Games

My roommate and I love board games. Sometimes he wins, sometimes I win. Okay, more times I win. We play a lot. We argue a lot. No matter how straightforward the rules, no matter how much we enjoy the game, we always manage to find something to argue over.

"You can't loan money," I say to him one night during a game of Monopoly. The other players freeze.

"Of course you can," he says. "We always have before."

"Show it to me in the rules," I say in my sticking-out-my-tongue tone of voice, even though my tongue remains in my mouth. For now.

His eyes glint, and he says, "Show it to me in the rules where it says you CAN'T." He is smug.

I am smug back. "It doesn't say in the rules you can't spit on the board, either, but no one does THAT." Both of us emphasize certain words when arguing--as if this will immediately cow the other into submission.

We go back and forth like this until we finally notice that all of our friends have left.

The more byzantine the rules, the more byzantine the arguments. Avalon Hill war games are notorious for their complicated, ferociously detailed rules. They have pages of rules. Chapters. Books. We each retain our own copy for quick reference.

"Ha!" I exclaim during a heated battle for control of the sea zone bordering Antarctica during a Word War II re-enactment game. "I've sunk your aircraft carrier with my sub. You automatically lose the two planes that were on board."

He shakes his head. "No way. They now defend on their own. Page 24, Section C.1, paragraph two."

I scan the offending paragraph quickly and bleat, "BUT....there is an exception for subs. See page 942, Section ZZ.113, paragraph seventeen." The argument continues as other sections are referenced and contradictions are pointed out. Unfortunately, even the King James Bible is open to less interpretation than these rules. We dump them.

"It's ludicrous to think planes could shoot at subs, anyway," I sneer.

He rolls his eyes and replies, "As if Britain would even be attacking Germany in Antarctica!"

We decide to call off the war--at least the one on the board. Neither of us ruminate on what would have happened if Churchill and Hitler had gotten in a similar snit and agreed to throw in the towel.

But, like hogs rooting for truffles, we find good stuff to argue about even when we agree on the rules.

"You're taking too long to move! Hurry up, will you?"

"I don't take any longer than YOU do."

"Do too! And quit counting your pieces! You should be doing stuff like that while I'm moving!"

"I had to use the bathroom while you were moving!"

"You always have an exuse!"

Then, when we finally DO finish a game, it's time for the sore winner/sore loser dance.

"Well, THAT was a satisfying victory!"

"I don't see why, considering I played so badly."

"Oh, please. I think I played pretty well."

"Having some good luck doesn't equal playing well."

"I made good STRATEGIC moves."

"Okay. Whatever."

"Why do you have to try and denigrate my victory?"

"I'm not. I'm denigrating my defeat."

"Which is done solely to make my victory seem less impressive."

"I couldn't POSSIBLY do that." (in rolling-my-eyes tone of voice)

"See?"

After these games, we don't speak to each other for literally HOURS, sometimes days, and leave hateful notes scattered about the apartment with quotes pulled from rulebooks. After a vile game of Checkers one night, I awoke the next morning to find an illegible note bleeding ink into my orange juice.

But eventually the urge overcomes one of us--because we enjoy games SO much--and one night, just over the buzz of the television, you hear, "So, you wanna play some Risk?"

The most appropriately named game that we own.