Wheel of Misfortune
Shawn and I may be the only two childless men over thirty I know who spend their Saturday nights going to Toys R’ Us. This isn’t to say that there aren’t others; it’s just that I don’t know them. The other guys are usually Star Wars fanatics out for first edition collectible plastic light sabers and robed action figures that vaguely resemble Ewan McGregor. Or they’re looking for Dungeons and Dragons paraphernalia. They wear Birkenstock sandals and XXXL Spider Man t-shirts over sporty sweat pants. They have long, greasy hair dangling from the edges of their bald spots like defeated, stringy seaweed, and possess a peculiar odor reminiscent of their parent’s dank basements and Cheetos, and something unnervingly organic and better left unnamed. They appear pale and disoriented under the bright fluorescent lights, and are easily distracted by anything bearing the Lord of the Rings movie logo. I’ve seen them, but, as I said, I don’t know them. Shawn and I are way too cool to associate with people like that.

No, we’re not there for first editions of anything (well, not since the Simpsons craze died out everywhere but on eBay and in our hearts, and in the 20-some-odd boxes it took to move the collective collection). Our odor, like our fashion sense, is at worst inoffensive, and our hair grows lush and rampant. We’re a different breed of creepy guy haunting toy stores.

Shawn and I are game players.

This is not to say, however, that we are “Players”, or even “Playaz;” nor are we “Pimpz,” “Ballaz,” “Shotgun Callaz,” “Hoodrat Luvaz,” “Playa Luvaz,” “Gangstaz,” “G’z,” “Thugz,” “Hustlaz,” or anything else ending with a z. That’s an altogether different scene, filled with “Bling” (expensive accessories, like gold watches or dental insurance), “Ho’z” (women of questionable moral fortitude with all the allure and fashion sense of a prostitute, but none of the expense), “Beyotchez” (see: “Ho’z”), and “Hootchie Mamaz” (look it up yourself). I think I speak for both of us when I say we’d rather be the pathetic mama’s boy in the thick glasses hyperventilating over the latest Darth Mal figure (with Dual Action Light Saber!!) than a “playa.”

Luckily, however, we’re just two guys looking for a new board game or video game. Sometimes we also enjoy thinking of how much fun it would be to have a Batman costume around the house, for, um, Halloween, but the utility belts and chest plates that come with them are always too small. Plus one rarely finds a Robin costume, and one really would need it to complete the Dynamic Duo. But I digress. Shawn and I enjoy spending a quiet evening at home with a deck of cards, a Scrabble board, or even a video game. Or, rather, we enjoy the idea of spending a quiet evening at home playing cards, Scrabble, or video games.

When it comes to games, we’re sporting, but we’re not good sports. In reality, a game of Scrabble can not only ruin an entire quiet evening at home, but an entire quiet weekend at home. We both hate losing. I am the unquestioned Scrabble champ in the house, thus Shawn hates playing Scrabble. Shawn is the undisputed board game champ, thus I hate playing board games. I am the ultimate loser at the Game of Life, and, understandably I think, it makes me irritable. Games of chance and luck are not my forte. The other night, we attempted to play poker. Shawn won the first hand with a pair of kings, and the second with a full house. There was no third hand.

Video games are a toss-up, depending on what kind they are. I’m a shooting, fighting, and melee weapon fool. Shawn can do all the accurate jumping from ledge to ledge and anything requiring timing or puzzle solving. Sometimes we can play a game by passing the controller back and forth, and it’s a beautiful thing, really, working together to achieve a common goal. But our shelves are lined with video games whose mysterious second levels remain a mystery. We no longer speak of certain levels of a video game called Ratchet and Clank, the aftermath of which required a replacement controller, a carpet shampooing, and lots of “quiet time.” The cat hid under the bed for hours, shedding nervously. I have absolutely no recollection of ripping the disc out of the PlayStation and snapping it in half, but there were witnesses, so I suppose I must have. Let us dwell no more on that unpleasantness. Mention the name of another certain video game (let’s call it “Prince of Persia,” for that’s what it’s called) and Shawn gets cranky, thinking of the hours wasted attempting to save a princess from a demonic horde. Mention that the game cost about $50.00 and watch cranky become something more akin to rage.

And so it was that Shawn and I were at Toys R’ Us, avoiding the weirdoes not shopping for wholesome family games or costumes, looking for a game we could both enjoy playing together. Shawn has an attraction to sale bins and red mark-down stickers that rivals the gravitational force keeping the planets aligned. You don’t wanna get caught between him and a 30% off sign. It may be the last time you get caught anywhere. His eyes gleam with unholy zealotry as he lashes out with his elbows and snarls fiercely to keep other shoppers at bay, even if there aren’t any. He hides things he wants to come back for later by stuffing them behind displays of other merchandise in the store. It’s madness.

But tonight, his madness paid off. We found a video game we were sure both of us would enjoy, and it had been marked down.

Spin the wheel.

Guess a letter.

Buy an “E” or an “I.”

Heck, live dangerously and buy a “U.”

Win fictitious cash and prizes.

Live happily ever after.

Wheel! Of! Fortune! It’s all in good fun, whimsical and lighthearted as the chimes that mark the beginning of each round. What will the category be? A “Thing?” A “Before and After?” The Christmas Eve-like suspense! What could be a more wholesome or inoffensive addition to game night? What could be more wholesome or inoffensive than Vanna White? It was the video game equivalent to a trip to a petting zoo. Surely no harm could befall our fragile egos and domestic tranquility from something as sappy as a glorified game of Hangman.

My first spin landed on $300. I requested an “S.”

“No,” Vanna said.

Shawn then spun the wheel sixteen times in a row and solved the first three puzzles.

“Now let’s take a look at the scores,” Vanna suggested, turning her head and smiling as she gestured awkwardly at empty space. The scene abruptly cut and our scores were displayed. Shawn had $14600. I had $0.

Beginner’s luck, nothing more. I was determined to make a comeback. Finally, I was getting the chance to spin that glittering wheel!

I landed on “Lose A Turn.”

“Aww,” Vanna said from off screen. “Bad luck.”

Thanks, Vanna.

I watched in good humor as Shawn finished the rest of the game by himself, as my score of $0 had eliminated me from the bonus round. He performed well. Then it was time for a rematch.

My fist spin landed on “Bankrupt.” My second spin landed on “Bankrupt.” My third spin landed on “Lose A Turn.” Essentially, Shawn played the game by himself, pausing long enough for me to spin a “Bankrupt” or a “Lose A Turn” occasionally. I had had better luck with a Wheel of Fortune themed slot machine in Vegas. (Although even there Shawn proved to the master of the wheel. I won $60 on that slot machine, he won $200.)

I was getting irritated.

When, on my third spin into a new game, I hit “Bankrupt” for the third time, there was a cutaway scene of Vanna, looking sympathetic and glamorous. “Oh, too bad. But I guess it could be worse,” she said, with a little shrug of her shoulders.

“Shut up, bitch,” I said.

Yes, I suppose things could always be worse. I could be a quadruple amputee with a speech impediment. But in terms relative to Wheel of Fortune, how, exactly, could things be worse? There is no “Execution by Firing Squad” or “Rectal Hemorrhage” space on the wheel. “Bankrupt,” spelled out in capital white letters on a field as black and empty as death itself, is as bad as things can possibly get in the land of the wheel. What the hell was Vanna babbling about?

Shawn continued to calmly spin the wheel, guess consonants, buy vowels, and solve the puzzles.

“Why yes,” Vanna told him. “There is an E. In fact, there are four of them!”

“Way to go! That was fantastic!”

“You’ve won quite a lot of money!”

To me, she said “No, sorry. There are no T’s”

“None in this puzzle.”

“Oh, bad luck.”

“Oh, too bad. But I guess things could be—“

“Shut up, you whore!” I screamed at her. “STOP SAYING THAT!!!”

“That’s the way it goes,” she said.

The way it goes, indeed.

It seems our quest for the ultimate game continues. It’s not a total loss, though, because Shawn enjoys playing the game by himself. Aside from the cursing, ranting, and death threats to Vanna, it’s practically the same as playing against me anyway. We’ll have to go back to Toys R’ Us this weekend. There was a nice collector’s edition of Chutes and Ladders there. Maybe we can get a first edition.