George loved D&D. I remember him wanting to be entertained, hungry for adventure, but the only guys he was able to summon for the campaign were two absolute social misfits, Pear and Crewcut.
Pear was shaped like a pear and Crewcut looked like a literal jackass with a crewcut. The two subnormals took turns being the Dungeonmaster (DM), who spins the story based on a guidebook and his own imagination. Both sucked at it. As we were all young adults, I expected the psychological complexity of young adults to enter the game, beyond slashing orcs.
But Pear and Crewcut were useless. They mostly argued with each other and swore like sailors in front of George’s kids (for that I wanted to kick their asses). I don’t know what I was doing there. It was the 90s. I didn’t want to step in and DM, though many years before I always ended up being the Dungeonmaster (I’ve been playing God ever since).
George had a lovely, devoted wife. I mention her only to lend cheer to this recollection: since she worked late at a video store she avoided being at the rented house for these unbearable D&D games. It got so bad I tried to kill off my character by not fighting back against pterodactyl-like creatures dive-bombing our party, but every time I was mortally wounded that idiot Crewcut, with a saving roll of the die, would revive my character. Finally I said, “I draw my knife and slit my own throat,” (something I’ve been doing ever since). Oops, failed the saving throw.! R.I.P. I then got to watch the Sci-Fi channel with George’s kids while George stuck it out.
I remember the look on George’s face more than anything. An accomplished family and military man and generous all-around good guy, he was nonetheless hungry for adventure. I’m sorry now that I couldn’t help him then, or didn’t try. I should’ve stepped in and been the DM.
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