Cindy’d be living in a big house over in Blackhawk or something. Lawyer husband and a housekeeper and a BMW and the country club and all that shit. Well, they could have had that stuff. Don’t have to be a lawyer to get money. Just need to have the want.

Bob thinks about the kinds of things a man can do to make money if he has the want. And he looks at his sons.

He watches George laugh and spray some chips out of his mouth and clean them from the tabletop and say excuse me. He watches the way Andy and Hector and Paul all watch him, take their cue from him. The leader of the pack. But not taking advantage of it, not lording it over his pals. Kid could be something special, just needs to put some elbow grease into it. So many things come easy to the boy, he thinks that’s the way it’s always gonna be. Bob knows that feeling. And it didn’t matter how hard his pop tried to slap it into him, he had to learn different on his own.

Cindy scoops some more fruit salad into Andy’s bowl. He picks through it, eating first the grapes and then the oranges and then the bananas and then the apples, leaving the little slivers of strawberry for last.

Bob shakes his head.

Where did he come from? And how in God’s name did he survive in the first place? Six weeks early. Could rest on the palm of your hand. Doctors telling them not to get their hopes up. Telling them that if he made it he might not be normal. Shit, they were right about that one. Normal is the last thing his youngest turned out to be.

Nine days out of ten it’s more fun to butt heads with George than it is to try and figure what the hell Andy is talking about. Pick him up from school on a rain day, he’s chattering about some theory of how the universe is all made of empty space, how everything solid is mostly just air. Or not even air. Made of just nothing. Made of the chance that something might be in all the nothing. Or some shit like that. A little kid with stuff like that in his head. Still, it’s better than when he starts in on Dungeons amp; Dragons. Might as well be speaking in tongues.

Man, if the apple’s ever fallen farther from the tree, he’d like to know about it. Still, college. Two years early and all expenses paid. His son. If that doesn’t make it all seem worthwhile, nothing else will.

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich, crumples his napkin and drops it on the plate and leans back in his chair. Cindy reaches over and kneads the back of his neck, and he runs his fingers over her bare forearm.

None of it in the cards. Thirty five. A woman like this. Sons like these.

They’d been taking bets on him fifteen years ago, most people who knew a thing about him would have had theirs on prison or a coffin. And it would have been safe money.

– Eurythmics, Culture Club, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode and the Talking Heads.

– I like “Psycho Killer.”

– I know what you like, man, it’s my fucking list and those are the five gayest bands in the world.

Hector rips open a bag of Doritos.

– There’s not really anything gay about Talking Heads.

Paul grabs the chips from him.

– Just because you like one of their songs doesn’t mean they’re not gay.

George holds out a hand and Paul passes him the bag.

– I’m with Paul on this one, the Heads are pretty gay. I mean, what’s up with the big suit?

– Fuck cares about the big suit, listen to the music.

Andy peels back the lid on a can of bean dip.

– I think Hector likes them.

– Fuck you. You don’t even have a list. There’s no music too gay for you.

Andy gets a chip from the bag and scoops a wad of dip.

So he likes a lot of music, big deal. Course, the problem isn’t liking all kinds of music, it’s liking mellow music. Not just a track like “Behind Blue Eyes,” which rocks toward the end, after all, or even instrumentals like “Orchid,” but really mellow shit. Jackson Browne. Journey. John Denver. Paul caught him listening to Denver once. Would have been better if he’d walked in on him jerking off.

For now he needs to keep his mouth shut. Otherwise the Rocky Mountain High Incident will be mentioned and harped on for the rest of the night.

He dips another chip and rolls a four sided die on his notepad and writes down a number.

Hector holds up a hand and checks off fingers one by one.

– The gayest bands are. Culture Club.

George flips another page in the Monster Manual and looks at a picture of a fire elemental.

– Culture Club goes without saying. At this point we should really be doing the gayest bands other than Culture Club and Duran Duran.

Paul has moved and is sitting next to him on the bed, looking at the pictures over his shoulder.

– Fuck, that’s cool. That’s what I want to be. Andy, I want to be a fire elemental.

– You can’t.

– Fuck can’t I?

– There’s no stats for them. I’d have to make it up again and it takes too much time. I’ll give your character something with fire that’s cool.

– Cool. Thanks.

Andy thinks about fire, he thinks about fire as a weapon and what it would be like to burn someone, and he sees what it would look like. He shakes the image away and rolls the twenty sided die.

At first he fought when the guys wanted to be monsters and shit, stuff that Dungeons amp; Dragons isn’t designed for, but then he realized it was more fun that way. The more they ignored the way the game was supposed to be played, the more fun it became for him. Chaos.

He thinks about fire again, about fractals and how they can describe a natural phenomenon like fire. He thinks about whether there is a difference between what is random and what is chaotic.

Numbers arrange themselves for him and he writes them down.

Hector starts with his first finger again.

– Fine, no Culture and no Duran and Paul can’t be a gay fire elemental. The five gayest bands are Devo, Depeche Mode, Flock of Seagulls.

Paul hits his own forehead.

– Hugely gay. The Flock. How’d I miss those cocksuckers?

– Wham.

– Massively gay. Again, how’d I miss that?

– And Phil Collins.

George slaps the Monster Manual shut.

– Not a band.

Hector stands up.

– You know, I don’t even care. He’s so fucking gay and his music sucks so fucking hard he has to be on the fucking list.

Paul takes the Monster Manual and flips it back open, looking for the fire elemental again.

– I’m still so stunned by Fuck a Seagull and Wham, I don’t think he even needs Phil. You can D.Q. Phil and that is still the gayest list ever.

He nudges Andy with his toe.

– What say?

Andy writes a number for armor class and looks up.

– Mondo gay. Hector clearly knows his gay. His gayometer is in fine working shape. His recognition of gayness is noteworthy and admirable. All hail Hector, King of Gay.

By gayometer Paul and George have already fallen out laughing. They’re helpless long before King of Gay.

Hector holds his hands above his head.

– So be it, King of Gay. Still better than being Mellow Lad, like John Denver over here.

Andy laughs and writes something on a paper and holds it out.

– Here’s your character, Hector, King of Gay. He has a plus five to find gay.

One arm held out straight, Hector spins in place.

– Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Slowing, stopping, swinging back in the other direction, bringing his arm down toward Andy.

– Beepbeepbeep. Beeeeeeeeep!

Pointing right at him now.

– Cool, it works. Guys, I just found some gay.

It’s another half hour or so before they get started, spread around the room, Diary of a Madman in the tape player, the last of the bottle of Jack that Jeff bought for them making the rounds.

Andy doesn’t remember how they ended up playing the game with him. Somehow, one of the days they’d started by fucking with him about it had ended with them playing. George had probably had something to do with it. Leading Paul and Hector from messing with him into letting him show them something new. And now they play just about every week. Getting stoned while Andy takes them through a new dungeon or a haunted forest or whatever. Playing until they get bored and just start saying I hit it with my battle ax every time they run across something that breathes.