Game Night with the Rough Dymunds
So…by the third time you’ve seen a television tumble down a staircase, it loses all shock value. But that level of desensitization was the price you paid to be friends with the Dymunds. And despite the warnings of every mother in the neighborhood, you wanted to be friends with the Dymunds. Specifically, you wanted an invite to their legendary game nights, because even though you risked getting cracked in the head with an airborne playing piece, the antics to which you were exposed would guarantee top popularity rankings at school on Monday.
Mr. and Mrs. Dymund ran their home similar to a light security prison; the house resembled a fortress and was easier to enter than exit. The inmates (Thomas — Never Tom, the youngest; Benzine, nine-turning-ten; and Ruby, somewhere in between) were generally permitted to get away with whatever the limits of their creativity allowed, so long as it didn’t require the attention or involvement of the wardens themselves. Essentially, the imaginations of the three offspring were destructively boundless and the disciplinary tendencies of the parents were effectively non-existent. “Anything Goes” could have been the motto on the family crest. And never was that truer than Game Night.
“Hey.” The door was answered by Benzine (a nickname he’d earned thanks to his proficiency with all things flammable).
“Hi Benny,” I said, handing him a cheese plate.
He sniffed the plastic wrap, wrinkled his nose and said, “We’re playing Trivial Pursuit. It was the only game where we could find all the pieces.”
We descended to the basement and the fireworks kicked off before our feet hit the green and orange shag carpet.
“That’s cheating!” Ruby screeched, the moment we were within earshot.
“How can I be cheating?” Thomas asked. “We haven’t started playing yet.”
“You’re not supposed to memorize the answers.”
Thomas sat hunched over a stack of cards.
“Cut it out,” Benzine said to him.
“It doesn’t matter.” Thomas set the deck down. “I’ve already learned them all.”
Ruby crossed her arms. “Okay, then I’m not playing.”
“Yes, you are,” Benzine said. “We just can’t use the cards anymore.”
“Uh,” Thomas said. “The questions are the whole point of the game.”
“Then, obviously, we have to use something else,” Benzine said.
They spoke from the backs of their throats (the same way one uses the term “Duh”), and though each other’s stupidity was certainly implied, it wasn’t explicitly stated.
“How ‘bout feats?” Ruby asked.
“Perfect,” said Benzine.
“I don’t like that idea,” said Thomas.
“Tough.” Benzine shrugged. “Two against one.”
Apparently, I was ineligible to vote.
“Let’s use the Superman Swing.” This idea, again, came from Ruby, presumably because she was the resident expert.
“Fine, but you have to get Baseballed at the same time,” Thomas said, holding up a Nerf foam bat.
I was already not enjoying the game despite official play not yet having begun, but I dared to ask, “What’s the Superman Swing?”
“It’s over here.” Benzine went to the other side of the room where a wide plastic band dangled on chains from the rafters. “We stole it from the playground.” He flopped facedown, the swing against his abdomen. “You have to ride it like this.” He pushed off from the floor and stretched his arms out in front of him, flying in a wide arc across the room.
“Then try to keep from getting batted into the wall.” Thomas swung at Benzine, turning him into a human piñata.
I could only assume whatever method they’d used to secure the swing to the rafter was of their own devising, because as Thomas intensified his efforts, the swing released a low groan. Benzine, active as he was, also happened to be the heftiest of the bunch, unfortunate for both him and the swing.
For a foam bat, its structural integrity was decent, permitting Thomas to exert some impressive force on his dangling brother. With every swing, Benzine had to flap his arms more frantically to avoid bashing his head against the brick. The rafter continued arguing with the chain, but it raised no alarms over the delighted shrieks of Ruby, egging them both on.
Until, with a definitive snap, the chain broke apart and Benzine hit the colorful floor with a thud.
The basement door opened and the voice of Mr. Dymund barked from above. “What’s going on down there?”
“Nothing,” the three said in unison, as Benzine crouched, massaging his belly.
“It sounded like something broke.”
“Benzine just pulled down the swing,” Ruby said.
Benzine smacked her with the Nerf bat. She kicked his ankle.
“Did it break the beam?”
“No,” Thomas said.
The door closed and Mr. Dymund’s footsteps receded, leaving them to resume the complex task of determining which feats could earn the other five precious pie pieces. Once again, my input was not required, not that I would have been much assistance, as they were speaking a foreign language of Stair Bowling, Handstand Dodgeball and Roller Sprints (how roller skates were meant to function on shag carpet was also a mystery to me).
After the swing was rehung with a knot Thomas assured us was more secure this time, the show was — finally — ready to commence. With the stage set, I braced for the evening’s next act: the inevitable Battle for First Turn. But remarkably, all three Dymunds were uncharacteristically quiet. Instead, to my nausea-inducing surprise, Benzine looked at me and asked, “You wanna go first?”
