Once everyone's showed up, we stand around the table in the dining room and eat chips and such, chatting for a bit – ‘Have you seen Crouching Tiger?’ ‘What’d you get for Christmas?’ ‘What do you know about this Jet Grind Radio game?’ ‘You were stuck at the airport for how long?’ No one sits down, since that would indicate we're staying here at the table. Rather, we stand around until someone says, "Shall we get to it?"
It turns out there's plenty of willingness to try a driving game. While I explain the rules, Trevor occasionally meanders over to the steering wheel and longingly gives it a little twist.
"Shall we get to it?" Mike says. "Whose team am I on?"
"You're with Trevor."
"Who gets the steering wheel?" Peter asks suspiciously, casting about for any reason to hate Midtown Madness 2.
"We're drawing straws." I hold up a handful of coffee stirrers from Starbucks, all but one cut short. One by one the short straws are plucked out. It comes down to me and Trevor.
"Man, I got a bad feeling about this," he says, still not quoting Star Wars. He pulls out the short straw, leaving me with the long straw for the steering wheel. "Are we at least going to play something where we can shoot each other afterwards?" Trevor mutters.
"You know, I don't really like the steering wheel," I tell Trevor, "Besides, since you're left handed, you should take the wheel so you don't have to deal with the joysticks."
"You think?" he says.
"Yeah. Besides, your frag finger only goes to five today. Just try not to get bronchitis germs all over the wheel."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," he says, "Hey guys, I've got bronchitis, so my frag finger only goes to five."
No one is listening. They're at the computers clicking on multiplayer, IPX, join game, select vehicle, change color. The guys on deck for the next game are putting the Virtua Tennis CD into the Dreamcast. The new guy is still eating chips, wondering where to go.
"C'mon, you're with me," I tell him.
"Hey, how come all these cars say locked," Trevor asks. He wants the Aston Martin, but the word “locked” is splashed across the screen.
"I think you have to unlock them in single player."
"What's up with that? How come you haven't done that?"
"I just installed it for Shoot Club. I haven't played it since it came out."
"When did it come out?"
"I don't know, about six months ago."
"Six months? We're playing a six-month old game and you still haven't unlocked the Aston Martin or the Hummvee? Couldn't you at least have gone to Game Fags for the cheat code." Trevor calls Gamefaqs.com 'Game Fags' because the 'q' looks so much like a 'g'.
"What am I supposed to drive, this little 'Herbie Goes to Europe' car? Looks like you've unlocked that one." Trevor leans over to Mike. "Hey, you take the semi -- that one, that big tractor trailer cab -- and I'll take the Mustang GT. My job is to get the gold and your job is to bash the hell out of the other guys, okay?"
"Yep," says Mike, enthusiastic as ever.
Trevor looks over the game settings. "Whoa, we're in San Francisco?" Trevor asks.
"Yep."
"You know, that gives me an unfair advantage," he chuckles, "I've been to San Francisco."
"When were you in San Francisco?"
"Well, I didn't mean I've actually been there. But I've seen a lot of movies set in San Francisco. Time after Time. Stuff like that. Isn’t Bullitt in San Francisco? I think I’ve seen that."
The game starts and Trevor consistently oversteers, yanking the wheel around as if he were doing some sort of staccato dance move. It’s sort of like a palsied Macarena.
"Are you sure this thing is calibrated?" Trevor asks, driving into the Golden Gate Bridge.
"I got the gold," Mike cries. He drives it into their base area and scores while Trevor runs into more buildings.
"I think I found a bug," Peter calls from the other room. He has the gold, but he can't find his base. "See, I'm following the arrow and it's supposed to be right here. But there’s no place to take the gold."
"Check your map," I tell him, pressing the Tab key to bring it up.
"I did that before and the map went away," Peter says, "Must be another bug." Mike's semi comes barreling downs a narrow San Francisco street, careening off the buildings and plowing over trees and sign posts. It slams into Peter's car and drives away with the gold. Peter makes an exasperated noise. He has about a half dozen ways to express exasperation by simply exhaling. He doesn't even have to shake his head.
Mike scores and wins the round. Peter makes a guttural sigh. If he had a hat on, he would have thrown it on the ground and stomped on it. Trevor comes running in to announce that he still rules even with his frag finger set on five.
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