The Showdown
By Patricia Darak
It happened again; it was really no surprise. After a hiatus of several days, the subject of a rematch had been broached, and the challenge had been accepted. The contest would begin in ten minutes, and it would be ‘winner take all.’
First, the equipment and tools were chosen and laid out; this was by far their favorite part. So much hope, so much anticipation, so much excitement. After this, the two opponents faced off opposite one another as the game began.
One small arm snaked out, snatched up the dice, and rolled. Yes, he thought, it was a good roll: doubles. As the young boy advanced his token across the not-yet-dangerous minefield of the game board, he glanced down at his piles of money. “I’ll buy it!”
This went on for about thirty minutes, first one warrior purchasing property, then the other. Then, the dice began to betray them, and their tokens landed on their opponent’s squares. Rent! “Eighteen dollars? Too high! Outrageous!”
And the game went on.
Two hours of financial wizardry later, and the cries of exasperation from the older and wiser contestant teetering on the edge of financial insolvency grew louder, while the high wild laughter and semi-good-natured taunts of the young leader grew more frequent.
“You’re going down, old man!”
“$1,000 rent? Are you kidding me?!”
“Don’t mess with me! I have hotels! Ha ha ha!”
“Ugh! How did you learn this game so fast?”
“Oh, Dad! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!”
Soon, the young leader began to drift away from the game; checking on the activities of his sisters and his Mom seemed to break the monotony of seeing his Dad make wrong move after wrong move. So instead of cries of anguish, the only calls that issued forth from the living room were calling our son back to the game. “It’s YOUR turn, son!”
Gradually, our daughters and I tuned out the lively conversation emanating from the two males going head-to-head in combat. The girls tidied up their rooms, got their beds ready, had their last snacks, and brushed their teeth.
Still, the game continued.
The girls washed their faces, brushed their long hair, and put on their pajamas and slippers.
Still, the game continued.
I commenced to shut off all of the unnecessary appliances (computers, radios, motion-activated dolls that I’m sure come to life in the middle of the night and . . . well, I’m not sure, but I’ve seen enough movies about toys that it just might happen). I folded the last lonely load of laundry and put it away.
Still, the game continued.
After three hours and twenty-two minutes of real estate manipulation, property maintenance, furious dice rolling, paying money to the bank, receiving money from the bank, receiving money from each other, silly noises, self-congratulation and self-immolation, the game was finally over.
The two contestants gazed around at the rubble on the playing field and blinked owlishly at each other. The loser leaned over and shook the winner’s hand. “Good job, son. You played a great game.” “I know, Dad. I’m a natural, huh?” “Yes you are, son. Yes you are.” “I know. That was fun, huh?” My husband looked down and smiled at the six-year-old, who was beaming with joy and waving around a fist full of multicolored money. “Yes, son. That was fun.”
All totaled, our son bankrupted his father and ended up with a substantial list of assets ($2,525 in cash, $1,630 in owned property, and $2,950 in houses and hotels). Not bad for a kid whose Dad thought he might be too young to grasp the fine intricacies of the game and initially didn’t want to let him play.
After collecting the pieces back together and putting the game away, the two guys sat down and chatted.
“So, Dad. Now do you want to play War?”
“But son, you’ve already won that game sixteen times in a row!”
“I know, Dad. What’s one more?”
