Too quickly, my attention turned to the owners of these beloved consoles: the mythical Teen Older Brother Gamer, who I scarcely knew but whose presence always decorated my gaming spaces. How much he’d love a girl who could beat him at videogames (boys loved that, right?)īut, sensing how unsatisfying my version of small talk was, I decided to figure out some other way of earning my keep to play games. Melee (2001) disc that needed to come with it. So I forced myself to make small talk for at least three minutes before broaching the possible availability of the GameCube and Super Smash Bros. “Is your brother home?” so often became the first words out of my mouth when I went over a friend’s house that I started to worry they’d find me out and stop inviting me. I wasn’t allowed to play games at home, so all my early gaming experiences were strictly covert operations. I did have a few real life girl friends for the occasional playdate or recess, but it was by no coincidence that all those girls had older brothers with videogame consoles. Fiction was less of a fancy and more like my social life the stories they told and that I invented serving as friends, boyfriends, mentors. So instead of the living thing, I studied the human experience in the controlled environment of books and games and my own mind. The complexity of people-with all their subtext and hints and the ever-present threat of a faux pas-paralyzed me. I preferred fictional, computer-generated, and four-legged company to most human interaction. People didn’t seem to like me much and I didn’t like them either. His only response is a full-toothed grin overflowing with slobber. “You’re really something, Daxter,” I say, shaking my head, petting him despite myself.
I know he’ll run his heart out to catch that golden retriever and I know he’ll fail, either by tripping over himself, crashing into a tree, or some other form of physical ineptness. He’ll fail, and come sauntering back to me, head held high, like I can thank him later for doing all the hard work of saving the day. I know calling him back now will be pointless. Before I can even think of telling him to stay, he’s off-all bow-legged limbs and effort, but with very little to show for it. Just like that, the tension melts from Dax’s body, instantly replaced by the prance of a baby goat. But, after reaching a bend in our path, he pauses.Ī golden retriever tears out of some nearby bushes, a maniacal, blurry ball of yellow fur flying across my vision. Head low, eyes steady, he slinks forward to his new objective with laser focus. His ears perk at my response before immediately shooting down to the ground with the rest of his body.
A wet, impatient nudge tells me to hurry up already-there’s something I should see up ahead. I hear him pad up next to me before I feel his whiskers tickle my ankles.
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This article is part of PS2 Week, a full week celebrating the 2000 PlayStation 2 console.