Everyone Wants to Be My Enemy - Stefan Leiva
I am a menace. When I walk in, people shield their children's eyes from my wicked grin. My laugh only brings tears from everyone in the room. At my highest, the crowd glares from below, praying for my inevitable, painful downfall. Once I hit the ground, the people sing in triumph, dancing victoriously while they share delicious drinks and warm smiles they’d never give to me.
In other words, they hate me at game night.
I'm what the kids call “a gamer”. PC, console, and even tabletop. It was an inevitable fate that my parents could not prevent. Growing up in a house of all girls (at the time), my parents outlawed video games because they were considered “for boys”. Alas, their efforts could not stop me from becoming a gamer—and a boy too.
Growing up on the most elite of games like “Diner Dash” and “Virtual Villagers”, I began to develop reflexes and critical thinking skills that would aid me in the years to come. For example, I can make anything fit in the fridge or trunk by playing IRL Tetris. A side effect of investing thousands of hours of my life into farming games and League of Legends (don't worry, I'm going to be a year sober in January; I'm picking up my token next month) is that I am horribly competitive. An unfortunate trait that contradicts my humble persona.
It’s truly not my fault that I am much more skilled and adept at games than the average person. Some people chose to invest their time with socialization; I chose to spend six years of my life playing as a sexy bird man in a virtual battle arena. Sure, you can live it up in Vegas or chase the sunset on the beach, but have you ever landed a three man knock-up into ult at Baron pit with your Yasuo nearby, giving him the perfect ult to wipe out the entire backline? Probably not, I'd be surprised if you understood a word I said. But me? I needed a cigarette after that one.
There’s nothing wrong with taking game night seriously. Everyone’s having fun, shouldn’t I be allowed some competitive fun too? As long as you overlook my record.
The record in question:
Lying and cheating (Uno)
Gaslighting (Murder Mystery)
Psychological manipulation (JackBox)
Workplace battery and assault (Overcooked)
Cabbage patching (Everything)
They’re not crimes, it’s strategy.
As a result, players regularly collude to ensure my loss. “As long as Stefan doesn’t win, I’m happy.” Years ago, during a long, arduous game of Uno, my best friend Gracie handed another player victory by skipping me. I was astonished by the move and asked, “Why did you do that? You lost because of that!” With tired eyes and slumped shoulders, she sighed.
“Yeah, I did.”
She willingly gave up her chance to win just so I wouldn’t. Ridiculous. My friends distrust me and root for my failure, yet I’m always the one to set up games and explain the rules. They know I poison the water, yet they drink anyway. Nowadays, I’ve retired from being competitive—at least overtly. I play calm and collected, offering advice and praising good moves, but, in their eyes, I am still a snake sizing up my competitors for my next meal. (They’re right, but I deserve some benefit of doubt.)
Our most recent game night had me, Jeeven, a fly under the radar just as competitive as me, and Gracie, smart as me and knows all my tricks, play some Uno. We were all there to bask in the warmth of our friendship on Friendsgiving—but that was all over once the cards came out. If you’ve ever played Uno—or One for you single-linguals—you know that it’s a game of strategy, wit, and above all, colluding. When one person hits Uno, you turn to the person before them and beg “Can you stack? What about a skip? Do something, for the love of God, do something.”
Gracie won round one and Jeeven won round two, so the natural and most righteous path forward would be for me to win the final round. I behaved by containing my overflowing bile and instead commented on the wackiest turn of events. “Who shuffled these cards? Haha!” said Stefan, the one who shuffled the cards. Sweet and wholesome. I deserved to win.
We were playing Crazy Uno, rotating and switching decks, jumping in, and stacking, stacking, stacking. With two cards in my hand, a red five and green five, victory was in my grasp once my turn came. There was a green card whispering to me, “Do it Stefan. You earned this. You’re so skillful and sexy. This win is yours.” I proudly slammed down my green five, then red five. A smart move. A strategic move. A legal move. Before I could take my first breath of triumph, both of my friends pushed up their imaginary glasses and snorted—metaphorically.
Um, you technically didn’t say Uno, so you have to pick up two cards.
Bullshit.
This wasn’t honoring the rules—this was discrimination. I earned this win. This win was mine. I am so skillful and sexy!! I should’ve won DAMMIT! But I couldn’t show my indignation. Because if I did, that would mean the sinister Stefan hadn’t changed. He was still the same old victory hungry menace that would slit throats for a win. I was (imperfectly) reformed so I begrudgingly picked up two cards, with annoyance leaking through every orifice.
I didn’t win. Gracie snatched victory after more turns of deceivery. Still bitter about the robbery, I watched in horror as Jeeven grabbed his Sunrise on the Beach and raised his glass in the air to Gracie. “To winning at least one round of Uno!” She happily clinked her glass and they drank in celebration. Like kings toasting chalices of the finest wine, bellowing chuckles over their success while the jester looks on quietly.
“Haha! Good game guys!” I said.
I will destroy them all.
Stefan Leiva is a second year graduate student in the MFA Program for Creative Writing. He is a queer fiction writer who has dabbled in creative nonfiction. His stories center around queer youth and their experiences with identity, relationships and adolescence. He aims to work as a creative writing professor in the time he isn't writing every novel that comes to mind.
