metagame
Apparently the Christmas Eve tradition in this family is games: giving them, receiving them, playing them. The children were locked in a heated battle of unicorn-themed Hungry Hungry Hippos, which had been a gift to the youngest. Each of the ravenous hippos was pastel and slightly pearlescent, a real sight to behold.
I was given a copy of Pandemic. The 14-year old complained about the game being cooperative. "Well, you all win together or you all lose, much like a real pandemic," I said, reading the back of the box.
I gave the 14-year old a copy of Fireball Island: Curse of Vul-Kar. "You sabotage other players by dropping stuff on them," I explained. His whole face lit up.
"That's what I'm talking about!" he said.
"You've created a monster," his mom teased.
"It's all Jenny's fault!" the 13-year old crowed. He'd noticed, a few days earlier, that he is extremely tapped-in to what makes me laugh; this was probably his first time attempting some light bullying on me. I accepted blame, but I might've also said the house is already full of gremlins without my help.
The family watched game shows all day. The 13-year old had received, from the youngest, a sort of soundboard remote control, allowing him to supply prerecorded audience reactions to real-life events. The remote went "ooh" and "ahh" and "aww" and "womp womp" and "gonggg." He wasn't sure about the fact that there were two different "aww"s; I suggested to him that the first aww was for anytime someone didn't figure out the final Wheel of Fortune puzzle in time, and the second aww was for anytime Ryan Seacrest flips open the placard to reveal that the contestant just missed out on a cash prize of $100,000.
The 13-year old really likes game shows so, over the course of a few days, I'd been confessing what had happened when I went on one, which is not totally legal to do. He thought the whole thing sounded a bit devious. At this, I protested.
"The host is like Gandalf," I said. What did I mean? Well, maybe Gandalf has an idea of the shape of the journey, I said, but he also knows the hobbits have to take that journey on their own. Hang on, I'm still not explaining this correctly. Okay. You know how parents are tasked with creating gentle consequences for their kids, so that kids will be better prepared for the harsh realities of the real world? It's like that. So I was being gentle-parented in that cozy, safe environment, where I'd safely experienced comparatively low-stakes consequences for my goofs. Which is exactly what any game is. It's a simulation with low-stakes consequences to explore.
This explanation satisfied the youngster, who was now able to appreciate the grace of it all.
Onscreen, on The Price is Right, someone was attempting to physically hop across a board of letters in the right sequence. I noted that this was awfully similar to a puzzle from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Then I threatened to put that movie on. The boys are the right age, I said, and it contains the important theme of having a dad, adventuring around with him.
I sat down with my Edward Gorey Dracula toy theater. I unfolded each of the three backdrops, showing each one to the 13-year old, who was trying to not look overly impressed. I suggested he help me punch out Draculas and Harkers. He declined, afraid he might tear them accidentally. I felt a little pang of grief as it dawned on me that, actually, I really wouldn't give a shit over a little headless paper figure of a stage player. I shrugged and left it well enough alone. Instead, I told him all about my toy theater from Pollock's, which I bought when I was 16 and which had subsequently gotten smooshed after it had been tossed loose into a moving box. The 13-year old's dad helped me fold a tiny couch, a bit of set dressing. This also impressed the youngster.
Later, my best friend put a small pile of gifts in front of me to open. "So you don't have so much stuff to open tomorrow," she said.
"It's me, your third kid," I joked. She blushed.
In the evening, once most of the company had left, the youngster's parents had warned him that he could only press one more sound on the remote-control soundboard; after that, he had to put it away.
"How can I choose?" he asked. "I have to listen to all of them before I can choose one."
"A real Catch-22," I said.
He asked me what that was. I explained that it was from a book, describing a type of paradox that results in a double-bind.
Finally he chose the sound of a studio audience going "awww." I wheezed with laughter.
Next, the 13-year old asked his parents, if no one were watching TV, could he put something on. His parents were reluctant, so he quickly offered to pair his Bluetooth headphones with it. His parents, amazed, said yes, and they returned to their reading.
What the kiddo put on was my episode of the game show. I laughed and buried my face in my hands. "Hang on," I said then, and I explained what was happening. "You're going to have to pause a lot," I warned him. We stopped and started through the entire episode.
I was surprised, watching the rest of the full episode for the first time, to see how many times the editors had cut to my reactions, particularly during a specific, sustained comedic bit that had surprised, shocked, and tickled me.
"It's almost like the host is making fun of you," the kid suggested at another point, very late in the game.
"Yes," I said. "I mean, no. I mean, I feel like the host and I made a lot of eye contact during the rest of the episode. I think he was genuinely like, 'Are you getting it? Are you understanding the life lessons here?'" I laughed. I have deeply internalized the lessons.
I said something about "the metagame," and the kiddo did not hesitate in asking me what a metagame was.
"Oh, it's the secret real rules underneath the fake rules you were originally told," I said to him. "Life is a metagame. You do theater—that's like a metagame, too."
Later I was making myself instant noodles while the youngster labored over a particular LEGO build at the kitchen counter. He asked me if he could try my stash of noodles sometime.
"Anytime," I told him, nodding. I also love to try new, exciting instant noodles.
I really don't remember where or why the conversation had turned, but he suddenly said something about "I mean, how can I trust my own memory?"
"Ohh," I said to him distractedly, "have you ever watched Blade Runner?" He shook his head no. "It's based on a Philip K. Dick book," I began to explain.
"Based on who?"
"A Philip K. Dick book. He wrote a lot of stuff about memory and the nature of reality. Although... he kind of lost it, later in life." I sighed.
"I read Fahrenheit 451," the youngster told me.
"Really! Bradbury! Now there was a guy who remained perfectly sane all his life, really kept it all together. What did you think of Ray Bradbury?"
He'd hated the book, actually. It was the number of characters losing their minds that had in fact made him uncomfortable. He added that he wasn't sure he'd understood it all. "It kind of sucked the life out of me," he concluded.
"Ah. Draining. A physically draining experience," I said. "Well, I hope you can foresee having a better experience with Bradbury in the future."
"I think so," he said, nodding. At this, he mentioned some of the aspects he'd liked. I assured him Bradbury isn't always so bleak.
I told him about my old boss, messaging me the day Ray Bradbury died, just checking in, hoping I was holding up okay. I didn't think I'd ever talked to her about Ray Bradbury? No, I hadn't, she said, but she'd thought of me anyway. She just assumed he was a writer I'd be into. I wasn't sure how she knew that. It was nice. I told him her name.
At one point, deep in conversation, I realized I'd left my instant noodles soaking. Now they were swollen and mushy. "Waterlogged noodles! The worst!" I huffed, pretending to be annoyed while I drained the noodles over the sink.
"It's my fault," the 13-year old volunteered.
"No, it is not," I said. "It is my fault."
"I was distracting you," he said.
"No, I forgot all about them. I should have drained them the moment—" I was crossing the kitchen, and then I paused, considering this. I looked up, directly at a cabinet door. "Yes, you are important," I said, slowly and carefully, and enunciating, without turning around. The child was silent.
I continued to think about this, as I looked around for a pair of scissors, about the possibility that some of us, the long-term career black sheep, might jump in to assume all blame because the assignation of fault means that we might've mattered to someone.
The thought was hurting my heart. I could stop him, assure him that his conversation mattered to me more than eating instant noodles. The 13-year old was more important to me than the noodles. This is not a problem, it is not a problem to be more interesting than someone's instant snack.
I think of all the times my friend in L.A. has asked me to hush while she's parallel-parking, because, she claims, I'm being too interesting while she's trying to concentrate—a lovely way to reframe the world for an ex-child who somehow got in trouble every time they'd attempted to engage with it meaningfully.
I was rummaging around under the Christmas tree, for kind of a while, but I couldn't find the wrapped item I was looking for. I gave up. I went to the kitchen and picked up a little pile of things off the counter, and my phone tumbled off the top, revealing the book right underneath.
"The Overthinker's Guide to Making Decisions?" asked the 13-year old in shock.
"I bought two copies, one for me and one for you," I said quickly. "Long before we ever talked about game shows, in fact." It'd been an educated guess based on a dearth of information.
"Is that copy mine?" he asked, reaching for it. I pulled it away from him.
"No!" I said. "I've been crawling around under the tree looking for your copy. Because I was going to give it to you tonight! But I can't find it. If you can find an item this shape and size under the tree, you can open it now."
He opted against this, having already seen me crawling around on the floor. "Then you'll have to wait until tomorrow," I sniffed.
Later, as he was getting into his coat, the 13-year old told me that the girl who was Cindy Lou Who had always hated being associated with The Grinch, but, just today, she'd rereleased a song on her own terms. ("The girl" in question is 32-year-old Taylor Momsen.)
"So she finally embraced it!" I said, nodding. I was thrilled. I explained: Earlier in the day, my Scottish friend had been gushing about Rick Astley. She hadn't previously realized he was so effortlessly charming and likable. And talented!! I'd said, yes, he has described a real turning point in his life, when his daughter explained that RickRolls were not people laughing at him—that he was both fondly remembered as well as culturally relevant. After that, he'd acquired a certain confidence, and he'd equally developed a sense of humor to go along with it. "Such rizz. I have a crush on him," I said.
"How old is he?" asked the 13-year old.
"Uh, dad-age," I said. "By which I mean, my-dad age." The child's mom snorted.
"Mark Hamill had a similar experience," I continued. "He was very upset about, you know, being so associated with Luke Skywalker. He's talked about this. He went in to read for the Joker for Batman the Animated Series, thinking, well, it's not like they'll hire me, which freed him to do whatever he wanted in his audition. Now he's got all this gratitude and this confidence. Amazing." I paused. "Let the thing people hate you for become your strength," I mused aloud.
This visibly disturbed the child's mother. "Uhh," she said. "Maybe that works for Rick Astley."
"Oh," I said, not understanding how I'd stepped in it. "I'm sorry, we were originally talking about Cindy Lou Who," I told her.
But I guess I had misspoken; it seems like the lesson is more about embracing and utilizing the thing you've most been bitter about. Because Mark Hamill was, for a time, bitter; Sir Alec Guinness died bitter. I've always really admired Mark Hamill for getting over it. Maybe it's about tossing out the old set of rules and playing by a different, better set, the ones that are for you and not against you—I really don't know.