It’s How You Play the Game
by Jim Harrington

Jeremy sat on the park bench, slouched against the north wind, his gloved hands between his knees, and watched uniformed officers enter and exit the police station across the street. Blond hair formed a halo around the edges of his ski cap. The heels of his sneakered feet tapped out a syncopated rhythm on the frosted sidewalk while he waited to see if today, his twenty-fifth birthday, was the day he would die.

Not that it concerned him. Many pretenders had attempted to beat him and lost. Still, like the computerized version of the game he’d created, the human adaptation had become boring. It was time for something different, something that challenged him in new ways, something where the opponents were more interested in complex strategies than superficial victories.

Jeremy’s pulse quickened when he felt the bench move. The smell of garlic permeated the air. A blunt object poked at his ribs.

“Is that a gun?” he asked.

“Yep,” a raspy voice replied.

Jeremy turned to see triumph sprout across the man’s face, a face overgrown with a five o’clock shadow that was two hours early. Dressed in black, his jowls bloated, the man reminded Jeremy of a bit actor in a cliched gangster movie.

The man leaned forward. “Not too smart of you, kid. Let me sneak up on you like I did.”

Jeremy shrugged, his face emotionless.

Returning his focus to the police station, Jeremy gave this foe credit for selecting the most original location. He always let his adversaries choose. Not knowing the exact setting until a day or two before made the game more challenging. Still, he’d reached this final match with ease. And that was the problem. The game had become too easy, the victories hollow.

“Move into the trees,” the man said.

“Sure thing.” Jeremy wasn’t surprised by the instruction. It’s what he would do if he were the one holding the gun. He stood and raised his hands in the air.

“Put your hands down.” The man grabbed Jeremy’s right arm. “You crazy?”

Jeremy put his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and shuffled toward the trees, taking his time. Ice-covered snow crackled with each step.

The constant pressure of the gun ushered Jeremy to the stand of firs abutting the railroad tracks on the edge of the park. As he stepped into the trees, Jeremy listened, concentrated on the sound he expected to hear. Was it too early? Was the train delayed? Careful planning had gotten him this far. Had he made a mistake this time? Would he die on his birthday? His palms moistened. His mind searched for an alternate strategy.

“This is good,” the man said. “Branches are low enough to hide us. Now get on your knees.”

Jeremy hesitated. Finally, he heard the train whistle as his right knee touched the ground. On the second blast, he drew the twenty-two from his pocket, swiveled, and shot the man, who was distracted by the noise, once between the eyes, just like he’d practiced many times. A smile appeared on Jeremy’s face, as the man slumped to the ground, defeated.

Jeremy peered through the trees. A mother pushed a baby stroller past the barbershop. Two police officers stood outside the entrance to Cathy’s Cyber Cafe laughing. Neither the mother nor the officers looked his way. He laid the gun next to the dead player. There were no markings on it to lead the police to him.

“Should’ve known you couldn’t beat the master,” Jeremy said, patting the dead man’s cheek.

He rose, looked around, and walked out of the park using the trees for cover. His rapid heartbeat, the odor of gunpowder embracing his nose, and the lightheadedness he felt reminded him of why he played the game. Thinking clearly now, he realized he couldn’t stop. The game made him feel powerful, invincible -- alive.

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