This is a continuation of an earlier story,
"The Rivalry."
---
Brian and I were standing in his front yard one day when a big dog approached. Brian had a natural rapport with dogs and immediately bonded with it. As for me, I succeeded in petting it, and then it knocked me down and began humping me, as if I were a female dog. I can still remember its member striking my belly. Brian could not help laughing. I thought I could break free on my own, but the dog was surprisingly strong for its size. “Pull him off me!” I shouted. Brian slapped it on the back and shouted, “Bad dog! Bad dog!” and chased it off. Under the circumstances, I could not blame Brian laughing. The danger having passed, I was inclined to smile at it myself.
By the seventh grade, Brian and I had become inseparable. At school, if you saw one of us, the other was not far behind. We always knew what the other was doing. Our constant companionship aroused suspicion. One day in the school cafeteria, an older mulatto boy, a foot taller than either of us, asked Brian a question in a whisper. Brian replied by shaking his head, and looked embarrassed. I walked up and asked what was being said. Before Brian could reply, the older boy turned to me and asked if we were “bonky buddies.” I stammered and said no. He was twice my size, and could have picked me up and thrown me across the room. He said nothing more, however, but let us be. Brian and I never talked about sex, and especially not about homosexuality. Though well aware of being close friends, best friends, we avoided thinking about, much less discussing, other possibilities, which we considered disturbing. That which is not discussed sometimes assumes greater importance than issues that are out in the open.
To compensate for lack of strength, I was inclined to show off, whether it was in chess, which I insisted upon playing once I realized that I was the stronger player, or the fact that I was accepted into the gifted program based upon an I.Q. test, while he missed the cut by a few percentage points.
Brian liked to wrestle with me in his front yard. He was the better fighter. Once he hit me hard in the stomach, and I had to quit. He put his arm around me and kept saying, "I'm sorry. I feel low. I feel like a snake." I put my hand on his shoulder and told him it was all right. He was my best friend, and we would be friends forever. Nothing could come between us. After his arm rested on my shoulder, I had recovered immediately! I felt very happy and warm inside. I wanted to get closer and express what I felt without words. Of course, this seemed impossible, and it was considered wrong by everyone we knew, and most importantly, by Brian, and the fear of crossing a boundary stopped me. My own feelings bewildered me. Were they right? They certainly felt right to me. My feelings disturbed me because of what others might say about them. They were genuine and occurred very naturally to me. I worried that others would think I was bad and hate me. Most of all, I foresaw that Brian would turn against me if I touched him in any way.
We were close anyway and knew each others mind. The trust between us was as strong as steel. There were those who tried to get one of us to say ill about the other or indulge in some petty treachery, but they failed. We remained true to each other, through all adversity, while our friendship survived. Sometimes a boy would approach to retaliate for something offensive that I had said. I had a reckless, caustic wit as a youngster and made enemies. To this day, I still make enemies when I get bored and careless with words. Brian made my enemies back off. It became known that I was under his protection. Bullies backed off.
Two years passed in the manner that I have described. For the young, always developing and maturing, two years encompass many profound changes. For me, the changes were profound indeed.
We spent the night over at each other's house as often as we could, which gave Brian’s mother concern. She thought we spent too much time together and tried to discourage it, suggesting vaguely that it might be better to find other friends, with the obvious implication, but this threat never amounted to anything. Brian’s mother was fundamentalist Christian. I perceived her anxiety that our friendship might have a homosexual dimension. His mother’s good opinion was paramount to him.
I remember his mother well, a fair-skinned woman with short wavy brown hair, no more than an inch taller than I was, wearing glasses over cold gray eyes. She was a hard-working single mother, with stress a-plenty, and worked long hours, and there was not much joy in her life other than the delight she took in her son and her church. Brian loved her like no son ever loved a mother. He saved up money from doing yard work around the neighborhood to buy her a 14K gold necklace, which cost over three hundred dollars.
In the beginning, she approved of me over the neighborhood boys who had a penchant for misbehavior and foul language, but over time, she came to disapprove of me as well, at first due to my lack of religion, and secondly, the emerging specter of homosexuality, for my dual nature became clear to any astute observer over time. I wish that she and I could have become friends. I was forever trying to please her, but she remained cold and distant. She seldom smiled at me, but looked rather suspicious and analytical. I recall her exchanging looks with Brian that hinted at her real feelings toward me.
#
In my seventh grade yearbook was stored the only remaining artifact of Brian. I remember the day that he signed it. I didn’t want him too, but he insisted. He was a stickler for formalities. My reason for avoiding his signature was that I reasoned we’d be friends forever. Signing my yearbook seemed like a jinx to me. I submitted to his demand however.
He wrote in printed letters, not cursive. His writing is bold and clear. Confidence drips from every letter. When he writes the pronoun “I”, he gives it two horizontal lines at each end. Those who have studied graphology know what I am talking about. I liked his handwriting. I used to put my hand over his name and imagine that I could transmit a thought from my mind to his. He didn’t sign his name, but printed it. Maybe that spoiled the magic. He wrote: “To the best friend I’ve ever had. Good luck.” Underneath that was his name. The “good luck” part puzzled me. I asked him immediately, “What do you mean, ‘good luck?’ As if we’re never going to see each other again.” He shrugged and said, “It just sounded like the type of thing you’re supposed to say in a yearbook.” I accepted his explanation. Later, I perceived that he was already reevaluating our friendship, and "Good Luck," meant exactly what I had thought it meant.
One day, as I was talking to him in the hall at school, he pushed me without any provocation. I lost my balance and fell against the wall. Thickly painted concrete blocks, where hundreds of students passed daily, offered no traction for my grasping hands. I slid down to the floor. I thought Brian would help me up or apologize, but he did neither. Brian thought this was the funniest thing he had ever seen. Though he apologized halfheartedly, I saw that he despised me for being weak. In the world of boys, strength matters. My body was a disappointment to me in this respect. My muscles lost conditioning rapidly in the absence of daily exercise, and I tended to be thinner than I should be. Even my mother said so. But to my knowledge there isn’t any place to return a body for a refund, save the grave.
#
Dad had been acting strange, eccentric, and jovial for weeks, and his arguments with Mom had become more frequent. He also grew distant from me and less like his old self, which hurt. This was all I knew, and I had no explanation.
One day, Mother asked me to follow her in the garage, a strange request. Once there, she hesitated, considering how to go about telling me something of grave importance. This annoyed me. I said impatiently, “Why did you bring me here?”
“Because it is the one place in the house where he won’t hear us.”
“Who? Andy?” Andy was the usual troublemaker in our house, the one who was always talked about.
“No, your father.”
I was shocked. “Why?”
She hesitated. She looked so serious. I sensed this was Big. I knew there was trouble in their marriage. “Is he having an affair?”
She laughed nervously. “No. Your father is having a nervous breakdown.”
She then proceeded to list his words and actions that had led her to this conclusion. I laughed at the bizarre list, agreed that the behavior was eccentric, but dismissed the notion of madness in my father. Heresy! Beware the machinations of a woman! I loved my father!
“Wait right here. Don’t leave. I am going to get your brother, and he can tell you himself.”
Alone in the garage, I stood waiting, anxious. Could this be true?
Andy appeared and reluctantly backed Mother. Together they told me that my Father was manic-depressive, had been taking Lithium since I was born, had suffered breakdowns previously and was now in the midst of a manic phase, after which he would cycle to the inevitable depression. This secret had been kept from me all along. Now, at the age of thirteen, I knew.
Our family endured Father’s antics for many months, because he could not legally be committed for eccentric behavior that was completely discordant with the father we had known all our lives. To get the edge off, or whatever rationalization you prefer, I started smoking cigarettes, followed by marijuana.
Father’s condition steadily dissolved. When Father stopped taking his Lithium, his trajectory invariably landed him in the funny farm. He became hostile and acted increasingly erratic. When he made threats against us, Mother asked Andy and me for our opinions, and we concurred that the time had come to approach the authorities. Father was arrested and taken in a squad car to be evaluated at the hospital.
The timing of Mother’s move was important. His illness had to have progressed to the point that he could be deemed by a “jury” of three psychiatrists to be a danger to himself or others, the legal criterion for being committed against one’s will. To my recollection, he impressed the shrinks during his interview and would have been released. When he was told his wife had initiated the proceedings, out of love and respect for her or maybe an awareness of his sickness, he voluntarily committed himself to the custody of the hospital.
Upon his release, he resumed normalcy, behaving much as he always had. Mother stood by him through this, for our sake, for the stability of the family, and in loyalty to her husband, who she was to remain with for over thirty years. Dad was not any different after his return to our household, just wounded, humbled, and saddened as we all were. I cannot say that my brother and I played the saints, because we taunted him at times, with the cruelty of rebellious children. For the most part, however, he regained his former stature. It could have been hoped that he might have switched from lithium to a better medicine, but there were not many alternatives in those days. He suffered often and terribly from gastrointestinal complaints owing to daily lithium use.
Mother confided in Brian’s mother, who told Brian. On being told that Brian knew, I calculated the crisis earned me sympathy from him and, hopefully one of the forbidden displays of affection. Such was not the case. Brian never said anything to me uncharitable, but I felt he looked at me in a different light after being invested with the knowledge. I was no longer just a bright boy with a college professor for a father. I was the son of a madman. Add to that the troublesome thought that the disease, as everyone knew, was hereditary. Who knows, maybe I was a little nutty too. Manic depression runs in families and afflicts a surprising percentage of people. The incurable disease typically manifests in males in adolescence or their twenties. A devilish new question confronted Andy and me and would enter the thoughts of our parents as well, whenever we acted peculiar. Could one of us have inherited the disease? I was always ready to doubt myself, to abandon ship.
Brian was uneasy talking about my father. His own father had abandoned his mother and him, and he judged me luckier overall. I tended to dwell upon my misfortune. He preferred to change the subject. The unspoken thought in his mind was, I should be tough and keep a stiff upper lip. That is how he responded to adversity. The classical stoicism of the Romans and the Spartans was his ideal, which I envied as an unattainable virtue. I was not that tough.
Brian began to view me increasingly as a liability, because I was unpopular, while he enjoyed a degree of popularity. He found other friends, and I became his old guard, a familiar old thing he liked, but spent less time with as time went on.
I began hanging out with the outsiders, the boys who failed at school, the juvenile delinquents, the druggies. Brian associated with those destined to succeed in this world, call them preppies if you like, or straight-A students. He joined the track team in his freshman year and grew physically strong. At the time, I was dissolute, while he was hardworking and ambitious.
Smoking led to bouts with brochitis. One bout lasted over three months, which persuaded my doctor to send me to the hospital in order to monitor the situation and test for pneumonia. Brian surprised me by coming to visit. I was touched, because we were not as close as we used to be. He wore blue jeans and a blue and red coat. I had not seen the red coat before, but that was because I had not seen him in weeks. We did not visit each other anymore. “How did you know to come?” I asked.
“Your mom called my mom.”
“Oh.”
He took his coat off and smiled. He was performing a Christian duty, not so much, perhaps, out of friendship, but it didn't matter to me. I was so happy to see him. I said, “I’m sorry for being a burden.”
“Aw, shut up. It’s not a big deal. I wanted to see you.”
A nurse came in while he was there and scolded me for keeping the Atari game system for so long. I was addicted to the video games. “There are other children in the ward who are far worse off than you, and they haven’t been able to play these games at all!” She carted the system away, and I never asked for it again. I was embarrassed.
Brian said, “Do you want me to go get it back? I’ll tell her supervisor just how she spoke to you. She was rude and offensive! It’s not your responsibility to manage the game system, it is the staff’s!”
I shook my head. “Nah. She’s right. Let the sicker ones have it. They need it more than I do.”
“Alright, if you say so.” He seemed disappointed.
I grinned. “You’re feisty.”
“Yeah!”
“It’s good to see you, Brian. I didn’t expect you to come.”
“Why not? I’m your friend, aren’t I?”
“I guess. But I mean it’s not like it was before, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t spend as much time together. You know, we used to talk on the phone every day after school.”
“Ah, well. We’re getting older. You know. It happens. We're interested in different things now.”
“I guess so.”
“You want me to go and let you sleep?”
“You’ve put in enough time. You’re a trooper. You know that? A great friend.”
“Thanks.” He came up and held out his hand. We shook. He left. I looked at the clock. He had been with me ten minutes, just enough time for appearance's sake.
Place on penicillin, or some other powerful antibiotic, or combination of antibiotics, I recovered. I came back from the hospital after a few days, and was finally cured of brochitis after a few more weeks. I remember spitting up so much gunk, having difficulty breathing. I must have had brochitis a dozen times in my youth.
Brian was developing many different interests. He signed up for track. He won academic awards, and instead of congratulating him, I felt envy, because I was supposed to be smarter. He joined after-school clubs that I viewed as meaningless. He exhorted me to join the track team. Such a move might have been my salvation. I sense this now with the advantage of hindsight. Ironically, later in life I took to jogging and loved it. But at fourteen, to me joining any kind of extracurricular activity seemed insane. More time spent at school? Forget it! Brian’s optimism proved no match for my endless capacity for manufacturing excuses.
“But I don’t know anyone on the track team!” I said.
“You know me.” Brian was calm and confident, and what is more, at some level, I knew he was right, but I was a thousand miles away from him. I do not know how to explain.
“Well, the other guys will pick on me!”
“No, they won’t, not if I am around. Besides, they're not that bad.”
“You can’t be around all time. What are you, Superman? I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t like running or jogging.”
“It’s good for you. You’ll catch on, if you just start doing it.”
“It’s too much work!”
“It’s fun. You’ll like it.”
“Look, I’m not like you and don’t want to be like you! You go be a stupid jock! I don’t care about that crap! Just leave me alone about the track team, okay?”
A leaden expression came over his face. He said nothing, but I sensed that I had gone too far. As I watched him walk away, I knew I had made a mistake, but felt strangely helpless to do anything about it. A chill crept over me. I felt dizzy and nauseated.
The last time he came over to spend the night at my house, the distance between us had grown vast. We were both fourteen years old. He had suggested coming over, which puzzled me.
He kept his thoughts to himself, with the stoicism of a Roman soldier, while I rattled on, acting amused, which succeeded in irritating him. When he came up to my room, coins were lying all over my desk and several shelves. Knickknacks littered the floor.
I asked, giggling, “Do you disapprove of the condition of my room?”
He nodded. I know he would have kept this to himself if I had not asked, because he was polite.
I snapped, "I don't care what you think! Neatness is not important! I don’t give a damn!" I laughed.
I did other little things, petty remarks designed to provoke him. I do not know why. Maybe I wanted to break his stoic demeanor and see his temper. “I can see you disapprove of me, Brian. So tell me. Why did you even come over here?”
“Your mother asked me to.” He did not smile, taking no pleasure in the truth.
I was shocked into silence. She had asked him, with much praise and flattery, as a personal favor to her, because she knew that Brian was a good influence upon me. He found it difficult to refuse a woman that he admired. Now, surely, he regretted it.
When night came, we lay down in the same bed, not because I wanted that, only because my mother insisted on this, because she did not want Brian to lie on the floor or resort to using the sofa. It seemed unaccountable to me that my mother suggested we share a bed, at fourteen. She was opposed to homosexuality. I can only assume that she was naive, but we were not, and both of us felt awkward at the unfamiliar intimacy.
Though I usually repressed my homosexual feelings, I felt frisky with Brian in my bed, only two feet away. I rubbed my foot up against his leg in my most brazen provocation yet. He kicked my foot away and told me angrily, “If you touch me again, I’m going to hit you!”
I laid still, in silence. I felt shocked by my own behavior. “I’m sorry, Brian. I was only been playing around.”
He adopted a softer, apologetic note. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Don’t worry about it.”
“No, it’s not alright. Look, it wasn’t my idea for us to sleep together. I know you feel uncomfortable in the same bed with me.”
“No, I’m okay. Look, I’m sorry. I take back what I said about hitting you. Just don’t touch me, alright? Now go to sleep and forget about it.”
That was Brian's solution to everything: don't talk about it, shut up, focus on what is supposed to be important, and damn the details. I prefer to analyze matters, get to the heart of things, understand the reasons, and try to understand what is going on. That was the difference between him and me. He was a soldier. I was a scholar.
I remained silent, staring up at the ceiling. I got up, taking my pillow with me. “I’m going to sleep downstairs. I don’t think I can sleep up here. We’ll both feel more comfortable that way.”
He argued with me, told me not to go, repeated his apology, and said I didn't have to be afraid of him. He was mistaken. I did not fear him. I perceived that he intended to endure this unpleasant visit, not cause any scene, nor hurt me, because he was after all a guest in my house and he did have manners. I did not like the implication that I was taking advantage of him, forcing him to sleep with me.
I went downstairs and slept on the sofa. The next morning, my mother saw me in the living room and asked where Brian was. I told her he was upstairs sleeping, and she said, “Why didn’t you two sleep together?”
“Because, Mom, he didn’t want that. It was a bad idea. It’s kind of gay, you know. He thinks it’s wrong.”
“Well, my friends and I slept together when I was your age. There was nothing gay about it. Nothing sexual at all about it.”
“But you’re a girl, Mom. It’s different for guys. Especially at our age. We’re teenagers now.”
When he arose from bed, Brian said nothing at all to me other than what was required for civility. He was unfailingly polite to my mother and me, pretending nothing was wrong, even though everything was wrong, as far as I was concerned. After breakfast, when my mother had departed to the kitchen to clean, I said, “Brian, can we go up to my room and talk?”
“Sure. What for?”
“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“Let’s go.”
We went up to my room, and I closed the door. He picked up one of my books, “The Hobbit” by J.R.R. Tolkien. He started humming a song, tuning me out.
I paused, listening to him hum the same song as when we first met, when we played chess for the first time. I said, “Listen. I know we’re not going to be friends anymore. We’re too different now. It’s just not possible.”
He did not look at me. He was looking at the furniture, the window, the door. “Oh, that’s not true. I’m here, aren’t I? I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t a friend.”
I smiled. “Brian, you would rather be doing anything than spending your day with me. I understand the reasons why. After we finish talking, I want you to call your mother and ask her to pick you up. You can go on home. I won’t keep you here any longer. I know that you just came because you feel sorry for me. Because of my father’s illness.”
Brian stared at the floor. He knew very well that what I said was true. In his own way he was brave, but in my own way, I was brave too, because I could say things that were true without any hesitation. “Don’t say that. You’re still a friend. I don’t feel sorry for you. Why should I? You have a nice house and nice parents. I think you have a good life. Your parents give you a lot of nice things. You should be thankful for what you have.” He put the book down, glanced at me, then looked away.
We were silent for a time. He went to the window, looked out. His expression changed. "Are you serious? I can leave? There is a party. A bunch of guys are getting together. There will be girls there too. I want to go. Can I call my mom and have her come pick me up?"
"Go and make your call.” I waited. He looked at me, saw I was sincere, turned and went downstairs, as I knew he would, and picked up the phone. He was gone within an hour.
#
In the ninth grade, a sadistic juvenile criminal was placed behind in the seating order in Physical Education, due to the unlucky alphabetical order of my name. Deviating from the seating order was strictly prohibited, though it would have saved me countless beatings and humiliation. My frequent complaints to the Physical Education teacher were ignored, or if anything, he would tell me to shut up and sit where I was supposed to sit. He had an authoritarian personality. One did as one was told, and that was that. The instructor was a redneck and thought it virtuous and manly to be unconcerned about anyone else other than oneself.
Every day the bully hit me in the back with his fists, quite hard, torturing me and calling me names in the presence of the entire gym class, silent accomplices who looked on at the spectacle not with amusement, because they recognized him for a criminal and hated and feared him also, but with indifference. It is easy to watch others suffer and not care. Occasionally, a white boy would sympathize with me due to our shared skin color, since the bully was Hispanic. I would be advised to fight back. Several times, I did so, but the bully always retaliated and was stronger and tougher than me. I seethed with hate but worse than that, self-hate, but physically was puny, while mentally enthralled to depression.
I feared punishment by the school authorities if I did anything to the bully. I feared being arrested. I feared my gym teacher. I feared the bully most of all. I thought he might hurt me or even kill me. It seemed entirely possible. He perceived enough of my fear to know that he could torture me with impunity. I skipped the maximum amount of days in that class. I hated myself, hated school, and withdrew more. When I came home, I went directly to bed and cried. I hated the bully and fantasized of bringing a gun to school and killing him, followed by myself. My fantasies were all centered around suicide, of ending everything at the age of fourteen, putting an end to shame, an end to humiliation, an end to feelings of worthlessness, cowardice, and inferiority.
My parents had a large library of books. I pulled the ones on psychology down from the shelves, the only section that interested me being the one on suicide, for life had no more allure for me. It was dogeared from frequent use. The chapter on suicide made me feel hopeful, like there was an end to pain and misery, and here it was, easy and effective. I could leave this world, and not many people would care, and it would be as though I had never existed. Brian would never feel contempt for me again. Instead, he would feel pity, if he were human at all. If he forgot me altogether, then that was alright too.
One day, our high school counselor appeared at my locker, no doubt referred by an unknown teacher of mine, who had perceived, correctly, that I was a kid in trouble. I asked him why he had chosen to talk to me. He hemmed and hawed, unwilling to divulge his source, which made me distrust him and feel like others were conspiring against me. My energies were set to deducing which of my teachers had betrayed me, instead of evaluating his proposal in good faith. I remember little of the words he said. I was suspicious. My only dealings with adults in this school had been unpleasant, usually involving punishment in the form of detention, suspension, or lost recess. Adults were the enemy. They never helped. They only punished. They were to be feared and hated. I stared into his face. He wore a professional smile and seemed phony. He tried to persuade me to see him and talk about my problems. What else could he do? He couldn't force me to see him, as far as I know, though that might have been the ideal maneuver--indeed, it may have turned my life around, if he possessed skill. But he did not.
I felt I had many things to hide, principally my sexuality, of course, though I was not completely aware of that. I felt he could not understand me, not in a million years. Under the guise of helping me, he might hurt me by telling my awful secret to my parents or to the principal (because, I reasoned, he was duty-bound, if not legally required, to do so). I turned him down. In hindsight, I know this was a mistake. He shrugged his shoulders. He was only trying to help. If I didn't want help, fine. I watched him walk away in much the same way I had watched Brian walk away, wanting to stop him from leaving, wanting to receive help, but not being able to, paralyzed by I know not what.
#
The last memory I have of a D&D meeting is dark. I don’t remember any words that were spoken, but only feelings and images, which is a mercy. By this time, many changes had happened in my life. All of my foundations had crumbled. Increasing awareness of my sexuality loomed like a threatening and alien force. I did not know what homosexuality meant or what would happen to me. There were no examples of any gay people besides the most flamboyant stereotypes in movies and television, who were usually portrayed as villains or victims. My parents were homophobic. The God that I had worshiped since boyhood was dead to me, slain by Reason, and all my old beliefs seemed like evidence of my own gullibility. My family seemed surreal, with a mad father, a hell-raising brother, queer me, and a normal mother who endured just for our sakes. We seemed quite humble and powerless in a vast and hostile world. The entire world was against me, because I was queer, and happiness was impossible. I foresaw that my friendship with Brian would die. He could not respect anyone as different as me. Knowledge of our friendship’s doom filled me with dread. I foresaw also that all of my other friendships would also be severed. Nothing would last.
I felt determined to show creative genius, which I wanted to hold up as compensation for my physical weakness and queerness. I designed an adventure campaign for our D&D group. I stole ideas from Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings,” mapping out the terrain of a fantasy world upon graph paper, with each square representing five miles. In the North, a witch-lord held sway over armies of orcs, goblins and other creatures. Sound familiar? His symbol was not far different from the white hand representing the forces of Saruman. The evil lord rested secure in a deep underground fortress, well-protected by traps, monsters and magic. In short, I stole all my ideas. I envisioned a long campaign that would span many meetings and endure for several years. The evil lord would eventually, after a long struggle, be overcome by the wit and resources of a little band of player-characters, played by my friends. In reality, my designs inspired no one. Mine was but a pale imitation of “The Lord of the Rings” and without beauty. After this one meeting, everyone lost interest, not only in my adventure, but in the D&D group itself, which disbanded.
In defiance of their rejection, I submitted the work to TSR, the role-playing corporation that published Dragon Magazine, in the hopes that I might be published and prove all my friends wrong. The kind editor took time out of his day to write me a personal letter of rejection, but only out of regard for my age of thirteen. Thus encouraged, I sent other letters, other submissions, time-wasters which were ignored. I suspect the editor regretted even responding to me in the first place. I took the hint and stopped wasting postage.
Picture us seated around a table: Alice, Brian, Chris, David, and me. Brian is seated by my side, as always, strong and firm. What I feel for him must never be spoken of, and instead I must keep my mind upon the game. To my recollection, there was no one fatal utterance I made, no one moment of weakness, but rather a general feeling of unquiet filled our meeting. I was not myself, but like one possessed. In my heart was grief, because of the things that I felt and that I perceived, but on my face was a mask.
I have absorbed a vast array of details. I have lost myself in the game. The entire rulebook is committed to memory. My knowledge of the game encompasses minutia such as the hit dice, armor class, attack and movement rate of every monster, the damage rating of every weapon, the effects of every spell and magical item, and more. I know all the details in all the books verbatim, which I was proud of at the time. Even to this day, I can quote the hit dice of certain monsters, the attributes of certain character races and classes.
My friends and I were changing into adolescents. An unspoken thread ran through everyone's mind. Why should we care for role-playing adventures? We could go and make our own adventures. Of course I became aware of this too, especially after everyone quit playing. After a month of playing by myself, I cast my D&D books aside. All my labors and my games seemed like folly to me, of no use, a waste of time and effort.
As through a haze of smoke, I can see once again my old friends’ eyes looking at me with disapproval. Glances flicker between them--observations shared about me that need not be spoken aloud. A certain regard still remained for me, for old times' sake--and perhaps Brian had told them my secrets. The spirit of Brian was far away from me. Cold thoughts were in his mind. I was quite alone with my papers, dice, and pen. He wore a mask when he looked at me. The pupils in his eyes were tiny dots. I saw that all that had once been was unwoven.
