Geekhood (5 page)

But I want this to last for ever.

My EM slows the pace down to an amble. Like the ones that couples do. Throughout my pondering, fretting and self-damnation, I am now managing to explain
the mechanics of role-playing games to Sarah, who wants to know how they work. And who looks confused.

“So you use dice?”

I really do want to die right now. Better still, I’d like Jason Humphries and his Pack of Grunts to reappear and for me to be suddenly possessed of the ninja skills so obviously absent from my life.
That
would be magic. Instead, I’m trying to justify playing what suddenly sound like children’s games.

IM:
Pass me the Lego
.

“Yeah – there are points systems and you use the dice to accumulate or lose points, so you can learn new skills or get stronger.”

“So there’s a lot of maths involved?”

“Well, yeah … but it’s not really about rolling dice. It’s more about creating a character and trying to react the way that character would.”

“What? Like acting?”

“Sort of. I s’pose it’s more like narrating a story; you say what your character’s doing.”

“Can you die in the Game?”

IM:
I could do it right now, if you wanted
.

“Yeah.”

“And what do you do? Do you dress up?” Her Antarctic eyes sparkle with mockery – but it still looks sexy.

“No! We use models. Figures.”

“Little men?”

At this point I’m eagerly listening for the bony scrape of Death’s feet behind me, almost wishing for a skeletal hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah. Little men.”

“And what are they for? I mean, if you’re narrating a story.”

“Uh… They’re more to give you an idea of where things are, like if you were in a battle or something. I’m not explaining it very well; you’d have to play it to understand.”

“OK. I’d like a go. Could I?”

IM:
Oh. My. God
.

I now experience two conflicting emotions. One is a joyous lightening of my spirit: the most beautiful girl I have ever seen – with whom I have had some form of bodily contact – wants to come and play an RPG. The other feeling is as though liquid lead has been added to my soul: if I allow this, I will be vulnerable to her. She will see me for what I am: a nerd of biblical proportions. My mouth is dry and my stomach feels like it’s on fire. What do I do? Rock forward on to my toes and lean into the wind or walk away from the edge?

Now or Never.

Now is quite a frightening place at the moment. Never is safe and peaceful.

“Yeah, OK.”

“Great! When?”

“Well, we’re having a game on Friday night. You could come to that if you want.”

“Cool, it’s a date.”

IM:
A date? She said “date”! She said “date”! Oh my God – it’s a date! You’ve got a date! With her! A real one! A date!

I know that it’s
not
a date, not in the official sense, but part of me is suddenly convinced that it is. It’s this mad fantasy that stops me from hearing her next question, so she has to repeat herself.

“Do I have to bring a little man?”

Images of midgets flash through my mind.

“Uh … no. No. I’ve got one you can use.” I drag to a halt; this is as far as I can go without walking her home. And much as I’d love to, I think it might be interpreted as stalking.

“Cool. I’ll see you at school and we can sort it out.”

“School?” I squeak. It’s not a word that I usually squeak, but on this occasion it makes my heart flutter to the point that I’m wondering how long it would take a team of paramedics to get here.

“Yeah. Don’t you go to the Community College?”

I nod dumbly.

“Me too! So, I’ll see you there! Bye.”

She goes to my school? As I surreptitiously watch her walk away, drinking in as much detail about her as possible, I find it impossible to think that I wouldn’t have noticed her. Perhaps she’s new. Then again, I’m a Geek and Geeks know that there are certain girls you mustn’t even look at – you mustn’t even acknowledge that they exist. Because if you do, your Geeky little heart will shatter in the knowledge that pretty much all girls will never, ever be in your league. Especially girls like Sarah. Sarah, who has talked to me and wants to come round to my house on Friday!

Just as my spirit spreads its wings and goes to soar, eagle-like, over the rooftops, a screech of brakes and a
honk-honk
brings me back to earth. It’s Tony. He pulls up next to the kerb and the window slides down. Panic races through me like a forest fire: how much has he seen? Please, God, don’t let him ruin this for me.

“Hey, Arch! Want a lift?”

I get in, my EM doing its best to appear as though I haven’t just been hanging out with a real, live girl. Tony sparks up and a grin twists his face as we pull away.

“You sly old dog!”

FOUR

The car journey is a cocktail of smoke, denial and knowing nods. However much I try to tell Tony that I’m not seeing Sarah – which I’m not – it doesn’t stop the worldly-wise wag of his head and the “I see through you” chuckle that accompanies each of my attempts to explain away the situation as casually as possible. I’m not helped by the fact that my EM has gone into warp-drive, causing my face to glow like a Hallowe’en pumpkin. But what’s even more worrying are Tony’s attempts at complimenting me on my choice of girl (like I’ve
mail-ordered
her or something). To hear the man who is living with my mother describing a teenage girl as “a cracker” does make me wish that Tony’s car had an ejector seat. His or mine – I don’t care. I realize that this is an attempt at bonding, but the only palpable results are my nails digging into my palms and my toes bunching up in my trainers.  

“So when do we get to meet her?”  

IM:
What a great idea, Tony! I’ll bring her round to the house so that she can listen to your pointless comments about life and then, to round it off, we’ll go and set fire to ourselves in the garden!

“Dunno.” I’m running out of energy.

“Why don’t you get her round one night, after school? I’ll cook dinner and we can all have a laugh.”

IM:
ARE YOU MENTAL?

“Yeah … I dunno… We’ll see how it goes.” I’m running perilously close to accepting his offer, which would be a disaster.

“Have you told your mum yet?”

“Told her what?”

“About your girlfriend.”

“But she’s not… No.” I give up.

“Well, let’s get back and give her the good news.”

Jesus, this is getting out of hand. All I was doing was getting a pint of milk and now I seem to be the centre of some Carnival of Love! The thought of facing my mum and telling her that I’ve got a girlfriend – which I haven’t – is too much to consider. I really need to get a grip; all it is is a girl coming round to the house. OK, it’s the first time – but it had to happen eventually, even by the Law of Averages. And I’m the first to admit I’m pretty average.

“She’ll be chuffed for you.”

And then I see his little game. He signals it to me without knowing – a little grin to himself, a subtle change in his demeanour. Me having a girlfriend would justify
his
existence. It suddenly makes sense. People get together. If I can do it, then there’s no reason why my mum can’t
do it. Tony’s presence in my life would be entirely justified. A sneaky, shameful part of me realizes that if that were the case, I’d have nothing to rail against. I’d have to accept him. The house is getting closer and I don’t want to go there right now.

IM:
Bail out! Bail out!

“Oh! I’ve just remembered! I’m supposed to be meeting the guys down at the Hovel. Could you drop me there?” With a bit of luck, Tony’s inherent laziness will instantly dismiss the idea of driving back into town and he’ll make some excuse and stop the car. Then I can get out and the interrogation will end.

“Sure thing, partner. Don’t worry – I’ll prime your mum.”

IM:
Partner? And so it begins. Tony’s acceptance into the fold starts here
.

Ordinarily at this point, I would want to die. Today, however, I want Tony to. Even if he
has
miraculously decided to drive me into town.

We pull up outside the Hovel and I hand over the milk and get out of the car, my EM throwing a casual wave at my stepfather as he speeds off. The way this is all panning out is making me tired; I need to clear my head. The Hovel’s the best place I can think of.

Although it’s a Sunday, there are quite a few people in here. Some old-school metal is blazing away in the
background, screaming something about running to the hills.

Whoever’s singing has captured my mood perfectly and the thought of just vanishing is an attractive one. I could get a little backpack together, with my trusty walking staff, and just wander into the countryside, like Frodo Baggins. But I don’t have a backpack or a staff and the Black Rider that hunts me owns a BMW. Plus I couldn’t do it to Mum.

Another metal song from the Dark Ages starts up – something about “You Shook Me All Night Long”. Like an age-old demon answering a summons, the sex-serpent in my head uncoils and whispers an idea. And it’s a good one.

I need to paint a model for Sarah.

OK, this might not be an earth-shattering idea by most people’s standards, but it works for me on a number of levels. Indulgently, I picture the scene.

Sarah enters my bedroom (hereafter to be known as my Lair). Matt, Ravi and Beggsy are there, settled round my gaming table. A gentleman to the last, I pull out a chair for her and she sits – do I sense she is a little flustered? Perhaps it is the aftershave I’m wearing. Sarah looks around my Lair, her curiosity piqued by the reams of dusty tomes that line the walls. I hand her a character-sheet for the Game, all filled in and ready to go. She looks at my friends and the 
miniatures they are holding; dismay crosses her perfect face.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I didn’t bring my little man.”

“Not to worry,” I breeze with a casual smile, “here’s one I knocked up for you earlier.”

Sarah takes the model from my hands, barely able to suppress her delight that I’ve thought of her, and gushing with admiration at my masterly brushstrokes.

“Did you do this just for me?”

I take a seat and casually produce a bottle of champagne.

“The pleasure was all mine. Would anyone care for a drink?”

As I pour and my friends turn their attentions to dice and rule books, Sarah casts me a secret smile and I’m sure I can feel something brushing against my lower leg…

This is neither the time nor the place to chase that particular narrative, so I turn my attention to the rows of blister packs that adorn the walls. It is with some indignation that I am, for the first time, suddenly aware of the lack of figurines for girls. What’s the matter with the company that makes them? Don’t they realize that girls play too? Or do they think these games are the sole pursuit of fourteen-year-old boys who’ve never had a girlfriend?

IM:
And so rests the case for the prosecution.

After some searching, I manage to find some: there’s an archer(ess?), an elven witch and an elven thief(ette?).
Which one should I choose? This is more difficult than choosing a model for myself; Matt, Ravi and Beggsy will know that I have painted it for the occasion and it will be scrutinized. They will be looking for the signs of anything soppy, such as a Galadriel-type figure. The archer is quite good: she’s wearing a leather jerkin and tight leggings which show off her legs, but I can’t help feeling that Sarah might find it a bit boring. The other two are elves, which I’ve always had a penchant for. Elves are sexy: they’ve got good, angular bone structure, long, laconic faces and there’s even something a bit kinky about those ears. The thief is clutching a leather pouch of loot in one hand and a curved dagger in the other. In her belt are bottles, which I could paint up to look like a selection of poisons. But again, it’s not quite right. It’s not interesting enough.

The witch, however, is possibly a bit too interesting.

This witch obviously bats for the bad guys. Not that she’s an old hag with a face like a crescent moon – she’s an elf, remember?
This
witch has a cruel, yet seductive smile on her elegant face. One arm is outstretched, as though casting a spell and the other cradles a crystal ball. But the problem is her outfit: thigh-high boots,
elbow-length
gloves and a short jerkin that is cut tantalizingly low. Add to that a few bangles and a circlet on her head and you’ve got the general idea.

Dare I buy it?

Admittedly, I’d get a lot of kudos from the guys for presenting this one to Sarah – but how would she take it? As a compliment? With a look of horror? Or would she look into my soul and recognize it for what it is – flirting.

I look down at the miniature and, for a moment, feel as though I’m buying a dodgy magazine – which I never have, by the way. It is with some trepidation that I approach the counter before popping the witch in front of Big Marv. He picks it up and looks through the protective bubble, giving it a quick once-over. Then he raises a knowing eyebrow.

“Good luck,” he says.

Home sends me scurrying through newspaper balls and over empty cardboard boxes, up to my room. As I creep Gollum-like through the hall, strangled strains of radio from outside tell me that Mum and Tony are somewhere in the garden. Perfect. I skulk up the stairs and into my Lair, closing the bedroom door behind me as quietly as possible.

My EM drops a gear and I settle myself at my painting desk to re-examine Sarah’s model. It’s a bit booby. Suddenly, my idle fantasies about impressing her
with my Michelangelo-like abilities seem a lot less cinematic; I feel like I’ve just been caught drawing a dick on a school desk. Not that I ever have, you understand.

In the safety of the Hovel, the witch looked slightly classy, had a touch of refinement. Now she looks like something that a sexually frustrated teenage boy might draw on his artist’s pad at night and then rub out come the morning feeling a bit guilty.

IM:
No comment.

Maybe an undercoat will even things out. I throw open the dormer window above my desk and spray the witch with a fine blizzard of matt white. While she dries, I take a look at the gargoyle: it sits, hunched, almost scowling at me, begging for colour. Time for a black wash.

A wash, for the uninitiated, is where you thin a colour right down, until it looks almost like dirty water. Then, using a brush, you drizzle it on to your model. The liquid runs into every nook and cranny, carrying the pigment with it, exposing all the detail. It’s all in the details.

After his bath, the gargoyle is already looking more alive; I can see cracks and splits in the stone skin surrounding his mouth, grooves in the horns and sinews writhing round his chest and shoulders. I can even see his irises, which are horizontal slits, like those of a lizard.

“Hello!”

My EM takes a second to find its default setting, but I needn’t have worried too much; it’s only Mum.

IM:
Uh-oh.

Uh-oh, indeed. She’s wearing one of those silly grins that says she can’t wait to talk about something.

IM:
And we know what it is, don’t we?

My EM throws a slightly bashful smile to my lips, which fail to catch it properly and it looks more like I’m having a bout of wind. Silly grin still on her face, Mum comes and sits on the end of my bed.

“So, then…” The smile almost cuts her face in two and her expectant eyebrows reach to the heavens in anticipation of the Glorious News.

IM:
Please. God. No.

“Tony tells me you’ve got a girlfriend.”

At this point, my IM is barely able to contain itself and struggles with my EM for dominance.

IM:
Aaaieee! Divert all power to the main engines! Employ the cloaking device! Detonate the reactor core! We need warp factor five or we’re all dead! DO SOMETHING!

My spine seems to melt and I slide down in my chair, my eyes rolling to one side, a world-weary sigh adding to the possibility that I might be deflating.

“She’s not my girlfriend, Mum.”

“Oh?” Smile gone. Look of surprise.

“No. She’s just someone I met.”

“Oh.” Look of disappointment.

IM:
Isn’t it amazing how adults can wield vowel sounds to such great effect?

“She’s just a friend.”

“Tony thought there might be a bit more to it…”

I deflate a little more, this time with a groan. If this carries on, I’ll be little more than a sack of skin soon. Mum half rises off the bed.

“It’s OK if you don’t want to talk about it…”

If magic
is
real, then you need look no further than the Power of Mums; the slightest intonation or gesture can send you back to feeling like you were still in nappies. And had probably filled them.