quarter into a glass of beer. If the quarter goes in, they drink; if it doesn’t go in, they drink. One of them is dangerously overweight and appears to have been dipped in oil. He takes the quarter out of the glass and licks it on both sides.
“You want to play?” he asks.
You understand now that this is a game with no victory conditions. The rooms lead only to other rooms, and there is no treasure in any of them, and no way out of the cave once you have gone in. You aren’t afraid anymore, but you can’t remember ever having been as sad as you are now.
Leave world.
You can’t leave that.
Go.
Where do you want to go? The kitchen is full of smoke, and there’s no place for you to sit, and you suspect that people are looking at you again, thinking midget thoughts. You find a door that leads out to a balcony. From here you can see the graveyard, the upslope of the ski hill, the stars. A few people Mike’s size are leaning on the railing and talking. They pay no attention to you. You sit on the ground with your back to the wall. You are suddenly very tired. You fall asleep.
Time passes …
Lightning wakes you up. A storm has crossed into the valley; the wind hisses through the trees across the road. Beyond the roof’s overhang, rain falls in sheets. The big people have gone inside, sensibly. The thunder breaks over you, then the lightning, then the thunder again. You would be happy to stay here all night, watching the weather.
Shelley finds you. “Thank God,” she says. “I thought you might have left.” She sits next to you and takes your hand. “I’m so glad Kerem brought you. He’s sweet. Do you think he likes me?”
“Definitely.”
Shelley rests her head on your shoulder. “It’s just so hard, you know?” She complains that Kerem has been avoiding her; she’s afraid that he drinks too much and smokes too much pot. You aren’t sure you should hear these things, but you’re so grateful that someone, anyone, Shelley! has found you that you will listen to anything.
“You know what I think the problem is, really?” says Shelley. “Thebes is so small. Kerem needs to be somewhere big, like New York City.” She gives you an unreadable look.
Read it? You can’t. It’s unreadable.
“Do you want to kiss me?” Shelley asks. You would like to, but you don’t know how. Shelley presses her hands to your cheeks, immobilizing your head. Suddenly her tongue is in your mouth. Her eyes are closed; you stare at the smudges where her eye shadow used to be.
“Mmm,” Shelley says, and lets go of your head. “You’re a good kisser.” Compared with what, you wonder. Robots? “Don’t tell Kerem,” she says.
Shelley goes inside. A few minutes later, you go in too. The shiny boy still sits in the kitchen, resting his chins on his hands, staring at a half-full glass of beer.
“Your turn,” he says.
The living room is ruined, human beings will never live here again. Kerem and Shelley are holding hands in the middle of the room.
“Where did you go?” you ask Kerem reproachfully.
“Where did you go?” Kerem asks. “I spent half the night looking for you. I thought one of Mike’s friends had stuffed you in a closet.”
“I think we should sleep here,” Shelley says. “If we go out, we’re going to get soaked.”
“Do you think Mike will let us?” Kerem asks.
You imagine the two of them lying together on the sofa, or on one of the coat-covered beds. You want to prevent them from doing this. Here’s the prompt: act promptly.
“I’m going home,” you shout. “Come on!”
Run.
The wind takes you like a downed leaf, it pushes you down the street, and when you look back, you see that Kerem is running after you. “Punk lives!” he shouts, and he kicks over a newspaper box. Copies of the Catskill Eagle tumble out and are blown away. You run up the hill as fast as you can, the wind very strong at your back, so that it seems as though you’re flying.
When you’re almost home,
“You want to play?” he asks.
You understand now that this is a game with no victory conditions. The rooms lead only to other rooms, and there is no treasure in any of them, and no way out of the cave once you have gone in. You aren’t afraid anymore, but you can’t remember ever having been as sad as you are now.
Leave world.
You can’t leave that.
Go.
Where do you want to go? The kitchen is full of smoke, and there’s no place for you to sit, and you suspect that people are looking at you again, thinking midget thoughts. You find a door that leads out to a balcony. From here you can see the graveyard, the upslope of the ski hill, the stars. A few people Mike’s size are leaning on the railing and talking. They pay no attention to you. You sit on the ground with your back to the wall. You are suddenly very tired. You fall asleep.
Time passes …
Lightning wakes you up. A storm has crossed into the valley; the wind hisses through the trees across the road. Beyond the roof’s overhang, rain falls in sheets. The big people have gone inside, sensibly. The thunder breaks over you, then the lightning, then the thunder again. You would be happy to stay here all night, watching the weather.
Shelley finds you. “Thank God,” she says. “I thought you might have left.” She sits next to you and takes your hand. “I’m so glad Kerem brought you. He’s sweet. Do you think he likes me?”
“Definitely.”
Shelley rests her head on your shoulder. “It’s just so hard, you know?” She complains that Kerem has been avoiding her; she’s afraid that he drinks too much and smokes too much pot. You aren’t sure you should hear these things, but you’re so grateful that someone, anyone, Shelley! has found you that you will listen to anything.
“You know what I think the problem is, really?” says Shelley. “Thebes is so small. Kerem needs to be somewhere big, like New York City.” She gives you an unreadable look.
Read it? You can’t. It’s unreadable.
“Do you want to kiss me?” Shelley asks. You would like to, but you don’t know how. Shelley presses her hands to your cheeks, immobilizing your head. Suddenly her tongue is in your mouth. Her eyes are closed; you stare at the smudges where her eye shadow used to be.
“Mmm,” Shelley says, and lets go of your head. “You’re a good kisser.” Compared with what, you wonder. Robots? “Don’t tell Kerem,” she says.
Shelley goes inside. A few minutes later, you go in too. The shiny boy still sits in the kitchen, resting his chins on his hands, staring at a half-full glass of beer.
“Your turn,” he says.
The living room is ruined, human beings will never live here again. Kerem and Shelley are holding hands in the middle of the room.
“Where did you go?” you ask Kerem reproachfully.
“Where did you go?” Kerem asks. “I spent half the night looking for you. I thought one of Mike’s friends had stuffed you in a closet.”
“I think we should sleep here,” Shelley says. “If we go out, we’re going to get soaked.”
“Do you think Mike will let us?” Kerem asks.
You imagine the two of them lying together on the sofa, or on one of the coat-covered beds. You want to prevent them from doing this. Here’s the prompt: act promptly.
“I’m going home,” you shout. “Come on!”
Run.
The wind takes you like a downed leaf, it pushes you down the street, and when you look back, you see that Kerem is running after you. “Punk lives!” he shouts, and he kicks over a newspaper box. Copies of the Catskill Eagle tumble out and are blown away. You run up the hill as fast as you can, the wind very strong at your back, so that it seems as though you’re flying.
When you’re almost home,
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