He hands me the joystick. He says, “Now activate your truck.”
I look at the screen in front of us. A monster truck. Red with an orange-flame paint job.
This is the kind of scenario I hate. Why did I sign up for it? He didn’t say in his profile that his spare time was entirely devoted to video games. No. I learned that on the first date. And yet, here I am, date three, and we’re in some room he calls his game room.
It’s not as sexy as it sounds. Just video games and empty beer bottles. My standards have fallen off a cliff. I haven’t had sex in over a year.
Again, he says, “Activate.”
“How?” I ask.
“Press ‘A,’” he says, annoyed.
As if it were obvious. I have never cared about video games. Not even a little bit. I played a few computer games back in the day. Roller Coaster Tycoon. The Sims. Nothing with monster trucks. Here’s the thing: I find video games ethically questionable. I don’t think the world needs them. Video games. What’s the benefit? Turn off your brain.
Here in this game room, my brain is not the only thing turned off.
He says something about pressing different letters. Something about dropping spikes for the driver behind me.
I wish I could be more assertive. Wish I could say the words: No. And: I don’t like video games. And: fuck monster trucks. I swear he said he was liberal on his profile. But of course, there’s liberal and there’s liberal. He’s neglected to tell me he didn’t vote in the last election or the election before that. At least, he didn’t tell me until now. On our video game date.
Now, he says, “I didn’t vote for that old white dude and I didn’t vote for that cop-loving cunt.”
He’s the kind of liberal who will, a decade from now, acquire a piece of land and a closet of guns and refuse to vaccinate his children.
What a delight.
Meanwhile, I have somehow moved my monster truck into gear, but now I’m stuck between a dumpster fire and a skyscraper. My joystick vibrates as I try reversing.
“How’d you even do that?” he asks.
I shrug.
He takes the joystick from me and frees me easily. I stare at the dumpster fire. Sometimes metaphors just fall into your lap. I stare at him. His beard, his curly hair. I’d still fuck him is the problem. No self-respect these days.
Fortunately for both of us, he asks me to leave. He says he thinks we might not have enough in common. I say, “Thank you for your honesty.”
Then I leave. Free to the night air. No monster trucks. Just air and dark and a few stars blinking into being.
