Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons

by Shelly Mazzanoble

  Take that rotten six-year-old who was in line behind me at Gorditos. There I was trying to decide between a fajita or a quesadilla when, wham!—I felt a thump on my right butt cheek.

  “Excuse me,” I said turning around to find a frowning little bastard with clenched fists. “Did you just punch me in the butt?”

  He spun around to bury his face in his dad’s crotch. Dad looked totally mortified, but I wasn’t sure if that was because his kid just punched a stranger in the ass cheek or because his son’s face was about a mile deep in his crotch.

  “Did your son just punch me in the butt?” I asked the dad. “Because if he didn’t, you did, and that’s equally horrifying.”

  “I’m sorry!” the dad said. “He’s sorry! I’m sure he is. Tyler tell the nice woman you’re sorry!”

  But Tyler refused to look at me, preferring the denim safety of his daddy’s crotch. He wasn’t sorry, and I was pretty sure neither was his dad. I know he couldn’t wait to leave so he could get back in his Land Rover, stick a Bluetooth in his ear, and call everyone he knew on the way home to tell them about how little Tyler thumped an uptight, childless woman right in the ass. Probably trying to knock what eggs were left right out of my ovaries. “That’ll teach her not to have kids!”

  My pummeled butt cheek will be heralded across the land at Christmas parties, office functions, and Tyler’s next thirty birthday parties. And Tyler, seeing the reaction random acts of assault garners from his daddy, will spend the next three decades whacking stranger’s private parts. That’s how it begins—one day you’re bored, waiting for your chimichanga, and you suddenly lose patience with the entire world so wham! Hit a stranger in the butt. Pay it forward. You’ll feel better.

  Now conversely, I am no stranger to bad behavior exhibited by something under my care. My friends are terrified of my cat. Yes, she’s been known to attach herself to a forearm or two and bunny kick the skin away like she’s peeling a zucchini, but for the most part she just wants her head scratched. Don’t get me wrong—I think cats are evil. But they usually give a warning before they attack. Their tails snap like a freshly laundered sheet in the wind, their ears point backward. But a kid? Nothing. No sign. No symptom. And clearly no provoking needed. No one is safe in the presence of children.

  But similar to cats they can tell when you don’t like them. You know how cats sidle on up to the one who’s deathly allergic to them? Kids can sense that crap, too. You don’t like them? Fine. Be a hater. But you’ll pay for that negative attitude. Oh, you’ll pay.

  Big Wheel Hooligan is proof of that. I encountered him a few months after my ass cheek was assaulted. Bart and I were walking to a neighborhood restaurant for breakfast when we passed a kid on a Big Wheel.

  “Big Wheel!” I said, remembering my old Wonder Woman wheels. I was so bad-ass on that thing, pedaling as fast and furious as I could down from the corner of Harrison to our driveway, four houses down. Four houses, on a Big Wheel, when you’re six, is a lot of freakin’ effort. It’s the equivalent of traveling from Phoenix to the Badlands by foot. In the dead of summer. Just trust me, okay? And when I got to my driveway, I yanked up the little hand brake, causing me to do a donut and spin out in the foamy puddle of Dawn dish soap left behind from Dad washing the station wagon. See? Bad-ass.

  I was smiling and thinking how cool it was that Big Wheels were still around as we passed the kid and fell deeper into nostalgia when I heard the telltale sound of Big Wheel tires on cement.

  “Oh, the memories!” I said. “Doesn’t that just sound like summer?”

  And then I thought, hmm, that sounds like it’s getting closer and closer. And then, weird. This sidewalk isn’t that wide. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s almost as if this little boy on his Big Wheel is chasing us.

  Just as I was about to mention this to Bart, the heel of my sneaker was torn from my ankle and a pair of handlebars rammed up against my calves.

  “Owwwwwwww!” I shrieked, tripping over some shrubbery. “Watch where you’re going! What’s wrong with you? Texting while driving again?”

  And then Kid Evil pedaled his Big Wheel in reverse, unramming the handlebars from my calves, surveyed the damage, decided it wasn’t quite good enough, and came at me again.

  “Stop it!” I yelled, hoping to get the attention of the pack of wolves that clearly raised this beast. “Get him off me! Go home, kid! Shoo! Beat it!”

  He reversed again but he wasn’t going home to atone for his sins. He was gathering momentum for a third attack.

  “Bart! Do something!”

  Bart practically dislocated a rib from laughing so hard. He fell on someone’s lawn, grabbing his butt and guffawing like the true gentleman and hero that he is.

  “Ahhh!” I yelled. “Someone get this little monster away from me!”

  Kid Evil didn’t speak. He just glared at me with these dead, gray eyes. I swear to God we fought something similar to his kind in D&D last week. If only I knew how to smite undead.

  When he reversed a fourth time I ran for it, pulling Bart up by the wrist and running down the sidewalk. We ran for probably twenty blocks, way past the restaurant, until we felt secure enough to look behind us. The kid was nowhere in sight, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him pop out from behind a dumpster or the back of a Volkswagen. I hadn’t seen the last of that little hell on wheels, I was sure of it.

  “Was that weird?” Bart asked, “Getting assaulted by a kid on a Big Wheel? That was weird, right?”

  “I’d like to say it was,” I said, “but given my history, it’s actually pretty normal.”

  “Your history?” Bart asked, sounding a bit concerned. All this time I tried to shield him from the real me.

  “Think of me as some kind of Cruella De Vil understudy and everyone younger than the age of ten are children of the corn hell-bent on taking me down.”

  “Maybe they sense your fear,” he said. “Like dogs.”

  “I wish they were like dogs. I can handle dogs. Dogs listen to me.”

  Bart raised an eyebrow and smirked.

  “Most listen to me. If I have a dog biscuit. But if we had kids, we’d have to donate them to science just days after they’re born. Or give them to Judy.”

  He laughed. “That’s not true! You’re great with kids!”

  Now I laughed. “Give me an example! When have you ever seen me interact with kids?”

  He thought about this for a while before thoughtfully answering: “Just now?”

  “See what I mean?”

  “But wait,” he interjected. “That’s not true. Your friends have kids. You’re nice to them.”

  “I send cards on their birthdays and make sure their moms get home safe when we go out drinking. Yep, I’m a regular Ronald McDonald.”

  “That’s a terrible example,” he said. “Ronald is creepy. No one likes that guy.”

  “Fine. I’m Angelina Jolie.”

  “Err …”

  “Whatever. You get my point.”

  We walked a couple more blocks in silence before Bart piped up again. “You played D&D with that brother and sister at Gen Con! You were nice to them and they were nice to you!”

  He’s right, I did play with a seven- and a nine-year-old. Their father was playing in a delve and the kids were just sitting there looking a little lost. Bart and I had some spare time so we ran them through a very basic, scaled back adventure that involved a rabbit named “Chubbyfeet” and some very delicious macaroni. (We let them flavor the adventure Mad Libs style.)

  “That doesn’t count,” I told him. “We were role-playing. They had imaginary heroes and ice picks. I wasn’t going to mess with them.”

  Not to be deterred, Bart insisted the kids weren’t playacting. “The little girl hugged you when she left. She clearly had fun with you.”

  I don’t bother telling him my suspicions that her awkward, around-the-waist hug was a lame attempt to get at my wallet. Mission failed because I don’t carry a wallet in my back pocke
t, but I never did find my dice after that. Besides, it wasn’t me the kids liked. It was most likely Bart and the voices he gave Chubbyfeet and friends and the magical powers the game gave them. Who can compete with that?

  Perhaps Little Tyler and the Big Wheeled Bandit could benefit from a little playmat action. Punch an orc in the butt, Tyler, not a nice lady. Run over a kobold with your Big Wheel, Little Demon. He’s a bad, bad monster, not a girl looking to fulfill her craving for buckwheat pancakes. Even Judy is hard-pressed to deny D&D has its benefits for kids.

  “I would have loved it if you and your brother played D&D,” she said. “That means you would have had friends, right? Like human friends and not stuffed animals or the adulterers and hysterically pregnant residents of Pine Valley.”

  I don’t bother reminding her that D&D is a game that requires use of your imagination, and therefore it was likely Mike and I would have figured out a way to play with Mr. Bunny Pants and Erica Kane.

  The “friends” thing is true and I can’t help but imagine I would have found a better group to pal around with than the mean little hens I tried desperately to fit in with.

  In fifth grade I invited my “friend” Beth for lunch. She was a notorious two-timer who would be your friend until something better came along. On this particular upstate New York winter day, something better, in the form of the Evil Trio, came along. Beth and I were on one side of the street while the Evil Trio was on the other. The trio catcalled to us, encouraging Beth to ditch me (and Judy’s famous liverwurst sandwiches; that was the real crime). Beth obviously believed in quantity over quality in her friendships. She whispered a half-assed “sorry” as she crossed the slush-filled street. They cheered her decision and continued yelling fifth-grade insults at me until I made a left on Matthews Street and they continued onto Park. I ate both liverwurst sandwiches listening to Judy explain to me all the reasons that Beth was a loser, anyway.

  I didn’t give Beth the boot after that. I took her back when she asked if she could come over after school a few days later to watch the Magic Garden. Apparently I subscribed to the quantity-over-quality belief, too. I thought if Beth and I had a “shared experience”—a stupid commercial, an after-school special, my brother’s friend’s first zit—our friendship would somehow become tangible. Or at least strong enough to keep her on my side of the street.

  “Hey, Beth!” I would shout across the bustling lunchroom. “Remember that commercial we saw yesterday with the guy who was wearing those pants? What was up with those pants?”

  Anything we could witness together and recap, with heads tossed back in laughter the next day at school, would prove to the Evil Trio and everyone else that we were cemented in friendship. Sadly, there was nothing up with that guy’s pants. At least not enough for Beth and me to bond over.

  “What guy?” she asked, with this silly, confused look on her face. Clearly she was taking great pleasure out of embarrassing me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Of course the other girls jumped on the Shelly’s-talking-crazy bandwagon. After school, those bitches followed me to the corner of Matthews and Schubert Streets shouting vague, inane questions at each other.

  “Terry, what was the color of that car?”

  “Do you remember that hat, Beth?”

  “What was up with the peanut butter, Molly?”

  Oh, they were hysterical, they were. If only I had a fireball, I’d have blasted the whole lot of them. Instead I used the next best thing.

  The next day after school I went up to Beth and punched her square in the jaw. The surprise knocked her off her feet, and instead of walking away (I had proven my point, after all) I couldn’t resist her shocked, flailing horizontal body, and took it as an invitation to keep punching her. My fists of fury pummeled her until the crossing guard pulled me off and made Peter Winter’s mom go inside the school to call Judy. Apparently I was a menace to the streets and couldn’t be trusted to roam alone.

  When Judy and her green Cordoba rolled up to the crosswalk, the crossing guard stuck his head inside the driver’s side window.

  “Shelly took a couple of cheap shots,” he said. “But that girl deserved it.” Then he winked at me.

  “Wait until your father hears about this,” Judy said, pulling away from the scene of my crime.

  I couldn’t wait. He’s the one who taught me those cheap shots.

  I knew what a shared experience felt like in theory, but didn’t realize these things have to happen organically. Just like they do in a D&D game. If you play, you know what I mean. Those moments you can’t stop talking about. The new catchphrase that springs from them. The song you’ll never be able to hear again without thinking of your bard. The diversions and tangents and made-up words that will be part of your vernacular forever.

  How many times have you wished you could go back in time to the ten-year-old-you and offer some advice? I’d tell the little Shelly she needs to quit making fun of those boys who draw dragons and castles in the margins of their notebooks and befriend them immediately! Judy would be thrilled to make liverwurst sandwiches for your Wednesday D&D group.

  The following Friday after work, I headed off to Gig Harbor to see my friend Des. We have been trying to get together for months. She’s a mom of two, works part-time, and now lives nearly an hour outside of Seattle. Our days of running into each other while stocking up on Red Hook and blue corn chips at Fred Meyer are over. If we want to have quality time it needs to be scheduled around dentist appointments, day care schedules, and Nordstrom Anniversary Sales months in advance. Thanks to her work-from-home schedule and my half-day Fridays, we finally found a date that worked.

  Des opened the door to find me laden down with gift-wrapped packages and homemade cookies. I missed a lot of birthdays and holidays since the last time I saw her.

  “I’m here for my play date,” I told her, throwing myself into her arms.

  Des led me into the family room where Gabe, her five-year-old, and Ruby, her three-year-old, were sitting quietly in front of the television watching one of the few kid cartoons I know.

  “Hey, that’s Dora the Explorer!” I announced.

  Des laughed. “How do you know who that is?”

  “The kid I sponsored for the Giving Tree three years ago was into her.”

  Des stood in front of the television. “Don’t you guys want to say hello to our guest?”

  Gabe eyed the wrapped packages I was carrying. Sorry, Dora. You’re good but you’ve got nothing on a stranger with gifts and cookies. Gabe and Ruby crept closer to me.

  Ruby looked at me with a modicum of skepticism because she’s not entirely sure who I am, but her mom and brother seem to think I’m okay. Gabe remembered me and broke into a wide grin. “Helloooooooo, Shelleeeeeeee!”

  His enthusiasm is warranted. He’s the reason behind Rule #5 about poop and takes great pride in that. I may never forgive him or Des for that time he filled his diaper when I was holding him. I saw the face, heard the sounds, even felt the pureed fruits of his labors pressing against my arm.

  “He’s pooping on my arm!” I shrieked. “Ahhhhhh! Get him off me before it gets on me!”

  But Des couldn’t do a thing about it because she was crumpled up on the kitchen floor in a fit of laughter. Nice. At least when Zelda attacks my guests, I help them apply Neosporin and act contrite. A few years later I reminded Gabe of that incident. His response?

  “I know.”

  “Really?” I asked him. “You know? You were four months old.”

  “I remember,” he said. “It was so funny!”

  So funny that he spent the rest of that visit wearing nothing but his Underoos and trying to get on my lap for a repeat performance. We need a new tradition before the kid turns sixteen.

  I should be able to hang with Gabe because he’s really not a kid. I mean he is, he’s six, but he’s a very adult six. This was true even when he was born. For one thing, his feet were so big they didn’t even fit on the birth ce
rtificate. He didn’t bother with the goo goo gaga gaga warm-up chatter like other babies. He went right into making complete sentences. When he was a year and a half old he greeted me at the front door wearing his Alex P. Keaton button-down and baby Dockers and said, “Welcome, Shelly. Would you like a kiwi? How about some bottled water?”

  What kid knows what a kiwi is? He even corrects my grammar. If he weren’t so cute he’d be annoying.

  “Yeah!” Gabe continued with his cheer. “I’m gonna poop on you!”

  Here we go again.

  I gave them their presents: a baby doll and play make-up for Ruby and an X-Men inflatable punching bag for Gabe. He was appeased for the moment, way more interested in hitting his sister with the punching bag than pooping on my arm.

  Des pulled a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. It’s weird having friends who live in houses not just with kids but with wine cabinets. It’s nice and all, but to me it’s just another barrier to getting to it. Before she can finish filling the glasses her phone rings.

  “It’s my boss,” she said. “Better take this now rather than after a few of these.” She took her wine glass into her office.

  “Shelly! Look at this!” Gabe called from the living room.

  He positioned Ruby and her baby so that when he punched the bag, it hit them both on the head.

  “That’s awesome, Gabe,” I said, filling my glass to the rim.

  Gabe hit her again. “Look!”

  Not really paying attention, I tried to change up my reaction to make it look like I am. “Yikes! Ow! Ruby is so tough.”

  Ruby, who has been patiently taking the hits, decided she’s not that tough after all and should really be wailing her face off.

  Des poked her head out of the office, and I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t do it.”

  She made a motion with her free hand that points from the living room to the phone in her other hand.

  “You want me to bring the kids to you?” I asked.

  She violently shook her head and pointed at the living room and then me.