After drying his hands on the downy hand towel, he exited the bathroom and went in search of Dennis. He was already tired of adults, and although he’d never been able to establish a rapport with the teenager — or with any kid, really — perhaps this Christmas would be different.
Dennis was in his room, or so it sounded judging from the gunshots and explosions rattling out from behind the closed door. Thomas looked at the posters, signs, and other paraphernalia tacked to the door: there was a large red and white DO NOT ENTER sign, a poster of wrestler John Cena, a poster of the entire cast of Dragonball Z, and a photo of what looked vaguely like Dennis with an unidentified smolderingly-attractive female, possibly a girlfriend. Thomas thought back to what he’d had on his own door when he was young, how he’d evolved from G.I. Joe and Where’s Waldo? posters to ones of Jean-Claude Van Damme and Kelly LeBrock.
Thomas knocked on the door and continued looking over the paraphernalia as he waited.
His knock, however, was barely a whisper compared to the sounds of warfare within the room. He banged louder, and the noise inside abruptly stopped. He heard movement, and the door was opened halfway. A shockingly mature face looked out at him. Thomas hadn’t seen Dennis since last Christmas, and, like adults everywhere, he’d forgotten to take into account the effects of puberty. The Dennis of last year had been a gawky string bean, with hair as thick as steel wool and a string of pimples on his forehead. The Dennis of today was solid and lantern-jawed, and his hair now looked like the unkempt lion’s mane of a wilderness he-man. His t-shirt and jeans hung on him as if they’d been specially tailored. He was obviously inheriting his mother’s good looks, and there was a hint of his father’s poise, which, if he chose to cultivate it, would benefit him greatly.
Thomas realized he should’ve looked closer at the photo on the door instead of dismissing it as the trickery of poor camerawork.
“Hey, Uncle Thomas,” Dennis said. His voice also astonished. It was still somewhat high-pitched, but in several more years, it would be a voice that could command legions.
“Hey, uh, hey there, nephew,” Thomas fumbled. “How’ve you been?”
“Good. Yourself?”
“Fine, just fine. What’re you up to in here?”
“In here?” He looked back into the room, as if he didn’t quite know how to answer the question. “Just playing some Call of Duty.” He smiled, but it was strained. He clearly wanted to return to his video games until his mother marched in and forced him to come out and visit with the family. Thomas knew he should leave the kid alone. When he was Dennis’s age, he certainly wouldn’t have wanted some forty-year-old uncle (or aunt, as the case was, since his father had five sisters) to barge into his room and try to “connect.” But, like the adult he was, he rationalized that he wasn’t really barging in, he was just hanging out for a few minutes.
“Mind if I watch for a bit?” Thomas asked. “I won’t bother you for long. I just want to see how things look on these new consoles. I haven’t had one since the Playstation — the first one.”
“Sure, come on in. I don’t mind you watching.” He said it with so much nearly-genuine sincerity that Thomas wanted to hug him.
He stepped into the maelstrom that was a fourteen-year-old’s room. Clothes were strewn everywhere. The sheets lay tangled on the bed, as if Dennis had been thrashing in his sleep, and the pillow, for some reason, was not covered with a pillowcase. The drawers of the sticker-covered dresser were open for no apparent purpose, and two socks hung from one drawer like white panting tongues. A strong odor pervaded the room, but the odor wasn’t exactly rank: it was the smell of sweat, earth, and various hefty colognes.
“Where can I sit?” Thomas asked.
Dennis had already picked up his controller and plopped back down onto the beanbag that was camped in front of the gigantic television. The question seemed to confuse him. Perhaps he expected Thomas to stand.
“Oh, uh, you can sit on the edge of the bed, if you want.”
Thomas did so, after brushing aside some blades of grass that had found their way onto the sheets. It wasn’t a very comfortable perch, but since he was only going to stay for a few minutes, he could stand it. He sipped on his eggnog and stared at the television.
Dennis unmuted the television, and the cacophony of war resumed. As Thomas soon figured out, Dennis was playing online, against other people who popped in and out of the battlefield so quickly that Thomas was soon dizzy from the action.
The opposing team had pulled ahead while Dennis was answering the door, but being the warrior he was, he grimly continued, perforating players with names like YOLO720NOSCOPE_XD and ISnipedJFK and slowly whittling away at the other team’s lead.
Thomas, in his meanderings through the internet, had seen the occasional YouTube video showing Call of Duty gameplay, and he’d thought it looked fine, but to actually see the Xbox One churning out powerful graphics on a large High Definition television was stunning. He stared as Dennis ran, jumped, and strafed through a gloriously-detailed cityscape. He thought back to Mario on his cherished Nintendo; the little plumber was downright sluggish compared to Dennis’s frenetic soldier. To think he’d once felt so powerful when he grabbed that brown leaf and turned into a raccoon!
“Things sure have changed since the old days,” Thomas said wistfully.
“What? Oh, yeah. It gets better with each console.”
“How do you react so quickly? There’s so much stuff going on, but you’re still blowing those guys away.”
“I play a lot. You get used to it.”
Thomas’s words had broken his focus, and an opponent named Tr1ggerHappy had gunned him down. Suppressing a curse, he respawned with a cold fury.
Emily suddenly appeared in the doorway. Thomas turned towards her, but Dennis’s eyes remained on the screen. Her hands were on her hips, and Thomas knew sharp commands were imminent.
“Dennis, get off that thing and come visit,” she ordered. “And what are you doing, Thomas?”
“I’m watching him play.”
“Yeah,” Dennis agreed, “he wanted to see how the graphics look nowadays. On the Xbox, I mean.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Emily said, “but gunslinging time is over. Both of you, out here.”
“Five more minutes, mom. Need to finish this match.”
“It’s one match out of the millions you play per day. Get off.”
“Five minutes.” He’d been speaking softly but sternly, as if his mother were a supplicant who needed to be gently rebuffed. It was clear he would not move from his beanbag again until he’d finished his match. Thomas marked the change: last year, Dennis had been too awkward to oppose his mother, but now he managed her with astounding ease. With an overabundance of glee, Thomas imagined the remaining years of teenagehood his sister would have to deal with. Dennis would not be so easily controlled as Dan, if he could be controlled at all.
“Fine,” Emily said lackadaisically, as if she really hadn’t cared about the matter at all. “But Thomas, I don’t see the need for you to stay…”
“I do,” Thomas replied. “I want to see the end of the match. Dennis has had a hell of a game — or so it seems to me, and I admit I only understand about one percent of what’s going on — and I want to see if he can pull off a victory. It’s like watching a close basketball game that’s down to the final two minutes.”
Emily chewed her lip. She looked at her son, at her brother, at the wall, at the overflowing trashcan by the nightstand. She looked back to Thomas, who gave her his most winning smile.
“Fine,” she said again, this time not so lackadaisically. “But after this match, that’s it. You hear me, Dennis? Don’t try to sneak in another one.”