It was a house like any other that existed halfway between suburbia and the big city ghetto, the kind of place where the kids have to be hardcore if they have any intention of making it. The kids were all pretty carefree, spending most of the day at fast food restaurants and video arcades when they weren't tricking off the sign in front of Holy Trinity Catholic Church on 5th and Cherry Orchard Boulevard. Yeah, they were skater punks and slackers, but that was life, and they knew no different, so how could anyone reprimand them, though it was apparent they were wasting their best years? At least it was apparent to the middle aged folk, relics from the baby boom generation who had no clue whatsoever as to what it really meant to be alive. They were never around to care, and the kids had no incentive to care about their own lives because, as far as they were concerned, they were living them by the moment. That's all that counted. That and their score on Area 51: Alien Bloodbath.
Anyway, back to the house. It was like any other, not rich but not poor; a reflection of those who dwelled within. The Donnelly family was your typical lower-middle class white Protestant family. Mrs. Donnelly was a working mom, trying to cover for her wastrel husband who spent his time hopping among bars. The Donnelly children, who really weren't children anymore, were the epitomic representation of their generation. The oldest, 21-year-old Leslie, dropped out of college to get married after becoming pregnant. The groom-to-be left her for another, and Leslie was stuck with the baggage. She lived in the house with her younger brother, Gordie, and the prospect of having to provide a future for her baby while not having any foreseeable future of her own.
Gordie would be just another one of those kids, 19 years old and indifferent to the world. Despite this, he was often the one his friends went to with their problems, a recurring scenario that he loathed. Why his friends looked to him for counsel was beyond him. He didn't want to lend a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to cry on. He just wanted to find self-fulfillment, wherever it was; if it was. He cared less about college, which he never applied to, than about beating the high score of his best friend Wiley. If it was possible to say that any of these kids had passions, Gordie's was definitely, at the time, being the best in the arcade.
A blond-haired boy with chains hanging off his pants approached the front door to the house early one afternoon. With a turn of the knob, he opened the door wide and strolled ever so nonchalantly in. It was Gordie returning home. This day he seemed much giddier than he normally would. His jovial laughter was a sign that, in a seemingly meaningless world, there were indeed petty pleasures that could be interpreted as meaningful.
It caught the attention of Leslie who was in the kitchen washing the dishes from the evening before. Not everyone these days has dishwashers, as she would be loath to attest to. She had long been concerned for her brother's unconcern for his own future. She cared about him and didn't want to see him throw away a lot of untapped potential. So when she heard him laughing gaily, she wanted to know what could possibly be so funny.
"What's with you? Why are you laughing?"
Gordie just shot a large grin back at her.
"Why are you grinning like an idiot?"
Gordie tried to keep his secret bottled up, but he just wanted to let everyone know of his feat. "I've done it. At long last, I've done it. I have finally done something that matters! Today is a day to remember for the remainder of history, I'm telling you."
A smile so genuine bloomed beneath Leslie's nose. She was so happy to hear that her brother was finally amounting to something. "You seemed to be pretty proud of yourself. So what did you do. Get a job? Volunteer for the soup kitchen?" She gasped and giggled, "Did you apply to the university."
"Way better than all those things! I've done something that will have me immortalized."
Leslie was a bit confused. What could possibly be more important than those things?
"I have finally . . ." he took a brief moment to collect himself before giving the news. "I have finally beaten Wiley's score on Police Homicide 3! Yes!"
"What?! That's what you're so proud of?!" Leslie was shocked and heartbroken.
"I shattered it. Oh yeah, baby!"
"I can't believe you! I thought . ." She tried to hold back her feelings of total disappointment. "I, I can't believe this."
"Believe it. W.T.F. no longer holds the high score. Say hello to your reigning champion, Gordon Otis Donnelly, with a high score of 1,938,678, next to which are the initials G.O.D.!"
Leslie simply groaned. What was the point in being upset? She loved her brother, but she had to face the truth. He would never amount to anything, and he could care less. All she wanted was for everything to work out for both of them, but it seemed more and more like that would remain only a dream.
"Yeah, baby!"
"I can't believe you wasted the entire afternoon trying to beat Wiley Farling's high score on some stupid video game."
"I didn't just try. I did it. I can't wait until he sees I usurped his score! He's going to be so pissed. I can't wait!"
Leslie didn't understand him. "I just don't get you. Don't you have any aspirations in life at all?"
Gordie laughed that comment off. "Yeah. To take Hiroshi Yamauchi's job."
"Who the hell is Hiroshi Yamauchi?"
Gordie was quite disappointed in his sister's ignorance. "He's only the president of Nintendo Co. Ltd. I thought everyone knew that." He turned around and ambled across the room, quietly praising himself. "1,938,678 points for GOD. Oh, yes I am!"
"Yeah, whatever," Leslie consigned. "You know, you really remind me of a Friedrich Nietzsche quote sometimes."
Gordie wheeled around, puzzled. "Who the hell is Friedrich Nietzsche?"
"I'm going back to the dishes. Please don't play your music too loud, ok?"
Gordie stood and watched as his sister abandoned him for her task at hand. He put his hand on his hip and leaned to one side, smiling as he thought to himself. Why did his sister care so much? He felt a comforting sense in the cockles of his heart to know he had such a great sister. Having felt that, he straightened himself up and dashed up the stairs toward his room.
Gliding across the upstairs hallway, still very proud of himself for his accomplishment, he reached the door to his room and with a flick of the wrist and a pelvic thrust, shoved himself into it, propelling it open. Almost immediately his eyes caught the countenances of three uninvited visitors, sitting on his floor watching his TV while sloppily partaking of a pizza. The grease-stained box lay inches in front of two of them, one of them covered from head to toe in blue fur. The other was sitting to the right of the blue one, leaning leisurely against Gordie's stereo. This kid was obviously "B.K." Watkins, who earned his nickname because of his frequent appearances at the 12th Street Burger King. He slopped nasty pepperoni grease all over the remote control without consideration that it was not his to mess with. Set further back and to the right of them was another furry creature, this one green, propped within a trashcan. This one seemed distant from the other two, as he was completely entranced by whatever was on TV. Gordie was taken aback.
"What is this?!"
The furry blue one looked up from his slice upon hearing the exclamation and delivered a friendly greeting. "Hey! How's it going?" he called out, waving his furry blue arm to him amicably.
Gordie stood over his uninvited guest, mouth gaping. "Grover, from Sesame Street?" He could hardly believe such a celebrity was getting pizza sauce all over his carpet.
Grover pointed toward Gordie and winked. "You know it," he replied with a grin.
B.K. then looked up, his mouth full of pepperoni. "Hey, Gordie man! What's up?" he garbled.
"What are you doing in here?" Gordie moaned. He had seen enough of that kid whenever he walked past the 12th Street Burger King. He really had no need or buried desire for him to be in his room.
B.K. threw his hands up, gesturing Gordie to relax. "Hey man, we just needed to use your phone. I don't have mine anymore."
Gordie just stared at him, flabbergasted. "Oh? Then what's with the pizzas?" In retrospect, he would have realized the more pertinent question would be to ask how they all got into his room in the first place.
"Dude's gotta eat, dude," B.K. replied with a slight scoff, as if that was such a stupid question.
Gordie clutched his forehead in dismay. He ran his bony fingers through his hair, allowing it to fall back in his face. In hesitant resignation, he lifted and shook his head. "Whatever. Have you made your call yet?"
"Nah, not yet," replied a mesmerized B.K., staring at the TV screen.
Stunned, Gordie snapped back, "What are you waiting for?"
B.K. nodded and reached for the receiver that rested on a small table next to him. Grover leaned over and tapped B.K. on the shoulder, "we're dialing 10-10-220 first, remember." B.K. nodded consent.
Gordie now threw his hands up. "Woah, hold up. You're making a long-distance call from my phone?!" It was bad enough these jokers were using his phone in the first place, but he wasn't about to pick up their long distance bill.
B.K. again gestured him to calm down. "Chill." He said it in a tone that was somewhat relaxed yet authoritative. He really felt that Gordie needed to loosen up. Gordie may have thought he had a cool disposition, B.K. thought, but he sure wasn't showing it at this moment.
"Yeah, we're using 10-10-220," said Grover reassuringly.
"10-10-220?" replied Gordie with a sense of uncertainty.
"10-10-220," Grover restated.
B.K. could see the disconcerted look on Gordie's face. "All calls up to 20 minutes are only 99 cents," he clarified.
"And only 7 cents a minute after 20," said Grover.
"And that's a deal?" replied Gordie, still not convinced.
Suddenly agitated, Grover snatched the receiver from B.K. "What?! You've gotta be kidding! That's a great deal!" screamed Grover as he slammed the receiver repeatedly against the table the phone originally sat upon.
Gordie lurched forward and shrieked in horror, "Dude, you just smashed my phone!"
The fit of emotion made Grover unaware he had indeed destroyed the receiver of Gordie's phone. He struggled for words.
Gordie only repeated, louder, "You killed the phone!"
A visibly distraught Grover shifted into denial. "No way!" he replied. "Give it time! It'll heal!"
As Grover held up the shattered remains of Gordie's phone, Gordie, eyed the extent of the damage. Realizing its condition was irreparable he almost broke down. "Aw, my phone!" he cried as he shook.
As Gordie wallowed in the thought of his murdered telephone, B.K. smacked Grover upside the head, visibly perturbed. "Shit, yo! We haven't made our call yet!"
Gordie, whose face had been buried in his hands, looked up, seething. "Oh my God, you guys," he growled, quivering with rage. "Your call, dude . . ." He was at a loss for words, he was so ticked. He panted, quickly inhaling to keep from going into shock, before screaming, "Your call! Dude, you're getting me a new phone!"
B.K. wanted to appease Gordie but reached for an excuse instead. "I can't dude. My mom jacked all my cash when she found that bag of snow in my room."
"Oh, for the love of . . ." Gordie felt like he was going to collapse. Why did he have to put up with stuff like this? Voice trembling, he replied, "what about my damn phone?"
Trying to reassure him that everything would work out, B.K. began babbling, "It's cool, yo. I know this place up on Broadband and Victoria. The manager, Lefty . . . he can get you a great deal on one. Better than this thing. It's like a reward for doing business with them," he shouted.
The sound of someone clearing his throat succeeded B.K.'s spiel. All eyes turned to the furry green one in the trashcan. Without removing his gaze from the warm glow of the screen, he raised a hand that appeared in desperate need of a wash and announced, "Uh, the only ones they give rewards to are animals that do tricks. Please." He gestured to the TV and shushed them.
B.K. couldn't stop running his mouth in spite of this. "Dude, tell 'em you hang with Shoelace and it's all cool."
Grover looked confused and gestured to B.K. "Who the hell is Shoelace?"
"Jesus," remarked Gordie at last after the lengthy yet remarkably one-sided exchange, "I can't believe you ass-munchers broke my phone. I mean, you just come in here and break my fuckin' phone!"
The green one turned to the ranting Gordie, visibly vexed. "Would you shut up about the phone?!" He exhaled sharply. His point was clear.
However, it was probably not the right thing to say to a rather angered Gordon Otis Donnelly. "What is this?! This is nonsense. That's what it is. You guys invite yourselves in here and watch my TV and break my damn phone and my whole room smells like sausage and pepperoni." He clenched his teeth while anticipating B.K.'s response.
Sure enough, "Yo," replied B.K., "yo, yo, dude, you gotta check out Big Antonio's Pizza Villa. All this week he's got two topping larges for only 9 bucks." He advertised. "And I'll tell you, the man has a way with ham and onion."
"It's fucking sweet," Grover chimed in, making a death metal gesture with his hand.
Gordie hovered over them, his mouth gaping in disbelief at what he was hearing. "Alright, get the hell out of my room. All of you."
"Hold up," replied B.K. He held up his one hand and pointed to the TV with another. "Miss Alabama's comin' on next." He was too busy ogling the TV to notice Gordie gesturing a strangling action with his hands. The kid had audacity, for sure. "Woah. I don't know how these southern chicks can afford those enhancements, but hoowah!!"
"Dude, quit drooling," Grover barked, smacking B.K.'s shoulder with the back of his hand. "You haven't gotten those test results back yet."
A brief, yet poignant, pause set up the explosion.
"Get the hell out of my room!!" Gordie hollered. His curdling blood had by now made him erythrismal and a frightening sight to behold.
B.K., as stunned as they all were, actually stood up to plead with him. "Dude, you gotta let us stay here. Ok, the truth is my mom threw me out of the house. She doesn't want anything to do with me anymore. And Grover, as I'm sure you know, has been unemployed for years, and is in a bit of a funk since he was turned down for the job of new non-human spokesperson for 10-10-220."
Grover looked upward. "They thought Alf was cuter and more lovable."
"Then what's the Grouch doing here?" chided Gordie, referencing the green one.
"Oh, is that all I am to you?" he admonished. He stood tall in his trashcan. "The Grouch? Is that all I am? You know, I am an individual just like you. I may be green and hairy and filthy and live with an orange worm in a trashcan, but I still matter. I have a name. I have a personality. But that doesn't matter to you, does it, you racist bastard?!"
Gordie's jaw dropped. "Aw, man, jeez . . ." he felt bad for a moment, until he recalled that he was the one who had the right to be pissed off. "Ok, I've had it. Just get out of my room, ok?"
B.K. again tried to plead. "Dude,"
Gordie wasn't having it. "No! Get out!"
"No, dude, if you let me stay I'll give you . . ." he fumbled for something to give him in return for a stay in his room. "I'll give you . . this copy of Shaun Palmer's Pro Snowboarder for your Playstation 2 console." He pointed to Gordie and winked, expecting all to be forgiven.
"You can't give me that! It's mine!" Gordie shouted.
"Semantics, dude," scoffed B.K. "Semantics."
Gordie spat and charged over to the three of them, physically lifting them up and hastily ushering them out the door. "Get out of my room. C'mon, get going. Go hang out at Burger King like you always do, or Papagiorio's Lasagna Bunker or somewhere. Move it! Out, out, out!" He forcefully shoved them into the hall, throwing the grouch's trashcan atop the heap of them. With a cold slam of his bedroom door, he bid them adieu.
He put his ear to the door, listening for them to grudgingly take their leave. After they had gone, he slumped down into his beanbag, gaping down rather disgustedly at the grease-stained pizza boxes and half-empty pop cans strewn about. He reached for the grubby remote control and turned off the TV. As his ears were catching the song of pigeon coos just outside his window, a subdued lamentation countered by the shouts of skater punks shredding like life doesn't matter, he pondered his burden. Why did he have to put up with the stupidity of humanity? Why did he have to be involved in the plights of people and Muppets who did not care in the slightest about his own? Maybe he just cared too much. Maybe he was simply too virtuous for his own good. Maybe it was by the will of another that he was to take on the troubles of others. Maybe it was by his own will that this was so. After all, his name was Gordon Otis Donnelly, and his initials spelled GOD.