On a LARP, page 3
But slowly, I began to relate my theory of Tessa Sargentino’s death. Well, not exactly a theory about her death, just my theory that she had been out LARPing.
“LARPing?”
“Yeah. Attending a LARP.”
“LARP.”
“Yeah. Um. A Live Action Role Playing game—LARP.” As the words come out, I feel the heat rising in my face again. Can we just scream GEEK now? I can hear the snicker snort of Jimmy and feel his shoulders start to shake again and I try to stem the incoming, raging tide of personal power surge by resorting to a rhyming game I thought I no longer played, “snicker, snicker, snicker, snee, I will kill you like a flea.” I thought wrong. Apparently I still play, and apparently it is still not working any better than it did when I was thirteen and in constant exasperation at the obviously moronic world. My knee is tap dancing at an arrhythmic hundred miles an hour, Jimmy’s shoulders are convulsing, and I don’t know how we didn’t just toss Imani sideways, right out from the booth and onto the floor. Let it be said Imani has quite simply not only amazing grace, but apparently also possesses a very low center of gravity.
In an attempt to increase my coordination functions, and settle my escalating pulse, I begin picking at the corner of the plastic-coated menu. Knee Bouncing. Not working. Focus, Sid. Focus!
OMG. If you have never driven on the Highway of Goddess Crush, let me tell you it is a heart-pounding ride. My anxiety-melting Ferrari is whipping by the passing lane for a head-on collision with my adrenaline-rushing Lamborghini.
I mean I ask you, my friend, how would you articulate to the woman you’ve been crushing on like forever—even though we intellectually do know it’s not really her, emotionally and physically your body isn’t recognizing that information—how do you tell Detective Goddess Emma Macdonald you’re convinced Tessa Sargentino was coming from a LARP because you looked at a dead body in the newspaper and checked out the ripped bodice of her quality-chosen, well-filled bustier and kind of, sort of, recognized, not her, but it. I am so freakin’ cruising straight down the rabbit hole.
This is so not how I imagined . . . you know, I think we can just stop there. Let that thought be complete just as is. Honestly, this is so not how I imagined anything. I’m not sure in my wildest thinking I could have even come close to imagining whatever this is. OMG! Kill me now!
¤ ¤ ¤
But the sad fact is, not only can’t you die from mortification, most people you know can’t even kill you over it. They are too busy laughing way too hard at you.
So here we are, sitting in a booth, everybody twitching, waiting for me to expound, but as I said, it honestly, truly wasn’t really much of a theory, just that I figured she, Tessa Sargentino, was out LARPing and that was kind of it.
And with that, I shrugged and jammed my hands in between my knees so I might ward off all sorts of chills as I sat waiting for the expected. For the life slap I know is coming. For Tsarno the Barno, to pull his over-fed, fat self up and go, taking my walking vision away with him. And so I sit and I wait, but rather shockingly the slap never comes.
Instead, they let the silence build until I find myself doing exactly what I told myself I would not do, explaining defensively. “Understand LARPing is not some simple masquerade or costume ball or some kind of weird Halloween party. It is a live action role-playing game, which means you not only inhabit the character you are playing, but everyone in the LARP has their own roles to play and we are all parts of a greater whole.” As I pause for a second, letting that thought finish thrusting off my tongue and into their ears, I realize I now know how to get myself through this moment.
I am having a brainstorm or maybe just a brain fart. Hard to say.
I will utilize my not quite finely honed LARPing skills to craft a character. I will call her “Sid the Kid” because she will be like Clint Eastwood back in the day: part outlaw, all chiseled charm. And when Sid the Kid is finished, she will ride off into the sunset with an indelible flourish, leaving them (although let’s be honest, don’t really care about him whatsoever, as it is only about leaving her) enlightened and starstruck. And as Sid the Kid rises up, she elucidates, “It’s mythologic not just thematic.”
Très cray cray I know.
So now I work my western outlaw nonchalance—shifting in my seat, draping my arm over the back of the booth—and I raise my eyes, hoping they are squinting as perfectly as Clint’s, and buoyed by my newfound sangfroid, which is one of my favorite French words (merci Mama!) whose generic translation would be calmness, as in buoyed by my newfound calmness, but whose literal translation is cold blood (how perfect is that!) I continue, “LARPing is a type of social storytelling. It is not only bringing a story to life; it is using group inspiration and wit to write chapters and volumes and spinoffs and sequels without ownership or corporate interference. It is an incredibly pure art form as it is only as good as the people who show up to invest themselves and their character.”
Whew.
I pause for a breath and realize, oddly enough being Sid the Kid does seem to resonate while delivering a share of good news and bad news. Good news is I am now in control, commanding their attention. Bad news, judging by the stares, I think I am being perceived as less Cool Clint than a three-headed troglodyte. And while I definitely believe there are troglodytes among us, I resent thinking they could be thinking I might be one. However, Tsarno, who truly might be one, has at least finally stopped snorting. Oh yeah, that’s the way to make my day! I blow my imaginary pistol, twirl, and holster.
Cheap thrill. What can I say?
Oh no. Excuse me but I must break off my own internal, pat-on-my-back, mini-rant as Goddess Emma is asking another question.
“And who organizes this LARP?”
“Uh, the Game Master.” Again. Blank stares. “Okay, I mean it isn’t a specific person I can tell you, like John Smith organized it. Anyone can be a game master; that’s just the title given to the person whose LARP it is. And there are all kinds of LARPs. Some LARPs might play out over three or four days, some are just hours, and some evolve over weeks or months. So if you’re a game master, you have to determine what kind of LARP you are organizing. You have to set the mythos of it all . . . uhm . . . the narrative theme. And then you have to set characters and parameters and and and.”
“Okay, so how would we find the Game Master?”
“It’s pretty much not that hard. They’re the ones running the game. I mean they have NPCs, non-player characters to help them, but they’re more like employees. So kind of like any company, they can direct you to the GM.” You know, it never had occurred to me before, but it’s really kind of funny that larps are all about non-ownership, but when you shorthand—Game Master and General Manager and, duh, General Motors, all shorthand into GM. (Okay, might be a digression, but really so small as to qualify as a mini-digression at best. It just struck me as funny for a moment. Perhaps ironic might be a better term. And it was just a moment. Sheesh. Continuing on.)
“Okay. In a basic sense, I’m a GM and I’m going to host a LARP. I decide I’m doing a wedding LARP. Two warring families will be joined through this union. The problem is the ring has been stolen, and without the ring there can be no wedding. The Quest will be to save the day by finding the ring. So who is at the wedding that could have stolen it? Could it be the jilted ex? The drug-addicted bartender? Could it be the father of the bride or maybe the mother of the groom? Maybe they don’t want this war that has plagued the families to end. And if I make it an Edwardian LARP, maybe it is Romeo and Juliet, but if I make it Americana, maybe it’s Hatfields and McCoys. If I make it Medieval Fantasy, maybe no one wants a mixed marriage between an Elf and a Dwarf, or if it’s a Space Opera, maybe, just maybe it’s the wedding of Captain Kirk to an alien race in an arranged marriage, which could save the universe as we know it,” I pause here for dramatic effect, “except the ring is missing, people!”
I would love to say this was a great example. Truth is, not so much. But it does seem to make the basics if not quite understandable, at least somewhat accessible. There seems to be a bit of nodding and shuffling and then what will be the one last question from the Goddess: did I know who was hosting a LARP last week? Most likely somewhere near Bryant Park?
“No.”
And just like that, we were done. Tsarno called the waitress back, asked for a coffee and the bill and then pulled out some cash without waiting for either. With a thank you at the door and a quick shoulder squeeze from my Goddess, they were gone.
I do know I just stood there for a minute. I am guessing I was touching my shoulder with great reverence, because I honestly forgot to breathe, so I’m not 100 percent positive of everyone’s comings and goings, but then I remember Imani shrieking she is going to be killed if she doesn’t get home, “like now!” so we all grabbed our jackets and electronics and stuff and we raced with her to the subway.
After she left, I thought me and The Flynn would get to download together, but no, my descent into weirdness was not yet over. As we turn to walk home, Jimmy says, “Hey Sid?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to ask Imani if she’ll go out with me.”
“Out with you?” I stop walking for a minute, put my arm out to stop him, move my body in front of him so I can look at him straight on. I need to make sure I just heard this right. That some taxicab didn’t honk right over what he was saying and set my hearing abilities askew. “As in out like out on a date? Like one on one?”
“Yeah.”
Wow. Hand to forehead I spin a 360. Wowzerhole. This one I did not see coming. I mean why should I? I just want to stand here in the middle of the street and scream. This is so not fair. There’s a whole school of people out there. If I was at home right now and Jimmy was texting me this, I would just wait for the winking smiling emoticon I would be sure was coming. Then I could grumpily text back red face, pause for a minute to smirk, and then go back to whatever I was doing thinking, funny, Flynn, funny. You’re just a laugh a minute. Only that isn’t what’s happening. There is no winking smiley here.
So I look up at The Flynn, who is now standing in front of me with his hands smushed down in his pockets and I try and picture Imani standing with him, her arm linked through his, wearing her hip pleather jacket and F’Ugg Boots, both of them laughing at something impossibly funny that only they could get.
Big sigh. Some asshole leans on his horn as though that will actually get him somewhere faster. The smell of the pretzels and sewer combination wafts past me. There’s a strange comfort in it. I just don’t understand; why does my best friend need to ask out my other best friend? It’s not like best friends just grow on trees. What happens if they go out and decide they hate each other? What if they go out and they decide they like each other so much there’s no room for anyone else? Not even me.
And then again, it’s not like I’m going to date him. And it’s not like I’m going to date her. And it’s not like they haven’t dated lots of other people. But they didn’t count. They were just OPs, other people. But Jimmy and Imani? They’re my best friends. And what if they somehow leave me behind? Will I be left all alone?
But as I look at Jimmy, looking at me, all nervous and expectant, I can’t say any of this. All I can do is shrug and say, “Sure.” But as much as I wish I could tell you I so do not give a fluck, truth is, my heart breaks just a smidge.
FIVE
And because Imani said yes, I am now spending Saturday night sitting alone at a back bar table in a local and, well, what you might call rather sketchy watering hole, feeling a little bit pissy. And maybe just a wee bit sorry for myself as I pretend I am not drowning my sorrows, all while sipping my orange juice on ice and playing obsessively with the wet corner of my napkin. And since orange juice will not dull one’s senses, I am unfortunately not so far gone, and therefore quite capable of espying one Vikram Patel holding the door open for the grand entrance of one larger than life of the party, Arianna Wilson, better known to us all as Ari.
I thought about ducking, but it was too late. I could hear the shriek.
“Sid!” Ari has managed to spot me and is now making a beeline straight for me. I watch with amazement as the crowd quite simply makes room for Ari. I mean if you’ve ever seen any movie whereby Moses parts the Red Sea—trust me, he had to work harder than she is.
“Finally.” Breathlessly Ari leans in over the table, allowing her rather remarkable double Ds to practically soak up the condensation near my glass. “I told Vikram we needed to find you. That if Jimmy and Imani are suddenly an item, you will need your pals to get you through this adjustment. And don’t bother with the ‘I’m fine’ bullshit.”
I somehow manage not to move and not to inhale, torn between self-consciousness as to where my exhaled inhale would land and fear of using the comfort offered to lean in, burrow deep, and just lose control. Fortunately, before Ari notices my new mannequin act, she steps back so I can both breathe and follow her emphatic hand gestures as she ticks off my slittany aka sin litany.
“You are not responding to my texts,” her left thumb hooks the air,“you are looking like a mess,” index finger, and oh, a sweep into the pointer, which reverses and charges at me, “and not a hot one,” the jabbing pointer continues, “and” look out, the Ds are on the move again, inhale and freeze, “your hulk and sulk is truly killing the atmo here. I think the bar would happily pay me the five-buck cover just to get you out. Although, I have to say, you do worry me, Sid. Who the fuck goes out on a literary pub crawl in order to sulk? I mean I figured it out in like ten minutes because once I thought about it, I realized only Sid Rubin would think Hemingway would be a perfect companion to go drown her sorrows with.”
I could see how to the uninitiated this might sound callous, but not if you know Ari. Whenever I get close enough to be in her orbit, I have to always remember to close my mouth. I honestly like Ari, always have. But 1) she always just kind of leaves me half stunned and 2) I just cannot understand what she sees in Vikram? Why she needs him?
I mean Ari just exudes magnetism and, well, sex. She is one of those sheer forces of personality, big girls. A jolt-laden, quantum physics, double shot of energy and pizazz and, well, sex. When Ari tosses back her multicolored hair (think of blue and pink intermingled in an array of blonds) and laughs, you are happy to be there even if you don’t get the joke. She makes you believe the party is wherever she is. She can say anything and just get away with it because she is Arianna Wilson—one big girl with one big personality (and two, let me just say, again, two really big breasts) and one big belief in herself and it all works.
Vikram, on the other hand, I find to be a loser, and I mean loser with a capital L. He’s really skinny, and he has these sort of sunken, raccoon-y like eyes and well, he kind of twitches. You know, he’s the guy whose hand you don’t want to shake ’cause you just know it’s going to be clammy, never mind the idea that those hands could be touching anything else. Blech. Yuck. Ugh. Gives me the creeps. And I guess I could, in a kind, weak-hearted moment, think maybe there’s more to Vikram than I am seeing, but I just can’t see how Ari actually went out—in public—with him before making him, thankfully, lose the emo flap. That is the true mystery to me. Of and by itself, that emo flap was the reason why any seeing person, never mind vibrant Ari, would have turned him down.
So, between you and me, I will admit that one day when we were randomly alone in the hallway, I was overcome by a total need to know and thus I did ask Ari, “Vikram, really?” and she explained their attraction to me as follows, “You know, Sid, he has it all: big brains and big, ahem, other attributes.”
OMG. Way TMI for me, but I had asked. And then, then she wasn’t done ’splaining. Ari leaned in really close until I could feel her breath on my ear and her hair tickle my cheek, and trust me, none of that was by accident. My pulse skyrocketed, my body left my mind way behind, and I knew she not only knew it, she was making sure I was closing in on exploding.
“And me, Sid?” Ari dropped her voice really low, licked her lips (I’m pretty sure they actually licked my ear, but that might have been wishful thinking). “I want it all—every single inch of it. So it works,” and before I could get under control, her tongue was in my mouth and then out barreled that laugh, “for me.” Yep. Mouth agape. Mine.
I did mention she is possessed of a rather large, playful personality.
And while you might be inclined to dismiss all this as simply an entertaining digression, it truly is not. It is a sharing of peeps and personalities who might fall under your need to know as we continue our journey.
You’re welcome.
Argh! Before I remember I should answer Ari and stop speaking with you, my friends, Vikram reappears not only with beers in hand, he has somehow managed to snag an extra stool and thus my fate is sealed. Sealed because although I am obviously alone, I cannot very well tell them they can’t sit down. Not when they have brought their own stools. Never mind that I probably would have told them to sit anyway, but at least I would have been able to ignore them if they did sit down—if I were here with my buds. But I’m not with my buds because they are with each other. And yes, I am thinking of ordering some cheese with that whine.
¤ ¤ ¤
Okay, Sid. Get it together. Enough with this personal pity party. Velma would not approve. Remove your glasses. Squint your eyes. Scrunch your nose. Okay. Inhale. Exhale. Glasses back onto their bridge. It is time to regain some semblance of control.
“So,” I fiercely push the shredded pile formerly called a napkin away and move from my head out into the newly assembled, thrusting forward, slipping into my cloak of deflection, determined to assert my leadership and not quietly shirk my way into mute acceptance of a new, unasked for status, that of a sitting duck to my own wake. “So, just for the record, you’re wrong, Ari. You know, I mean, when you assumed Hemingway is why I’d be here. It’s not Hemingway. It’s Virginia Woolf. As in,” pause for dramatic effect, “‘thinking is my fighting.’”
