Victors Scrabble angst. From Times Fool. DROWNED, Victor’s mother said. That’s twenty-four points for the double-word, eight for the connecting-word, and fifty for the seven-letter bonus. That’s eighty-two points in total. She took up an old Waterman fountain-pen and meticulously wrote the score into the little green ledger that she kept for the purpose. Victor scowled. He had never, in all these years, even come close to beating her. He made DEATH, using her D and landing on a double-word, collecting eighteen lousy points. He checked the score in the little green ledger: she was ahead by only sixty or so points, but it was nearing the end of the game. He’d never been so close in all his life. He reached into the purple Royal-Crown whiskey bag and got an I and an E and an S and an N. He already had another S and another E and a P. His mother, apparently overburdened with vowels, could only make the word EON, on blank spaces at the end of the N in DARN, and she garnered only three points. She entered her score into the book. I’m ahead by sixty-five points, Victor, she said in that sickeningly sweet, singsong tone of voice that he hated so much. She took the last two letters from the bag. We’re almost done another game, she added, would you like another glass of milk and some nice oatmeal cookies, Victor? No, Victor tersely replied, trying to concentrate. He could still win, if he could somehow come up with a seven-letter word. He started shifting letters, desperately arranging and rearranging. ENIPSSE. SISENPE. Shit! ESEPINS. PISENSE. Shit! NESSEPI. INSSEPI. Shit! Then he saw it; as if by magic, PENISES suddenly appeared on the holder. He looked at the board. There was even the perfect spot for the word—the P would fit neatly into the space over EON, making PEON. He’d finally beaten her. With the fifty-point bonus and the double-word, he would score seventy-four points, way more than enough to win the blasted game, not even counting her defaulted letters. Smiling, he took the P from his holder and placed it on the board, over EON, but his hand started shaking as he reached for the E. Pausing as if frozen in time, he looked up at his mother sitting there across from him, so terminally prudish, her face a stiff mask of stern Catholicism, and he suddenly knew that he could never play the word, and his heart sank. There was just no way. Never in a million years. His mother didn’t allow swearwords to enter into her rather limited universe, and he knew, from painful experience, that she considered PENIS to be a terrible, terrible, swearword. He imagined the look she would give him if he ever had the temerity to make PENIS, much less PENISES. Victory was within his grasp at last, but he simply lacked the courage to make the winning PENISES. Sighing, he glumly made SNIPES instead, collecting twenty relatively measly points. That’s a waste of an S, Victor, his mother said. You really should pay more attention. She placed her remaining letters on the board with a triumphant flourish. That’s 432 games for me, and none for you, she said, dutifully recording it into the goddamned ledger. Good try, Victor. Have some milk and some nice cookies before you go to bed, won’t you? Victor hung his head, issuing a small sigh. No thank you, mother, he said.
Posted on: Sun, 17 Nov 2013 19:41:42 +0000
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