Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (9 page)

With my sparkly headset in place, hands on the ready, I press enter and I’m logged in, ready to join in with my band of brothers in battle. Christian finds me easily. I try really hard to make my character stand out, plus my name - PrettyPanties - appears above my players’ head, so there’s that. The rest of the crew are here and already involved in some pretty serious combat. I see GamesWood and PaulGayman practicing trick-shots while running for cover, then I see a NOOB (new guy) following them, apparently looking to join our team. Poor thing, he’s got that look going like he wants in with the cool kids (I know you’re wondering how I know his electronic look, but I can read players’ body signals. It’s a skill I’ve mastered. Ask anyone on my squad, I’m legendary). Then, running towards me wielding a crazy amount of sex appeal is Mrnotsosmall@all, and I’m instantly reminded of the girl in that “10” movie, backpack bouncing in the air, electronic hat getting blown by the wind, Ahhhhhh…… 

“Hey, where you been? We’ve been getting killed here.”  Oh, he wants to know my whereabouts, nice. It’s important that I play it cool here in order to add to the charade that my life is full, eventful and carefree. 

“Been crazy busy. Lots going on. Have you been here long?” Suddenly I feel like I’m at a bar and not on some animated, deserted Chernobyl-styled battle field.

“Yah. I’ve been waiting actually.” HOLY CRAP! 

“Oh... Cool. I just had work to do, but I’m all caught up now so, guess I’m all yours. Where do you want me?” Say under me, do it… SAY IT! 

“Under me.” YES! That’s my big boy! He’s laughing and so am I, but the tension in our electronic relationship is starting to buzz. His guy nudges my guy and we take off flanking each other’s players’, protecting one another’s blindsides. 

We’re heavily flirting and killing for one another, outward signs of our harmony, so obviously I’m way too caught up in MrNotso to hear Ashton come stumbling in a few hours later. When he finally stands in front of the television to get my attention I see a peppering of lipstick smeared from one corner of his mouth to the other and although I’m in a serious “thing” with MrNotso right now I still feel heat rise up from my chest as I experience a sobering moment of jealousy.

“You gon juz nore me all nigh?” Ashton slurs while clumsily looking from me back to the screen over his shoulder, “or you an diz guy gon a fineely do it?” I’m stunned a second later when he abruptly screams out for MrNotso to hear, “She wans you man!”

I hear a tinge of disappointment in Mr.’s voice a moment later when he asks, “Is that your boyfriend?”  Horrified and delighted that he cares I answer quickly and without hesitation.

“Best friend. Sorry about that. I’ve gotta,” then I’m interrupted yet again by a disorderly Ashton shouting, “Yah, sheeze busy! With me! Da bes friend! You know bout the fren-zone budy, cuz im livin’ in it. But don you worry tho.  Nope, cuz sheeze always here. Hot pans is all yous, I mean y…o…u...r...s,” he spells it out extra slow to make his point clear seeing that he obviously can’t enunciate well enough through the beer-brained haze he’s currently existing in.

“Well, I’m going to let you go, PrettyPanties. Or should I say hot pans? You appear to have your hands full at the moment.” His laughter calms my nerves and it’s clear that he’s not at all worried by my relationship with my “friend” here. Which only makes one of us? 

“Thanks. This is not uncommon, no worries. I’ll catch you soon. And I am not a hot pan, I assure you.” Then using the most attractive voice I can muster I simply say, “night” before signing off.

Looking down at Ashton’s long, limp body sprawled out in the shape of a human-sized X on my living room floor, I roll my eyes and groan aloud with frustration. I have two choices in this scenario. The first and easiest choice is to leave him be, cover his lovely, irritating body with a blanket and set a garbage pail beside him for his morning puke. The second and more humane choice is to somehow get him up, move him to my room and strip him of his sweaty, filthy clothes all while using the newfound herculean strength I was previously unaware I possessed.  In this scenario I could really use some of Wonder Woman’s other attributes, such as her Amazonian size and the strength she garnered from all those years of hand-to-hand combat.

After much deliberation it is clear that the humane version wins. While contemplating my plan of attack I kick his foot to check for any kind of reaction and as I both anticipated and feared, nothing. As I sit staring at my bull of a best friend, I come up with a plan inspired by a game I used to play with my brother as a child: sheet and slide.  Connor’s always been at least a head bigger than me, but when we were young I could still drag him around the house on a sheet so I’m going to do just that here and apply that same technique. We’ll title this
Sheet and slide: the drunkard addition
.  

Going to the hall closet I grab the largest and oldest top sheet I can find. Then I very gently, so as not to wake the swooned-princess, shimmy it under his head and down until it’s poking out from under his large feet. I take off his shoes and socks and leave them at the front door where I prefer them to be while also remembering to thank the good Lord for the small, immeasurable mercy of Ash not having stinky feet. Finally the shirt comes off and the voyeur in me decides to take just a moment to study his well defined, tanned and tattooed chest while free of his cocky gaze.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been so free to blatantly check out his many tattoos. His head would explode if he really knew how hot I thought they were. When I was still able to go outdoors I’d sit for hours on the sand, hypnotized by the way the inked skin would seemingly crawl across his wet body as the bright rays of the sun hit him just so as he surfed. The sun highlighted the ones that ran across his chest and back but when he threw his arms out for balance, his forearms and biceps would steal the show. 

Looking down on the tan, lean body sprawled across my living room floor I realize that I can recall with almost perfect clarity when each and every one of those beautiful tattoos was placed. He’d call me and say, “its time,” which is code for “I need your hand because I’m about to get a needle shoved into my delicate man-skin and even though we both know how tough I am I’m also fine to admit that I’m afraid of tattoo needles and therefore I need your hand.” The vulnerability he showed to me is the only reason I ever went (as far as he was concerned. The real reason was his hot bod….SHHH!).

As I’m looking (ogling) him I see some new art that I haven’t noticed until today. The words are cleverly intertwined with some of the older ones as if meant to be hidden from sight. The only reason they are obvious now is because they’re newer, fresher, so the color is brighter than their surrounding cohorts. I’m suddenly sad as I realize that this is the first time I wasn’t there to hold his hand when he needed me. Then I wonder who was?

Daily, I’m becoming more and more aware that I’m not really there for Ash like I used to be, that for a long time it’s been the other way around. He’s always taking care of me while getting nothing in return. When I add this reality to the fear I have of him getting sick of me and my plethora of problems, I feel crippled with the anxiety that our time is almost up. 

Before I have the opportunity to become overwhelmed by self loathing and just as I’m squinting to read the small print on his chest, he starts to stir. If I want to get him settled I need to move quickly. So I pull up the corners of the sheet and begin dragging him down the hall as fast as my little feet will shuffle. There is a list of reasons why I like hardwood flooring but the ease at which I am currently dragging my beast of a best friend across them has got to be at the very top of that list, followed closely by sock sliding.

Lucky for me the dragging does the trick and lulls the rock star back to sleep. He never stirs again, not even after I’ve lifted the blanket and hauled him across the uneven threshold onto the much more comfortable carpeted, bedroom floor. Now that he’s peacefully slumbering on a softer surface I leave him be and go grab his favorite blanket. When I get back to my room I’m struck by the sweetest picture of friendship. Master has settled in next to Ash, spooning him with one long doggy arm thrown over Ash’s waist as if  to say, “I’m here for you brother.” They look so cute and contented I almost want to lie down and snuggle up with them, but almost isn’t enough when put up against my amazing bed. It’s not even a fair fight, bed wins every time.

As I cover them up with Ash’s favorite quilt he reaches out his hand and smoothes it against my cheek in an incredibly sensual caress. It’s impressive he can be so smooth considering his current level of intoxication. I lay my hand over his and rub my cheek into his rough palm like a puppy seeking more attention, knowing that tomorrow he’ll never remember any of this anyway. 

Only, when I look down at him do I notice he’s staring back at me with eyes as smooth and bright as a piece of golden sea glass abandoned on shore. The expression he’s sharing is one I’m not yet familiar with coming from him.  Desire. As I gaze back at him I’m fully aware that he’s probably dreaming so I do what feels right in the moment and turn my head into his palm where I lightly feather soft kisses into his warm hand. As my lips roam across his skin he moans something I can’t decipher, drops his hand to the ground like the thousand pound weight it’s sure to feel like, and falls swiftly back into a deep comatose sleep.

***

Master and I are cuddled up in our customary corner of the couch when Ashton comes moaning down the hall the next afternoon. He looks like… well… bad. If BAD were a person, his face would be the definition. He joins us on the couch, curling his long body into the ever popular fetal position while searching for some kind of comfort. I have pity on him and immediately get up to get him my go to hangover kit of ibuprofen and one of my few remaining extra large bottles of
Smart Water
. When I get back, Master’s moved to the floor under Ashton’s limp hand hoping in vain to get pet. Good luck boy. You’re definitely barking up the wrong tree today, buddy. As often as Ashton comes in drunk or buzzed during the night, I can’t remember the last time I saw him in this state the day after, the state most commonly referred to as Hell.

“Thanks, hotpants,” he says through a hoarse whisper, grimacing from the loud sound of his own voice banging around in his thick skull.  I nod my head, curl back into my spot in the corner of the couch and look at him as he closes his eyes, hoping for a reprieve from his self-induced pain. “When you’re ready we can talk about what happened last night.” I say quietly from my corner.

“What do you mean?” His eyes are still firmly shut, whisper still in effect.

“I was hoping you could tell me? You came barging in here, covered in lipstick, swaying like a sailor just off his boat, yelling at all my gamer-guys. You weren’t you.” I reach over, unable to help my needy hands and start feathering my fingers through his thick caramel colored locks, waiting for a reply while hopefully giving him some much needed comfort. Instead, he just shrugs his shoulders, too exhausted to consider his actions and their effects on me or us. 

As I’m looking him over I’m reminded of the new tattoos I found last night and start tracing the delicate lettering with my fingertips, causing tiny goose bumps to pop up all over his flesh wherever my fingers travel. He moans in approval and I continue, wanting him to take the comfort I’m offering. Upon closer inspection it appears the words start at the bottom of his left wrist and worm their way up, around and through the other tattoos until they reach his heart in the center of his well formed chest. The letters are a tiny script and I can’t make them out because of how we’re sitting but I make a mental note to ask him later or get some magnifiers, whatever comes first.

I continue gliding my middle finger from point A to point B like some kind of ritualistic prayer of affection; up and down, up and down, up and down until he’s lightly snoring beneath my nurturing touch. More than anything I want Ashton happy. He’s had such a hard life and my job as best friend has always been to make it better. Just like when we were kids.

***

“
Ashton, wake up! Wake up! It’s Christmas! You have to go home before my dad finds you in here!”

“Your dad loves me Cee. He’s not going to care,” he says rolling over and shoving his head under my pillow before mumbling back the rest of his points, “besides, I’m positive my parents aren’t going to care. My dad already told me I’m not getting any presents anyway. He said, and I quote, ‘twelve is too old for that kind of kid stuff’. Now, let me sleep, I’m a growing boy. Go have your Christmas.” 

“Ok. Fine, I’ll be back. Don’t go,” why I even say that I have no clue. He’ll sleep til’ at least noon, I have no immediate worries about him going anywhere. I run to the kitchen and find my dad awake making our traditional Christmas morning Monkey Bread. The smell alone sends Christmas cheer through me, especially this year. Dad’s been doing so much better since he finished chemo two months ago and is in such a great place.  His doctor told us it looks like they got the cancer and he may be in remission, we’ll know for sure after his next appointment.  Needless to say, Christmas came to our house two months ago, so anything we get today is just icing on that proverbial baby Jesus birthday cake!

“Morning Princess, Happy Christmas!” He knows I love saying Happy Christmas, ‘cause that’s what they say in England and I just think it sounds so much more fun! “So, where’s Ashton? I know he’s here. When he comes through your window it’s like he’s wearing hooves for feet or something. So much banging about,” he says all this with laughter in his eyes while mixing together the cinnamon-sugar, buttery goodness at the counter.