Responsibility (And Other Scary Monsters)

Gamer's Folly

She asked what I did for a living.

With half-chewed lamb mean,

my teeth came to a grinding halt

and I felt my neck muscles tense

as they creaked toward the dinner guest.

My throat strained to swallow my food,

I’ve been told it’s rude to talk

with your mouth full.  I cleared my throat,

tipped the water glass to my lips

and said, “I am an Italian plumber

Who just can’t seem to get a break.

I am a warrior and the enemy

of the thousands upon billions

of those who would break the earth apart;

to the distant stars, I’ve travelled

to fight creatures by doing barrel rolls,

clambering into a tight balls the size of my fist,

and smiting them with the sword of evil’s bane!”

I dabbled the passion away with white napkin.

“Not exactly in that order.” I said.

The dinner table was frozen in place,

as if a gear had been sprung loose

from their perfect, clockwork machine.

“I have stood upon the pinnacle

of human existence, chainsaw in one hand,

a whole chicken in the other.  I have

guided armies into battle—

my warships bare my skull and crossbones—

I have sought, far and wide over plains,

deserts, forests, and magnificent cities

to find the elixir of life.

I have faced diseases, demons, traps,

tramps, terrorists, maniacs, psychopaths,

and the occasional royalty,

to prevent planetary, galactic,

and even universal domination!

I have risen from the lowest of lows

to the highest of highs.

And, yes, I have fallen back again,

but that did not stop me,

even with your ingratitude,

or the ingratitude of a toad

when it tells me that

‘Sorry, Mario, your princess

is in another fucking castle!’”

Before I could stop myself,

I had climbed to the top

of the dinner table in triumphant

display of roast lamb and mashed

potato soaked feet.

The only person brave enough

to speak among the clattered,

broken dishes and crystal glass

was the same dinner guest who

audaciously asked:

“So, what do you do for a living?”

I snap back to the machine

that is the dinner party,

a fork with a slice of lamb

and mint jelly is suspended

halfway between my plate

and my gaping mouth.

“Excuse me?” I mutter.

“I asked what you did for a living.”

I glance over at my parents

who silently grant me judging looks

over their wine glasses on my

ability to converse after receiving

my college degree.

“Oh, I’m a teacher,” I said,

“I’m a substitute at the high school;

it’s a pretty good gig.”