This Game I Play

There’s this game I play. I am completely obsessed. The thing is, not everybody thinks it’s as fun as I do. With the exception of a few fellow passionate players, it’s a very solitary game. I need it like a sticky scorcher of a day needs a cold beer – like the high-maintenance lady in my building needs her weekly manicure.

My obsession is people. My game doesn’t discriminate; as my early report cards indicated, I play well with others. I’m just as likely to choose an elderly homeless man for a partner as I am a rugged-looking, tattoo-laden biker chick. My game has to do with stories. Stories and names and dreams. It has to do with life. And with death. It sounds dramatic, I know. Perhaps even a bit morbid. I am incapable of encountering individuals making their way through the world without being flooded with their possible truths.

I want – no, I need – to know their stories. I need to know why she’s wearing black tights, black boots, and a black turtleneck sweater in this 95 degree heat. I need to know why she is talking so loudly on her cell phone as if everyone must know how important her job is. I need to know why he thought it was a good idea to wear white athletic socks with his Tevas and plaid shorts. I need to know why she still owns, let alone wears, those stretched-out purple stirrup pants. I need to know – for sure – whether he/she is a “he” or a “she.” I need to know why she is driving her stick-shift SUV (while clearly not familiar with the “stick” part) the wrong way down a one-way street, fulfilling gender stereotypes about horrible “women drivers.” I need to know which he got first – the tattoo or the scar it almost covers. I need to know if she sings melody or harmony during hymns on Sunday mornings. I need to know if he’s a whiz at crossword puzzles. I need to know if his multiple facial piercings injure his girlfriend during intimate moments. I need to know why she works in H.R. when she is neither “H” nor an “R.” I need to know if she has any rituals which make her whole. I need to know if she composes music in her spare time. I need to know if he makes it a point to call his mother. I need to know if her husband makes her laugh.

You’d think that just knowing that the truths are none of my business would signify the end of the game. Wrong. It only means that I create the truths. I take the liberty of making executive decisions about the lives of those around me: she works three jobs to secure money for daycare and for her drug habit….he definitely works nights as a DIA shuttle driver…she loves watching movies on Lifetime while working on her cross-stitch surrounded by her four cats…he was definitely the spelling bee champion in his hometown in Iowa in the fourth grade…she is clearly heading to spend the afternoon with her mother who has Alzheimer’s…and he is sleeping with his secretary while his childhood sweetheart is carrying their third child.

If I’m not in a particularly ambitious mood, or if I’m short on time, I have a bare minimum rule: just the names. Even as I sit in staff meetings I’m thinking about how perfect “Judy” is for “Judy” or how “Cathy” looks more like a “Norma.” I’ve been known to take this too far. During halftime at a Bronco game last season (probably prompted a bit by the beer intake), I called out the “names” of fellow Invesco-goers, hoping they would turn and wave, affirming my amazing skill for correctly identifying and categorizing people.

Equally bizarre is the end of the game: I need to know if she will ever forget the name of her second grade teacher. I need to know if he will secretly wish he had watched “Jeopardy” all those years instead of “Wheel of Fortune.” I need to know how many times she will watch “Terms of Endearment.” I need to know if he will respond to chemo, radiation, or neither. I need to know if all of her grandchildren will be present for her 105^th birthday celebration. I need to know if they will find a cure for diabetes in his lifetime. I need to know if she will outlive her son. I need to know if he will tell his wife he loves her the last time they see each other. I need to know if she will believe that she was worth something before the fatal crash.

There’s this game I play. The thing about the game is that I always lose. Always. I will never know their truths. But I will play forever.