strike two.

The portent becomes acute. You set the paper aside, attempt to change the subject. “Did you see the news today?” The feint falls lifeless to the floor. Her smile evaporates.

“Look again,” she says, calling you by your given name. Her hands go to her hips. Such stances eviscerate the enormity of male egos.

You fidget, look at her with a studious but stupid and forlorn expression, hoping she’ll simply tell you what’s different. But no, this is a game, and you’re behind two strikes already.

“Ah,” you say, laughing, trying to lighten the load with some levity. You want to convince her that you’re just pretending not to know, when all the time you really know. The ruse refuses to work.

“Baby, I’m just kidding you. Of course, the shoes, they look terrific. I love them.” Your voice cracks, your phony fortitude falls flat. Another pitch is coming.

“Are you blind?” she asks sharply. Her utterance is less a voice than a shrill expression of contempt. She crosses her arms at the chest. You know this sign. The noose tightens on your neck.

You have that sinking feeling that comes with being emasculated. You remember your horoscope, “…avoid all human contact.” Suddenly a closet sounds like a sound idea.

You’re out of options now. Nowhere to hide. You’re shrinking, becoming small, trying to crawl inside yourself and disappear. You want to curl up with the dog on the floor. He ignores you. The ball’s been pitched. You take the swing.

“Give me a hint,” you beg meekly. Your voice is a baby’s whine, your spine is Jello. The game’s about over. The end is near. The horror of defeat descends.

"It’s sooooo obvious,” she says with a contempt that blows your hair back. “It’s the eye liner, you idiot.” Strike three. Game over. You lose.

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On the days when you can’t win for losing, trust the gypsy…hide in the closet, pray and avoid all human contact.


Bud Hearn
June 14, 2016