playing by the rules
“The way the game works,” Zoe says, sitting across the table and all that history, tossing a deck of playing cards back and forth loosely in her hands, “is that you don’t get to know the rules. You have to figure them out as you play.”
She and her friend exchange a glance, and friend snickers behind her hand, eyes glittering.
“Okaay,” I say, feeling skeptical. I’ve known more than a few relationships that work in a similar fashion–nothing said plainly, everything left to discover, mostly by mistake.
I look at Kevin now and reading my reservations, he shrugs. They’re kids. It’s just a game. We can play along. And so we will, because being with Zoe and her friend means more.
“We’re not even going to tell you how many cards you get,” friend says, sitting back, still snickering, as Zoe begins to deal. I wonder if they’re making the game up as they go along, but I count the cards as Zoe tosses them down on the table. 7.
“The only thing we will tell you, is that the first one to get rid of the cards in their hand wins the round,” Zoe says succinctly.
When clearly the dealing has ended, I gather my stack, and immediately friend points, says sternly, “Penalty for picking up your cards,” and Zoe smacks another card on my stack. They look mutually amused.
I don’t like this game. I already know: For the whole first round–maybe longer, they’ll find it funny that we do the wrong things; they’ll delight in penalizing us for our ignorance. I can’t help but make the comparison: This is how things go in a broken and graceless world, if knowledge instead of sacrificial love equates to power. I don’t like the game, but I have to admit it has me thinking.
Friend says, “I am ‘the mOW (the what?),’ and I begin this game.” Whatever she calls herself, it sounds like pain. Zoe and her friend nod agreeably at one another and promptly pick up their cards. I just sit looking at them.
“Mom, you can pick up your cards now,” Zoe says, and so, reluctantly, I do, giving Zoe a look. This is a ridiculous game. She laughs a little, tilts her head dismissively.
Friend plays a card, same number as the one on top of the discard stack, but in a different suit–3 of diamonds on top of a 3 of clubs. Oh, so it’s kind of like Uno. It’s my turn, but before I can play, friend says, “Point of order,” in the snippy, accusatory tone she’s used from the beginning, and Zoe nods, putting her cards back down on the table. I want to stick out my tongue and blow raspberries at all their authoritative posturing. Kevin and I blink, waiting, having no idea what any of this means. Zoe grabs two cards from the stack in the middle of the table and tosses them down in front of us. “Failure to put your cards on the table during point of order.”
I don’t like this game.
Friend says, “Are we making a new rule this round?” Zoe shakes her head. No. “See, every round,” friend says, addressing Kevin and me, “the winner of the round before makes a new rule. But they don’t tell you what it is. You have to figure that out too.”
“Stop telling them stuff,” Zoe says, grinning.
“Oh, well, right. I just didn’t know, since it’s the first round….”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. I can hear my mom’s voice coming out with my sigh.
“Okay, end point of order,” friend says, reaching for her cards. I sit, waiting.
“Mom,” Zoe says, this time with petulant emphasis, “you can pick up your cards.”
“Oh. I can?”
Kevin’s knee gently falls into mine under the table.
I play a 3 of spades.
“Failure to name the spade,” friend says, clicking her tongue, smacking an additional card on the table in front of me.
What?! I glare at them. They laugh much too much and wait. Inequity only feels good to the people on top.
“Failure to name the spade,” friend repeats, smacking down yet another card, and I quickly deduce that until I “name the spade”– whatever that means, I’m just going to accrue penalties. This hole has become a pit, and the dirt heaps up around my feet.
“Three of spades?” I try, letting the words fall hard, even angry.
Friend nods, the corners of her mouth trembling up, and they look expectantly at Kevin, who plays a 7.
“7 of spades,” he says cheerily, because thanks to me, he knows the rule already. His knee bobs against mine.
“Failure to say, ‘Have a nice day,'” Zoe says, giggling, smacking another card in front of him.
I look at Kevin, raising an eyebrow. Doesn’t feel too good, does it?
“I don’t like this game,” I say out loud, as Kevin picks up the card.
“Have a nice day,” Kevin says.
“Failure to name the spade,” friend says, tossing him a card.
“Seven of spades, have a nice day,” Kevin says, somehow still with much more good humor than me.
“Mom, why not?” Zoe asks, looking at her cards. Her turn.
I don’t know, maybe it’s the unfortunate resemblance to the truth, but I’m struggling to just play along. Mostly, I’m just getting mad.
“I think it’s dumb that you don’t tell us the rules. The rules are cute. The game would be fun–funny, even–without that part.”
“But it is funny,” she says, flicking her eyes toward me.
“Yea, for you,” I say, jutting toward the two of them. Zoe and her friend exchange a glance, mouths still quivering at the edges. “Because you know the rules.“
“Nobody knows the rules the first time they play,” Zoe says. “I didn’t know them the first time I played either. And I still had fun.”
Kevin shifts, and giving up on subtly, drops an arm around my shoulders. I look at him and smile, letting out the breath I’ve been holding. Yea, yea, I know. It’s just a game.
