Bad Games (2 page)

“No, no, I played in high school,” he said. “I could have never made the roster at Penn State.”

“I see,” Arty replied. “Well at least you’re honest. No
Al Bundy
delusions of grandeur for you, yeah? Wondering what could have been if you weren’t
Married with Children
?”

Patrick got the joke (a fan of the show, he actually found it amusing) and fed the man’s wit. “Oh no—my wife makes an excellent Peg Bundy. Keeps me nice and humble.”

Arty laughed loud then asked, “So…what’s your damage?”

Patrick hesitated.

“
Gas,”
Arty said, pointing at Patrick’s pump. “What’s your damage?”

“Oh...” He read the meter. “A hell of a lot. In a million years I never thought I’d own one of these things. But it’s pretty convenient when you’ve got kids, and—”

“Well I’ll tell you what, Patrick,” Arty interrupted, “any alumnus of Penn State is a friend of mine. This round’s on me.” He pulled a wad of bills from his front pocket and began heading towards the cashier in the glass booth.

“No,” Patrick said, “I can’t let you do that. Arty, please.”

But the man was already en route. He simply waved a hand behind him as though shooing away a dog.

Arty returned a few minutes later, shaking his head and pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “
That
guy was a winner,” he said. “Could smell him through the glass.”

Patrick dug for the right words. “Hey, man, that was really generous of you. I don’t know what to…thank you very much.”

Arty smiled. “Please, don’t give it a second thought. I like to think that if we show kindness to others often enough it’ll become contagious.” He folded his arms. “Some people say environment makes us who we are. So, I guess it’s up to us to
change
that environment, make our world a friendlier place to live in.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow; he couldn’t help it.

Arty broke out laughing. “I sound like a goddamn politician, don’t I?”

Patrick shook his head. “No, no, it just took me off guard, that’s all. I uh…I was just…yeah, you did kinda sound like a politician.”

Arty laughed again.

Patrick smiled. “But it’s nice to have someone be generous just for the sake of it.”

“Well it was my pleasure.” Arty reached out and patted Patrick twice on his upper arm, squeezing its girth hard on the final pat. It was an odd gesture that almost had Patrick yanking his arm free. The move seemed primitive—like he was being sized up.

As if reading Patrick’s mind, Arty placed both hands behind his back and started rocking on his heels. His aura had hardly dipped though; it was brighter even. He just grinned and said, “Have fun at Crater Lake.”

“
Crescent
Lake,” Patrick said, rubbing his arm, claiming it back.

“Right, Crescent Lake,” Arty said. “Hope it’s relaxing for ya.”

“Same to you.”

Patrick watched the man get into his Pontiac, then lean over his driver’s seat to check his kids. When Arty faced front again he spotted Patrick watching him through his windshield. He waved before backing up.

Patrick waved back, nodded and smiled a goodbye.

Amy spoke the second Patrick was back in the Highlander. “Who was that?”

“Some guy named Arty. He went to Penn State.”

“You knew him?”

“No. But he saw our license plate and we just started talking. He was an okay guy. A little odd. Believe it or not he bought our gas.”

“
What?
”

“I know, can you believe it?”

“Why did you let him do that?”

Patrick started the engine. “He didn’t really give me a chance to argue. He was halfway towards the attendant before I could object.”

“That’s bizarre. I wonder what he wanted.”

“That was my first impression too. I thought he was a salesmen or something— buttering us up before giving us his big pitch.” He put on his seatbelt. “But the guy had his kids in the car with him, and they were heading west to meet his wife and family so…”

“Weird.”

“Yeah,” he paused, trying to figure it all out himself. “I guess he’s just one of those guys who’s desperate to be liked. You know, started buying people’s affection as a last resort?”

“He was
weird.
”

Patrick shrugged. “Okay fine, he was weird. But at the end of the day he did save us some money.”

Free gas, even for a guzzler like theirs, did not seem to deter Amy’s pessimism. “That’s
strange
, Patrick. People don’t just do that.”

He sighed, exasperated. “I know Amy, but it’s already done. What do you want me to do about it?”

She said nothing.

“Okay then, maybe the guy’s just got a little dick and he’s compensating by flashing around wads of cash.”

Amy slapped his leg and Patrick jumped. Carrie, their six-year-old, leaned forward after witnessing her mother’s reprimand of her father. “What did Daddy say?” she asked.

“Nothing. Daddy’s just being a dummy.”

Carrie giggled and flopped back into her seat.

“That’s nice, honey. Give our children a nice heaping bowl of respect for their father.”

“Yes, well if their father would watch his mouth around his children—”

Patrick grabbed his wife’s thigh and she screeched. A rapid-fire assault of noisy smooches followed. Amy squirmed away from her husband’s probing lips, her laughter rising into playful screams. “Stop! Stop!”

One final obnoxious kiss and Patrick returned upright into his seat, more than a little pleased with himself. Amy laughed, straightened herself up, slapped her husband on the shoulder, then laughed again. Patrick turned to his kids in the backseat and flashed a silly grin. They grinned back, each one seemingly revolted yet delightfully entertained at their parents’ public display of affection.

Patrick faced front again. “Okay, we’re off.”

Arty pulled his white Pontiac to the side of an isolated road not far from the station. He got out and opened one of the back doors.

“Come on, boys,” he said, reaching in and snatching the blankets off his twin sons. He grabbed the children each by a leg and dragged them out of their car seats. Walking off the gravel road, Arty headed up a small hill towards a stretch of woods about twenty yards from where he’d parked. The boys dangled by their ankles in his grip.

Arriving at the most condensed border of the wooded area, he held the boy in his right hand up to his mouth, kissed him softly on the bottom, and punted the child deep into the woods.

The second boy got the same treatment, landing further back into the mass of green and brown than his brother. Arty raised both hands in the air like a referee confirming a touchdown.

“Take care, boys,” he said to the two plastic dolls he had just booted. And then, softly, smiling, “You served your daddy well.”

Arty strolled back to the Pontiac. He opened the driver’s door but did not enter right away. He stood there, eyes closed, breathing in one deep breath of autumn air until his chest could hold no more. He exhaled slowly, feeling the tingle radiate throughout his entire body.

“
Fuck yeah
,” he breathed.

The start of a new one. The exquisite foreplay. So good.

Arty settled into the driver’s seat. Gunning the engine, he cranked the wheel hard to the left, gravel spitting out from beneath the tires as the car fishtailed before righting itself. Before too long he was back on the main road heading west. He smirked and occasionally giggled the entire drive.

“Daddy, Caleb said he was hungry. How much further?”

“No I didn’t!” Caleb took a swipe at his sister that missed.

Patrick glanced at his wife. “You think we should stop somewhere? We’ve still got about a half hour to go.”

Amy looked at the clock on the dashboard then double-checked it with her watch. It was twelve-thirty. They hadn’t eaten since seven. “Yeah, maybe we should. Where though?”

“I’m sure we’ll come across something soon,” he said. “People around here like to eat.”

“Probably because it’s the only thing there is to
do
around here.”

“Well that’s the whole point, right?”

“To eat?”

“No—to have absolutely nothing to do. Eat, drink, s-e-x, and eat and drink some more. We’re going caveman-style, baby.”

“Just as long as you don’t start dragging me around by my hair.”

“No hair-pulling? I thought you liked that?”

Amy opted for the pinch to the arm instead of the slap to the leg this time. “Would you
stop
?”

Patrick jerked away from the pinch. “Ouch.” He rubbed his arm. “They won’t know what that one means.”

“Our kids? Don’t be so sure,
caveman
.”

Patrick turned to the back seat, scratched his head like a monkey would, then grunted, “
You kids want food, ya?
”

Both Caleb and Carrie exchanged uncertain smiles. Their father’s playful change in manner was not out of character, but this new material—the caveman—had managed to suspend their laughter for a few seconds while they tried to figure out just
who
exactly their nutty dad was trying to portray this time around. It mattered little anyway. Caveman, pirate, monster—it was the frequent shift in character they loved. There was no need for a formal introduction to the day’s performance; the sincere attention and child-like zeal their father constantly provided was enough.

“
What food you want
?” Patrick grunted again.

“Pizza,” Carrie giggled.

“
What ’bout Caleb? What food Caleb want?
” His left hand on the wheel, Patrick reached behind his seat with his right and began tickling his son’s stomach. “
Pizza okay with Caleb
?” A “yes” managed to squeak its way out of the boy between fits of laughter.

“
Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!”
Patrick leaned for a grab at Carrie. The little girl wriggled as far away as her car seat allowed, screeching with delight each time her father’s fingertips grazed her.

Amy, who was finding it near impossible not to smile, couldn’t resist a dig at her husband. “You’re such a dork.”

“You love this dork,” Patrick replied, now in twenty-first century English.

“You have your moments.”

Patrick instantly began crooning Edwin McCain’s “These are the Moments.”

Amy slapped both hands over her ears and winced. “Please make it stop.”

Patrick continued his attempt at singing (a little bit louder now to ensure proper annoyance, of that she was sure) while grinning at his wife like a loon.

She turned away from him, but succumbed to the smile. “Dork.”

If one was to drop from the sky and land in front of Tony’s Pizza, one might think it was the only restaurant in existence. At least that was Amy’s opinion. Looking east gave you nothing but mountains and trees, and looking west gave you an infinite stretch of highway that eventually dwindled to a point on the horizon. In addition to that, the restaurant’s spacious parking lot held more cars than a movie theater premiering the newest
Harry Potter
film.

“Jeez, popular place,” Amy said.

“That’s a good sign,” Patrick said. “Means they have good food.”

Carrie looked out the window, her chestnut eyes shifting from car to car as they cruised for a spot. “Are we going to park?” she asked.

“Daddy’s trying, honey.”

Carrie pulled her head away from the window and wiped her brown bangs out of her eyes. “Mommy, I need a haircut.”

Amy, who was a hawk in her quest to find an empty spot, answered in a slow, dreamy tone—her daughter’s comment finding its way in, but only deep enough for a mechanical reply. “Okay, honey...”

“Can I get one today?”

“Hmmm…?”

“Mommy?”

Amy’s gaze broke with a snap and her tongue was quick again. “Carrie, can you hold on a minute please? Your father and I are trying to find a parking spot so we can
eat
.”

Carrie huffed and scooped up her doll. She moved its legs back and forth like pistons to pacify her frustration.

Caleb watched his sister with amusement. “I need a haircut too,” he said to her.

Carrie set the doll down and glared at her younger brother, his attempt at camaraderie only appearing to agitate her further. “No you don’t,” she said. “You don’t even
have
any hair.” She finished her sentence with a hard swipe down her brother’s head of buzzed brown hair. Caleb shoved her hand away and scowled.

“There’s one!” Amy pointed.

“
Nice
. Good work, baby.” Patrick swung the Highlander to its left and worked it gingerly into the empty space. “I hate parking this damn thing.”

Amy exited first, followed by Patrick, who seemed focused on the task of not banging his car door into the Chevy next to him. Both kids waited for their mother and father to collect them.

Patrick opened the back door and unfastened the belts on Caleb’s child seat. “Let’s go, brother-man.” Caleb leaned forward into his father’s arms. Patrick intentionally grunted as he lifted. “You’re gettin’ huge, dude.” He plopped his son down and kissed him on the top of the head. “You been working out?”

Caleb squinted into the sun as he looked up at his father and smiled. Patrick took his hand, squeezed it twice, and winked at him.

Carrie, who was insistent on making her
own
way out of the car without the help of her mother, nearly had a conniption once she realized Amy was intending to shut the car door before Josie had a chance to exit.

“Okay, okay, relax.” Amy reached into the car, grabbed her daughter’s doll, and handed it to her.

“Everything okay?” Patrick asked.

“Almost forgot Josie,” Amy replied in a tone ripe with sarcasm. Carrie, who could not define sarcasm for all the toys at the North Pole, could sure as hell identify it when slung. She therefore rewarded Amy with a two-handed grip on her doll and refusal to hold her mother’s hand. Amy snorted and snatched her daughter’s hand up in an instant. “There are too many cars around here for your attitude now my little ain-pay in the utt-bay.”

As expected, the restaurant was teeming with patrons. Although it was only September, in western Pennsylvania it may as well have been January. Flannel and blue jeans with the occasional wool coat filled every booth, stool, and table. Large, well-fed people walked in and out of the restaurant, each time igniting a small bell over the glass door, something Caleb found damn near impossible to ignore whenever it chimed.