A Slight Discomfort

Processing and coping are not the same thing.

Everyone who plays Last Bastion is a pro-cocksucker. Even if you’ve never actually sucked a c**k �" as is my case �" or even seen a c**k; I’ve only ever seen my own. I had an inclination once to try and put it in my mouth, but was prohibited by my lack of being able to bend properly. Also, my c**k isn’t that big. I wasn’t about to tell any of these guys that though. Quite a few are already caught up in a litany of jabs about whose mother is most proficient at sucking their respective son’s c**k.

Brandon and I are waiting for Matt to log on so we can begin storming the latest raid dungeon, Tartarus. Gale Force, the makers of Last Bastion, added it in the latest patch. It’s the last one before the expansion pack, which hits next month. Players would finally be able to defeat the mad wizard Alistair and bring peace to the world. At least, for a time.

Brandon and I have already pre-ordered the expansion. For our enthusiasm and loyalty �" or because we spent $20 more dollars to pre-order the special edition version �" we were gifted exclusive mounts. A giant, red-scaled dragon that will occasionally snort carefully rendered smoke when idle. The city we’re waiting in, Westermarch, is littered with bodies atop smoke-snorting dragons.

“Dude,” Brandon says, “we need to get this going.”

“I know,” I say. “Stuff to do.”

On the desk beside me rests a thick textbook covering chemical equations I’m supposed to have memorized for tomorrow’s test. Mrs. Love, third period. She doesn’t live up to her name, but then, who does? Chemistry is a challenge, but not one I’m interested in. There are no loot rolls.

“Did you hear about Spaz,” Brandon says. His speech is kind of garbled. He’s probably chewing on Cheetos. He loves to eat those, especially during a raid. It pisses a lot of people off, but no more so than Matt.

“I don’t think so.”

Spaz is a twenty-something from California who goes to college for economics. I wonder if he’s killed himself. I know I would if I was going to school for economics. Spaz plays a gnome thief who specializes in backstabbing. His DPS is usually on-point.

“He dropped the guild.”

“What.”

“Yeah. Rezlin told me that. I almost didn’t believe it. I mean. He’s Spaz, you know? An original.”

Spaz, along with Rezlin and Matt, had formed the guild two years ago. Brandon and I joined up about eight months ago. We are all Big Coffin Hunters. The hollowers of dragon skulls. The slayers of demons. The saviors of Westermarch. The suckers of c**k.

I find myself pressing keys. I bring up the guild roster. It isn’t like I don’t trust Brandon. Or even Rezlin. There it is though. The lack of Spaz’s name on the list stings. I wonder what happened. Bad economy?

“Rezlin said he said he’d just had enough. I don’t know, man. Spaz.”

I contemplate this for a minute. Had there been any signs? He seemed contented enough a couple days ago. We had all been talking about school. Girls. Spaz and I even had an aside conversation from the rest of the bunch about the latest Spoon effort. He called it disappointing. I really vibe on “Inside Out.” He told me one track does not an album make. I called him a cocksucker. We laughed.

“That really sucks,” I say.

“Where the f**k is Matt?”

Before he releases his speak button, I can hear Brandon’s mom call out to him. Dinner. I imagine him shouting back to her. There’s the tired frustration in his voice. That voice, freshly escaped from the record-scratching that is puberty. He has hair under his arms. I’ve seen that much when we go swimming down at the rec center.

“If you have to go…”

“Let the others know?”

“Of course.”

On screen, his tall, hulking figure begins to fade. The boldness to his username in the chat window goes flat. I pop back into the general chat, where our fellow guildmates wait for Matt. There are now seven of us online.

“just don’t know,” one of them is saying when I enter.

Talk stops. In Westermarch, I stand alone on the stone steps to an inn that is rarely used by other players. Brandon and I have taken to it. Most players opt for the Wailing Wench due to its proximity to the auction center and the player banks, which are the only real reasons for being in a city. And the in-game chatting. We’ve come to enjoy the solitude.

“Hey,” someone says, breaking the lull in conversation. It sounds like Pink.

Pink plays a wizard with a pink Mohawk and a nose-ring. She always sounds tired. I heard from someone else in the guild that she lives in Alaska. I guess if I lived in a place where darkness reigned for all hours of the day for countless months, well, I’d be tired too. Another person said she smokes a lot of weed. Matt doesn’t mind, so long as she keeps up with her DPS. I wonder if Alaska is populated by nothing but tired, pot smokers.

“Hey Pink,” I say, avoiding use of her real name. Despite the closeness we have as Big Coffin Hunters, we rarely use the names we were born with. It isn’t a rule, it’s just something we do.

“Hear about Spaz?”

I tell her I have. Everyone in chat beings to lament the loss of Spaz. I think Pink had a crush on Spaz. I remember him telling me once she sent him a Snap of her p***y. I’ve only ever seen the ones in porn videos on the Internet. He said it wasn’t smooth like most porn girls. She had a patch of hair. I stopped him from telling me anymore. I didn’t want to picture her vagina, or her pubes, or anything. I would have been called a cocksucker if I admitted that. Pink had a hot-sounding voice. A f*****g voice. His words, not mine.

“Cormac sends his regards. He had to go.”

“It’s alright, Matt just sent me a text. He won’t be coming. Emergency.”

With that news, the others begin to disperse.

I linger for a moment longer than the rest. I twirl around the steps. I jump. I jump enough times to flip in mid-air. I run past a gnome with spiky hair and a big nose. On my screen, people are chatting about how stupid it is to believe in God. They trade barbs. It eventually winds its way quickly back to snipes involving mothers f*****g things, usually other players. I log out.

I look at the book on my desk. I spin a bit in my chair. No one calls out for me that it is time for dinner. Everything is quiet. I go make myself a tuna sandwich.

***

I live far enough away from the school to warrant a bus ride. The bus doesn’t stop at the end of my driveway anymore, because I’ve come to enjoy walking. This means I have to wake up an hour or so earlier than most of my peers, but I’m okay with this. I’m not an overachiever, I just like to listen to music. I also get to walk with Brandon, who lives within walking distance of our school.

Today, he hands me a Pop-Tart. I don’t like them toasted. It’s Brown Sugar Cinnamon, and I eat it the first one in a few bites.

“What were you listening to,” he asks me after I’ve wolfed it down.

“The Hold Steady,” I reply, holding my MP3 player so he can see the album artwork. He gives it a glance. Shakes his head.

“Never heard of them.”

We walk over dried leaves. They crunch beneath our sneakers. The snap-hiss of sprinklers sets off somewhere behind us. A bulldog chained up in its yard eyes us from where it lays. It is an old dog, and it does not bark at us as we pass.

“They’re great.” My dad used to listen to a lot of Bruce Springsteen. I remember seeing the album cover for Born in the U. S. A., stacked alongside Bob Dylan and The Rolling Stones. When my dad would play that record, beer in hand, I would sit and imagine myself bopping around in a pair of tight jeans. Sometimes I’d slide across a bare floor. Sometimes Brandon would also slide. We’d laugh.

“They’re like Springsteen,” I say as we round a corner, the school not far off. It isn’t cold enough yet for our breath to be visible, but soon. “Only more poetic. The lead singer has glasses. He’s kind of ugly.”

“Dude,” Brandon says, “don’t be a f*g.”

I say nothing. I’m not certain I can articulate what I meant by what I had said. Maybe in another two or three years, after we’ve graduated and I’ve read more books, learned some better words. Maybe then I could explain the feeling.

The main building of the school rises before us. Brandon punches my arm, laughs. He sets off at a sudden sprint.

“Loser pays for lunch!”

I keep walking. I have enough cash in my backpack for the two of us. I put my earbuds back in. I hear about Sal Paradise and the sad times people have together. I wonder if Sal Paradise might change his mind if he ever got to play Last Bastion.

***

In Chemistry, Mrs. Love hands out the tests and tells us that we have the entire period �" 90 minutes �" to complete it. I sit next to a girl named Madison French. She reads a lot, and doesn’t score so well on the exams. She has a copy of The Bell Jar out on our table. The room is cold.

I stare at a blank copy of the periodic table. Beneath it, various letters and small numbers wait for me to fashion them into balanced equations. I wonder what emergency kept Matt from the game last night. There are no windows in the classroom, but I know from where the building is positioned there are a swatch of pine trees out there, beyond which winds a two-way street. There is a stop sign that most people miss, especially at night.

I wonder if Matt drives.

***

At lunch I sit with Brandon. We take our lunch outside. We opt to sit on a small rise set away from most of our classmates. I can see Madison from where we are. She’s reading that book. The cover is worn.

“Was anyone mad I had to bail last night?”

I pick at a single pepperoni. The pizza is especially greasy today. The cafeteria lady wasn’t wearing a hairnet. She has the look of a person who has probably given up on life. That’s something Spaz would have said.

“No. Matt never showed.”

“The Fuhrer bailed on the raid? Whoa.”

I toss the piece of meat aside. A raccoon or something will probably eat it later tonight.

“Taylor mentioned something about there being an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency would have kept him from the game?”

We both fall into silence. Brandon chews noisily on his slice of pizza. He will eat anything. I bet if the lunch lady ashed on his slice, he’d take it. Brandon’s parents are from Vietnam. He has six other siblings.

I watch Madison French turn a page. She has a half-eaten apple in one hand. I bet most of it has gone brown by now.

Brandon stands up, the paper towel his pizza had been resting on nothing but a wad in his hands. He has his eyes on someone. A blonde. Sarah Pool.

“Hopefully he’s alright, you know.” Brandon looks down at me. “I’m gonna go. I’ll catch you later.”

I nod, watch as he walks away. Sarah Pool won’t give him a second glance. It is a sad thought, because Brandon is a mostly good guy. As mostly good as any fifteen year old boy can be. He masturbates to her. He told me this once.

I can’t stomach the rest of the pizza, so I pick off more pepperoni and toss them into the grass. I’ll throw the pizza itself in the trash. I walk toward the library. Madison’s apple remains half-eaten on the surface of the table. She is no longer there.

***

I log into Last Bastion. Matt is online. Brandon is off. Pink, Rez are also absent. A small chime rings, alerting anyone in our guild chat that I’ve arrived.

“F*****g b******s,” Matt tells me. It comes out of his mouth before I can even tab back into the game.

“You all logged before we could run the tower.” His voice is deep. I’ve never seen Matt, but I always picture him as a heavier fellow. Sometimes he has a patchy beard. Sometimes pimples on his neck. I think he wears glasses. He’s probably ugly, but not poetically ugly. Just ugly.

“Pink said you had an emergency.” I tell him this as I rustle around my desk, searching for my phone.

“Emergency? S**t. I told her I’d be on after all that. The least you asshats could have done is waited for a half hour. Now we’re behind. Now we won’t be the first to clear it. F**k.”

Matt is short for “Matthandriel.” He is a dwarf paladin, and our leader. His character rocks the sort of full beard expected of a dwarf. He wields a flaming hammer, and a golden shield. He takes all the hits, and makes sure the rest of us aren’t overwhelmed by the myriad of creatures lurking within the realms of the game. He’s a real righteous crusader.

“Sorry.” It’s all I can come up. I’m texting Brandon, telling him to get in-game.

“It’s like our progression through the Frozen Stem all over again. You guys. Seriously. There needs to be more effort. More of an investment. I’ve put so much into this, and it’s like, none of you even care.”

I don’t enjoy letting Matt down. Spaz always had choice words to share whenever he wasn’t around. I always get uncomfortable when people start in on Matt. I want to remind everyone that the guy’s mother died, and that changes a person. I never do though. I just listen. I wonder if Father Flannigan feels the same way as I do in his confessional booth. Does it make him feel bad, hearing all these horrible things?

My phone chimes. Text message. I sigh.

“Cormac isn’t coming.”

“Why the f**k not?”

I stare at the message. Can’t make it tonight. Going out with some friends. See you tomorrow. Friends. I try to think of possible candidates for Brandon’s school night venture. I’ve seen him talk to other kids at school, but it never seemed to be the sort of conversation that led to anything outside of the classroom.

“School work.”

At this moment, the rest of my guildmates begin to log in. Matt is seething. Silence is not his friend. Finally:

“F**k Cormac then. He thinks homework is more important? His loss. But d****t. We’ll have to pick-up two DPS then. I hate having to rely on unknowns. Noobs. F**k.”

***

“Get. Out. Of. The fire!”

Matt is charged tonight. I bet his face is always red. His voice has a shrillness to it when he yells. He pants a lot after his shouting fits. He probably has asthma. I’m doing my best to keep everyone alive.

Wasabe is an elven priest. While I’m not particularly holy �" we’ve stopped going to Mass regularly �" it is the only class currently available in this game that fits the healer role. Most times I’m fairly adequate, but tonight things haven’t been going so well.

“Jesus! Do you want to wipe the group? Stop acting like a f*****g noob, Wasabe, and heal!”

We’re engaged in combat with a large construct fashioned from the finest mystical steel in all the land. The NPC who triggered the encounter exclaimed that Alistair was going to send a horde of these towering titans to crush Westermarch and all beyond. It was up to us to destroy them. It was up to us to climb the wizard’s citadel and slay him.

A ball of fire erupts from Pink’s hands. It launches into the golem. It staggers, its’ mighty feet leaving a spider web of cracks on the floor’s surface. On the walls surrounding us, spigots spew flames. The two new guys run in circles. I’m chanting. I’m waving my hands about. White light flashes.

“He’s going to enrage, d****t, you fuckers.”

Matt is the best cheerleader we could have hoped for.

Pink is swatted at. She falls to the ground. I’m too late.

Soon, we all drop like flies.

***

In Chemistry, Mrs. Love hands back our tests. Madison French turns to look at me after she receives hers.

“Not my finest hour,” she says, displaying the red “D” sprawled at the top of the page. “How’d you do?”

I look down at my own test. The paper is a mess of red marks.

“I didn’t do much better.”

I look back up at Madison. She adopts a smile I’m sure is meant to be comforting. She is gentle.

“Maybe we can get together sometime and study.”

I only nod. Blind leading the blind.

***

We don’t speak as we pull into the parking lot. I have my earbuds in. I’m listening to a band called Kishi Bashi. The lead singer is from a larger band I’ve never heard of, but I like him. His songs have feeling.

My dad and I walk into the hospital. It smells like disinfectant. Sickness and death smell like Lysol. He puts a hand on my shoulder when we step into the elevator. He applies slight pressure, and I tense up.

“It’s going to be okay, Son.”

We’re ascending.

***

Sometimes she reminds me of the pictures of mummified corpses I was shown in History class in the fourth grade. Her skin is sunken and yellowed. There are tubes that wind around her arms, in her nose. Sometimes she reminds me of the time we had to fight another one of Alistair’s experiments, a Frankenstein-creation in the bowels of a dungeon. That creature had patch-worked skin, but was also connected to tubes we had to destroy in order to effectively damage it enough for defeat.

My father is just outside, conversing with a tall doctor in a white lab coat. This doctor does not wear glasses, and his hair is cut very short. My father is wearing a blazer and his eyes don’t always meet the doctor’s.

I take a seat next to her. My hands remain in my lap as I look over her. Machines beep in a steady rhythm. Her mouth hangs a little open. Her fingers remind me of thin tree branches in the winter.

On a white board across from me the names of my mom’s doctors, the charge nurse, and others are written in fairly sloppy print. There are names of medications, times, and other jargon. Letters and numbers that I don’t make sense of. To me, they all come out to the same thing. Cancer.

My father is behind me. His hand finds my shoulder again. This time he doesn’t squeeze.

***

Brandon and I walk to school today in relative silence. My hands are in the pockets of my jacket. I forgot to charge my MP3 player. The bulldog isn’t out this morning. Every lawn we walk past glistens. A car idles at a stop sign. The radio plays “Someone Saved My Life Tonight.” A man with sandy hair and a cigarette between his lips hums along. He nods to us. He drives onward.

“I think I’m going to take a break,” Brandon says.

“A break?”

He stops. I stop. We watch each other for a moment. A bird chirps from a tree branch somewhere around us. He looks down at his feet. He studies his sneaker. The laces are dirty.

“Yeah, from the game, you know. My parents have gotten on my case lately.” He looks back up at me. “And Matt’s kind of a jerk, you know?”

“Oh.”

“But hey,” he says, and we begin to move in the direction of our school, “we can still hang out and stuff.”

There’s something about his expression, the softness in his voice in this moment that makes me feel like he’s apologizing for something that hasn’t happened yet. It’s the same kind of tone I hear the doctor’s use when they speak to my father.

“Matt’s just had a hard time,” I find myself saying. “You know, he’s gone through some stuff.”

Brandon says nothing, but he readjusts his backpack. He shifts on his feet. He wants to run. We walk the rest of the way in silence.

***

“Cormac isn’t going to be coming back.”

It’s just me and Matt tonight. Everyone else had other things going on. I imagine Pink in her room, listening to Elliott Smith and smoking weed. His music makes me think of tired people. I bet her favorite track is “Miss Misery.”

“I never liked him anyway,” he says. “Always complaining. His DPS sucked.”

I look out my window. A streetlight makes the bare branches of a tree look like skeletal fingers. Our driveway is empty. The flag on our mailbox is turned up.

“He’s my friend,” I tell him. “He’s alright. His parents were just getting on him. It wasn’t personal.”

“You have s****y friends,” he says. “I would know. I had friends like him too.”

“He’s not a s****y friend.”

I’m standing in the middle of a forest. A stream of clear blue runs next to me. Bears and wolves stalk between trees. The moon is high in the sky. The stars are always the same. Everything here is always fixed in place.

“You say that, but you don’t even know. He’s a s****y friend. Take my word for it. I have experience.”

I don’t know what to think. He’s our leader. He lost his mother.

***

I eat lunch alone on the berm. Brandon sits at a table with Sarah Pool and some other kids. They laugh. Brandon puts an arm around her. His smile is wide. I take a bite out of my tuna sandwich. I’m listening to a Frightened Rabbit track.

Madison French walks up to me. She’s holding another a book in her hands. She is skinny and wears a pair of grass-stained Keds. The hood to her purple hoody is draped over a shoulder.

“Hey,” she says to me. “How are you?”

“What?” I pulled out my earbuds.

She hovers next to me.

“Who are you listening to?”

I tell her. She squats down beside me. She takes to her knees. I can see that the book is A Separate Peace. I haven’t read it.

“They’re pretty good. Have you listened to The Midnight Organ Flight?”

“I haven’t yet, but I’ve been told it’s their best.”

“It is.”

And we both look forward, watching other kids mess around at the tables on the concrete. It’s chilly out. The bell is going to ring soon. Her hair smells like Herbal Essence. I wonder if the nurses at the hospital know that’s what my mom always likes to use.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” she tells me.

I look over at her. She’s watching her feet. She sounds like Brandon.

“If you ever want to talk about it…”

She is a pretty girl, in her own way. Her cheeks are getting red, and I wonder if it is too cold outside. Her hands are in her pockets.

“Have you ever played Last Bastion?”

She looks over at me, shakes her head. The bell rings.

***

In my dream, Brandon and I are running toward the high school. We’re in a forest. We’re in tight jeans. We come across a road. Matt drives a red Corvette at high speeds. An older woman sits in the passenger seat. We wave at them. There is a stop sign coming. Brandon and I are very close to one another. He feels warm. Matt yells at us to get out of the fire. He barrels past the stop sign and into the trees. The car explodes. I race toward the explosion. Brandon laughs, but runs off. Somewhere out in the forest, owls hoot.

***

At the dinner table, neither I nor my father says anything. I twist my fork around a mound of overcooked noodles. Neither of us is really eating. I can smell faint traces of Lysol and Prego from my father. We’re going to be leaving soon.

“How is school?”

I look up at him. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Good, I guess.”

He nods, forks a piece of his food. He doesn’t bring it to his mouth. Beneath the table I cross and uncross my feet.

“How’s your friend. What’s his name? Brian?”

I shake my head.

“Brandon. He’s fine, I guess.”

“Well that’s good.”

“Yeah.”

My father adopts an expression that suggests he might have something else to say. On the counter behind him, my mother’s pots wait to be cleaned. Her apron hangs on the wall beneath the clock. Stains from the last supper she had prepared a few weeks ago still dot its otherwise white, checkered surface. Dust collects on the surface of things.

“Son.”

I glance back at him. He sets his fork down. He reaches across the table. I close my eyes. I wonder if this is how it worked for Matt.

***

“First Breath After Coma” plays as we walk into the lobby. My dad looks at me and makes a motion with his hands, indicating the need for me to stop with the music. I drape my earbuds around my neck. They dangle over my left shoulder. I watch them shift as they match the movements of my footsteps.

I’m missing tonight’s raid session. Matt will more than likely scour my hide the next time I get to log-on. I sent Pink a text message from the car, but she didn’t respond. I’ll have to explain it to him, and take whatever happens. He’ll probably call me a cocksucker.

My father and I step into the elevator. On the way over he told me that this would most likely be the last time I’d get to visit my mother before they put her in a box. I spent most of the ride over watching passing trees and listening to Explosions in the Sky. I thought about my healing output in the last raid. I’d step up this next time. I had to if I wanted to keep my place. I wouldn’t let them down.

The lighting in the elevator turns our skin yellow. Before the doors can close, a hand cuts through. Father Flannigan steps into the elevator. He’s a balding man wearing a black cassock. He adopts a grim expression. He and my father shake hands.

“It’s been a while, Floyd,” he tells my father. His sermons would always put me to sleep.

“Thanks for coming, Father.”

The doors close. The button on the panel glows. I try to make myself as small as possible. The fathers keep talking. I close my eyes.

I can see Brandon and Sarah standing in his driveway. They’re close. He’s got his hand on her sides. He says something I can’t quite make out. She giggles. They kiss.

I can see Madison French laying on her stomach, on her bed. Her legs are covered by a quilt her grandmother made for her. She reads A Separate Peace while Frightened Rabbit issues from the speakers on her desk. There’s a journal next to her. She looks out her window.

I can see Matt with his flaming hammer and shield, whirling around the torch-lit chamber of an evil wizard, smashing magical stone constructs to bits. He screams for everyone to pick up the pace. To get out of the fire.

I can see my mother. She’s in the kitchen, apron tied around her slight frame, dark curls across her shoulders, egg beaters covered in chocolate. She turns to look at me. The light from the window gives her a heavenly glow. She smiles, holds up a beater, opens her mouth to speak.

We stop ascending. The doors open. The light in the hallways is white. My dad lets Father Flannigan exit first. He looks down at me. His hand finds my shoulder. He squeezes.

“I’m here, Son.”