In the Name of the Father

1
I am in a basement.
My legs rest awkwardly in the folding chair; the table in front of us, too, fold
s, but for the moment it is upright, with our tiles scattered across it.
The game begins.
I would stare my opponents down, to intimidate, but they fidget as often as I; t
heir minds beg to focus on the task at hand, beg and receive little.
Still: we play.
There are a hundred tiles in all, and as each round begins, we divvy thirty of t
hem up among the three of us.
Ten each; ten seconds to form a word; ten rounds.
TEYZVLSVAX
I see LUST first and push the four tiles forward, only to see TAXES and SALTY a
split-second later. No matter; what's done is done.
The henchman to my left slides forth DISDAIN, but I keep my face firm. The secon
d henchman plays MAIL.
The first henchman collects all thirty tiles, shuffles them in his hand along wi
th the other seventy, and we begin a new round.
QJNEPAIWCH
The second henchman jumps in first with JOKER.
I see PAIN first, but I follow with CHEAP; we are both defeated by HONESTY.
The first henchman gathers the tiles, re-distributes them.
PIDABGTOCI
I am missing the Y for IDIOCY, missing the E for COPED, missing the N for CAPTAI
N, and in searching for what I am missing, I have also missed the opportunity to
play first; the first henchman spells out SLICK. The second henchman can only e
ke out GAB, and I finish with PAID.
The first henchman lets a smile slip as he collects the tiles, and I am suddenly
aware that the music continues to blare upstairs; I only notice it again becaus
e his arrogance is so jarring, drawing my attention the the universe outside of
the game. He recognizes his mistake, however, and swiftly returns his face to it
s normal state.
I focus and see TOPIC; then I see BIOPIC, and I blink heavily.
OAMRNFIWEE
Finally, I catch a break. I leap forth with ENAMOR; I don't see FREEMAN until af
ter I've slid the tiles forward. My suboptimal play is irrelevant: the first hen
chman can only offer HALF, and the second henchman follows meekly with RIFT.
My seven-point play begins a wave of confidence: over the next six rounds, I pus
h forth PICKET, HANDLER, and even a nine-point VIRILITY.
By the tenth round, the best either of the henchmen has played is NUISANCES, and
even that isn't enough to take my lead away from me.
I shake both their hands, glance at their boss, sitting above us, ever stoic, an
d leave the room triumphant.

2
Our final game takes place a few months later.
Anymore, whether or not we are playing the game for sport or for their boss' enj
oyment, I cannot be sure.
Each of us rustle more than usual, squirm in our chairs even before the tiles ar
e distributed; we struggle with each round. Their boss simply sits and watches,
atop the bookshelf, obese, silent, placid. His face is blank, but his body is a
scalpel.
The plays have been unimpressive as of late: VOLATILE landed on the table a mont
h earlier, but nothing else of merit since.
NHLZYNACXO
The first henchman opens the game with MATURE; the second henchman slides forth
GLIB.
I see HOAX first, then LYNCH, but surprise even myself when I play HALCYON.
Even so, there is no exhilaration, no pride. If anything, threads of disinterest
flicker across me.
The rounds progress slowly; no one is acquiring any more than seven points, and
I have a series of lazy plays: ROLL, TAMED and GUT, the last of which would have
been disappointing had my heart still been in the game.
The eighth round:
JDKMSKIALY
I am about to lead when the first henchman's reflexes have an uncharacteristic s
purt of energy, and GHOST appears before us. The second henchman follows with YO
UTH, and the extra time has allowed me to discover DISMAY, and play it instead o
f MAIDS to win the round.
I collect all of the tiles, and am shaking them absentmindedly in my hand when t
he bass kicks in, the song that is playing upstairs rattles the walls, and I hav
e not noticed the music for so long that I let out a gasp and drop the tiles, th
ey clink clank clatter against the metal legs of the table and my chair, rattle
against the floor, disperse.
Nobody dares move.
His henchmen look at each other first, then their eyes turn to their boss, who r
emains immovable.
The silence is unbearable.
Finally, the first one speaks:
"It would be in your best interest to find and gather all of the tiles."
All three of us already know this, but fear had paralyzed me, and his audible wo
rds compel me into motion.
I begin the search.
It takes me over an hour to collect ninety-one of them. The henchmen stare at me
, taking care not to show expression despite their bodies exuding worry. They bo
th know what will have to happen if I do not find them all.
After another hour, there are still two missing; my hands keep grasping and stra
ining but I am discovering only empty air.
I turn my back on the henchmen and their boss.
In a moment of desperation, I let out an exasperated cheer.
"My task is complete," I announce. The henchmen's corpses unclench when I hand t
hem the bag; they pat me on the back and nod solemnly. Their boss' face remains
blank, and whether or not he knows of my deceit, whether or not he knows as well
as I that there are only ninety-eight tiles in the bag, I cannot tell, but when
I leave the room, no one stops me.
I know that I have barely escaped with my life.

3
Upon leaving the room, the music I had previously ignored is all I can hear. The
stomps of the partygoers shake the walls. The entire house vibrates before me.
I try to find another room, I need a place to catch my breath, I must forget wha
t has just happened, but instead, I slam into someone.
I take a step back; it is a young policewoman, her expression grave, her mouth a
ustere.
"What are you doing here," she states flatly.
I do not answer; after all, I do not have to answer any of her questions, and sh
e knows this, but she remains before me.
She is searching for something, proof of illicit acts being committed, and she i
nterrogates me, questions my actions, but I am as silent as the henchmen's boss,
who I am sure at any moment will discover what I have done and send the henchme
n after me, to kill me, to carry out the assassination I had postponed for far t
oo long.
When she attempts to search me, finally, I speak, explain that I am but an innoc
ent guest here, searching for my briefcase, and that last part is true; my brief
case is somewhere in this basement, but I do not know where, and although I am a
ware that there is nothing within my briefcase to aid me, I must find it, I must
.
She sneers at me, and moves on out of sheer disgust, her back hunched, and she c
ontinues to search for corruption along the languid hall.
The bass kicks in above me again, compounding the shakes.
I find an unlocked door: the laundry room.
A bed rests next to the water heater, the washer and dryer; boxes and boxes of s
torage loom behind.
I breathe; close my eyes.
I have to leave this house.
When I open my eyes, I notice the pile of dirty clothes on which I am standing.
Underwear, a ratty t-shirt, blue jeans, a handful of dress shirts, dress pants,
a blazer, and under that, the corner of something else.
My briefcase.
But I do not breathe any more slowly, for spotting the blazer has reminded me of
my own blazer, and that I am no longer wearing it, and instead a black coat bel
onging to one of the henchmen. The two pieces of outerwear look nearly identical
, and in my hurry to escape them, I must have taken it by mistake. Any moment no
w, they will discover my disinformation, and then add burglary to the charges ag
ainst me.
I panic.
I have to leave this house.
I take off the blazer, leave it on the bed. I rustle my hair, put on my glasses,
change into the ratty t-shirt from the pile, anything to make me less recogniza
ble; I do not bother looking through my briefcase. I repeat to myself, there is
nothing within it to aid me.
As I am in the process of pulling on the blue jeans, there is a lull in the musi
c, and I hear the conversations of the partygoers above me through the air vent.
A precocious young girl is telling someone that she cannot feel a thing, and a w
oman replies, "Those'll numb you the fuck up every time."
I stop.
The woman's voice is my wife's.
I am in my own home.
This is my basement; this is my party; these are my clothes.

I collapse onto the floor, onto the pile of dirty laundry, the jeans only up to
my knees, my face in my hands, and I begin to weep.
My wife is pregnant, and there is nothing I can do to save her.