by Dani Lamia
The author of this book is solely responsible for the accuracy of all facts and statements contained in the book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Level 4 Press, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Published by:
Level 4 Press, Inc.
13518 Jamul Drive
Jamul, CA 91935
www.level4press.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943901
ISBN: 978-1-64630-004-4
Printed in USA
Other books by Dani Lamia
The Raven
Demonic
666 Gable Way
Hotel California
Younger
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
1
It is 1987. I have never been drunk before because I am an eleven-year-old girl. I haven’t yet done a line of cocaine off a glossy board game box top or screwed one of our summer interns just to watch them squirm when I make them get me coffee afterward.
My entire family is fucking terrible, and so am I. It is Scavenger Hunt Day in Ditmas Park, Brooklyn, where we have one of our weekend homes.
Alistair and I are partners again this year, which is probably frustrating for him, on account of the fact that I have basically no interest in winning or even participating in this game. I don’t know what I was thinking, not demanding that our father partner me with Pomeroy Egan (who we currently all call “Pom-Pom”—later in life, he will be “Roy”). Was I hoping Dad would somehow read my mind? That he would somehow know what I want in my secret soul and help me get it?
I know that I was protecting my heart by not telling him. I don’t want Pom-Pom’s affections to be something that can be purchased like a new Nintendo game and delivered to me instantly. I want to earn his affections with my deserving heart and deserving body. I want to fascinate Pom-Pom Egan on my own, beyond my father’s money and power and beyond all the fear and desire that the name Nylo strikes in the Pom-Pom Egans of the world.
Where I went wrong tactically on this summer afternoon was not at least insisting that Pom-Pom Egan be separated from Bunny Applewhite. All I can think about now is them together. In my head, I see them giggling, not trying to win, having fun, spending the whole weekend together, hands brushing hands, braces grinding against braces. My heart flutters with bruised despair every time I see them traipse across a cul-de-sac together, arm in arm, prosecuting this dumb scavenger hunt with maximum disengaged irony. My partner is my own splotched and anxious brother. What could be worse?
“So, these sprinklers,” I mutter.
“We need one of the kinds that slowly and silently waves back and forth like a fan,” says Alistair, studying our list. “You know, the kind that sits on top of the grass and you can run through it? We also need one of those sprinklers that is just a spike you stick in the ground, and it shoots out water on a ratcheted spring at a ninety-degree angle.”
I usually don’t mind his fussy precociousness, but today he is getting on my nerves something fierce. I try to remind myself that he can’t help the way he is.
“Yep,” I say, looking down the block. Pairs of kids are moving around all over the neighborhood. Our father spends all year coming up with this stupid scavenger hunt checklist. I close my eyes and imagine stamping down into hell like Rumpelstiltskin. I try to remember all the times I enjoyed the scavenger hunt before, the times I marveled at the specificity and cleverness of our father’s game-making ability. This game is his attempt to give back to the neighborhood, to devise something personal and fun for all of us.
Gabriella, Bernard, and Henley are all too young to play without help from an adult, so they are being shepherded through the streets of Ditmas Park by Angelo Marino, our father’s long-suffering confidant, attorney, and attaché. Angelo Marino is very good with our younger siblings: he is patient while never losing his old-world charm. I can see the four of them rummaging through the field house of the Egans. There is a sheet of red construction paper on its door, signifying the building as fair game for ravaging.
Alistair and I already turned the field house inside out, but we found nothing. He insisted that somebody must have gotten there before we did, but honestly, who cares? We are woefully behind, and I don’t give a shit if we win or lose. This isn’t even a proper game. It is a zero-sum struggle for resources. There is no real strategy here. It is more like a sport.
The fact that there is no strategy means that all the other kids in the neighborhood have as much of a chance to win as us Nylos. But I am annoyed by Alistair treating this game with the same respect and competitiveness as he would a game of Diplomacy or chess.
“What’s the third kind of sprinkler?” I ask, trying to contain my misery and irritation. It isn’t Alistair’s fault that Pom-Pom Egan isn’t my partner today. It isn’t my father’s fault that Pom-Pom and Bunny are running around like free-spirited nature sprites in bathing suits, with their perfect matching tans on their long loose limbs revealing how compatible they are with each other. Neither of them has brothers or sisters. I try to tell myself that they must each be very lonely and that it is actually good and fine that they have found each other and that they will now get married and grow old together.
“What’s wrong?” asks Alistair. “Are you sick? You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “So what’s the third kind of sprinkler on our list?”
“I actually don’t know what this means,” says Alistair. “It says we need to find a soaker hose. Have you ever heard of a soaker hose?”
“Yeah,” I say weakly. “Look, I even know where we can find one.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, perking up now that I am showing a minor sparkle of interest in this stupid contest for babies. “What is a soaker hose?”
“It looks just like a regular garden hose, except it’s black and rough all over, like Lava soap. Water just sort of seeps out of it.”
“That seems stupid,” says Alistair. “So it’s just a broken garden hose?”
“Yeah, but maybe you just want to water a flower bed without messing up the soil,” I say. “I don’t know.”
Alistair and I are Irish twins. Born within a year of each other. I am older, but he is bigger. He is smarter, but I
am in charge. Someday this is going to result in sexualities for both of us that require the perpetual mediations of good therapists.
“The Bountys have a soaker hose,” I said. “They use it for the tomatoes in their back garden.”
The Bountys are annoying hippies who are intent on growing their own food in the middle of Brooklyn. They are always leaving baskets of anemic brown tomatoes and shitty malformed squash on people’s doorsteps with little notes. Everybody hates the Bountys. First of all, they actually seem happy together in their self-contained world, and second, no one can figure out why they won’t leave everyone else in the neighborhood alone or at least join us in prosperous despair. Of course, the Bountys love days like this when the whole neighborhood is out and about.
We cut across two yards and hop the chain-link fence on the side of their house, behind the large bushes meant to keep dogs from digging up their precious vegetables. Their house is one of several on the block that is all the way open for the hunt. I’m worried that the Bountys are waiting here somewhere, ready to corner children and read their auras and tell them all about the healing powers of yoga and high-fiber cereal.
Their garden shack is closed, which I think is kind of weird. There is definitely a sheet of construction paper duct-taped to the aluminum siding. Alistair and I look at each other and then I push open the door.
Bunny Applewhite and Pom-Pom Egan snap around in the darkness. Bunny is slightly taller than he is. They are holding hands. They both smile at us sheepishly, dropping their hands and blushing. Obviously, they have been making out.
“Hey, it’s the Nylos!” says Pom-Pom Egan. “You guys are the real threat. The power team. Nylo means fun!”
The worst part is the expression on Bunny Applewhite’s face. I know exactly how she must feel. It is how I want to feel. How I have been anticipating feeling ever since Pom-Pom Egan announced that he would be participating in Scavenger Hunt Day this year since he wasn’t spending the summer at computer camp.
“Sorry,” I say, shutting the door to the shed. “Didn’t know you guys were in here.”
It is hard to look at Alistair. He looks so full of sympathy and pain that I can’t meet his eyes. He looks at me, pursing his lips, worried as hell. Why does he look like he is about to cry? Doesn’t anything belong only to me? I am so tired of my family. Of how big and sprawling and needy it is.
“I have to use the bathroom,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to our house.”
“You can probably use the bathroom at the Bountys’,” he says.
“Nope,” I say, running away. “Go back to the shed and get that soaker hose. I bet nobody even knows it’s in there.”
I run as fast as I can down the street to our summer house, a gabled bright blue Victorian with a turret on top. These massive suburban houses are so different from the rest of Brooklyn, but they’re near the beach, and it’s usually nice to be around all these other kids, unlike the rest of the summer when we’re trapped in Nantucket.
There’s a loud noise just as I head up to the front door, a flat crack like a tree getting hit by lightning. Everyone stops what they’re doing up and down the street and looks at our house. It sounds like somebody slammed a door and broke it right off the hinges. Like they fucking destroyed it. I run up the porch stairs.
Even though I have lived in New York City my whole life, this is my very first gunshot, the very first data point on a dotted line. I don’t know to recognize or be afraid of gunshots yet.
Somebody shouts my name, but I don’t stop. I am going to cry my damn eyes out about Pom-Pom and I don’t want anybody to see. I fling open the front door.
I nearly slip and break my neck on the blood pooling in the foyer, soaking past the carpet. I see Mom in the living room, the room where we aren’t allowed to play on account of all the nice white furniture. She picked out the furniture and carpet herself. She calls it the White Room. White curtains, white carpet.
Now the white curtains and white carpet are covered in blood and brains. A mean, snub-nosed pistol is on the floor. The pistol is very far from her hand. Did her hand jerk when her brain was perforated?
Where is my father? He is supposed to be in the house. Is he still upstairs, coordinating the game with a bunch of walkie-talkies, waiting for the winners to return and claim their prizes? I begin screaming. I’m nearly knocked over as everyone in the neighborhood floods in behind me to see the carnage.
2
It is 2019. My office is on the top floor of the Nylo Building in DUMBO. “NYLO MEANS FUN” proclaims the billboard out front. The family used to have real estate in Midtown, but we wanted to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond. Ideally, we would be the only fish in a pond exactly the same size as us. So we sold our suite of offices next to Times Square and were able to purchase an entire office building right on the water.
The sale of the building was profitable, like everything we do. The secret to becoming rich on a massive scale is to always do things that make you rich on a very small scale. At the time, I wanted to be closer to my husband, to my children, and to their school. This was before the divorce.
The Nylo Corporation makes games, first and foremost, but we have tendrils in all sorts of entertainment. What makes a game good? What makes a game substantial and rewarding versus merely entertaining? What makes it deep and nutritive to the intellect, something that one can return to in order to learn lessons about life, abstracting some kind of deeper meaning from the rules, mechanisms, and dread mathematics that put players into conflict with each other and themselves?
A good game is overwhelming and all-consuming. It requires a person to focus on it exclusively, inviting one to weaponize one’s intellect and personality completely. It requires you to be logical and to execute strategy, but also to be flexible and to learn from momentary setbacks, changing your plans in the face of new information. It requires you to be social and to make alliances, or else to go it alone in the face of unified opposition for the thrill of being a game-steering villain. A good game becomes its own world, colonizing your mind and invading your dreams. It leaves you no space to worry about your mundane problems. A good game is totalitarian, using every part of you.
This is what business has become for me. Running the Nylo Corporation is a very good game.
I have a bedroom right off my office. It’s actually much nicer than the bedroom in my Townhouse in Carroll Gardens. I think this is because it gets cleaned once a day (sometimes twice) instead of once a week. There is absolutely no evidence of me here. I get obliterated every morning after I wake up and I leave. The room is always fresh and clean.
My bedroom has a massive bed with black silk sheets. Nearby is a custom-built gaming table and an extensive gaming library. Caravaggio prints adorn all four walls and an original Jeff Koons balloon dog stands on a pedestal by the door to the bathroom. The bathroom is how I like it: prison style. A drain sits in the floor beneath a massive waterfall shower, with water that runs hot and forceful. There are two marble sinks.
I sleep here more often than I do at home. When I sleep here, I am always the first one at my desk and the last one to leave.
Never leaving work is one way I have managed to stay in charge of Nylo, despite nearly constant threats from inside and outside the company. Have you ever seen how a runty cat is able to dominate a much bigger cat? It climbs to the highest possible point in a room and watches the bigger cat constantly, making sure it can’t relax. The runty cat strikes whenever the bigger cat tries to eat or rest. Eventually, the bigger cat succumbs to a state of exhaustion and crippling feline anxiety.
There is a fully stocked kitchen on the same floor as the office. Executives have access to the personal chef, but I sometimes like to make elaborate sandwiches and pasta dishes late at night, just for myself. I leave the leftovers for the assistants, and sometim
es they even eat them, effusively praising my cooking with bootlicking adulation.
My ex-husband never liked the food I made—never even lied about liking it.
“Why cook?” Ben would ask. “We can eat anywhere we want in this whole city every night of the week. We can get Central Park hot dogs delivered to us at four a.m. Why bother cooking? Why go through the psychodrama of cooking and doing dishes?”
“Because I like it,” I would say. “Because something from my hands goes into your body.”
“I can cook,” he’d counter. “I used to cook for a living. Is doing laundry going to be your next hobby?”
“‘How much sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,’ etcetera, etcetera,” I would mumble.
“King Lear said all that because he was going crazy.”
One of the other attributes of a good game is that there isn’t much luck involved. Variance is the technical term. The more variance there is, the less true skill is required and the less one’s strategies need to focus on trying to beat the other players at the table and instead just involve trying to cope with the whims of destabilizing existential uncertainty.
Like your mom blowing her brains out in the White Room on Scavenger Hunt Day.
Just because there isn’t any luck involved doesn’t mean a game is inherently good. Take chess, for instance. Along one vector, chess is considered a perfect game. With the exception of who goes first, there is basically no variance involved in chess. Each move that one makes is unique, creating an entirely different situation from game to game that creates new challenges and the opportunity for creative solutions.
However, even very simple computers are better than the most elite chess masters, mainly because chess is a game of math and variables, and human beings can’t hold as many variables in their heads as machines. We can’t possibly be cold enough to beat an algorithm whose only goal is to win, an algorithm that can’t even take pleasure from victory or feel despair from a loss.
A truly good game requires you to draw on your humanity, on your skill at manipulation and reading people, on your logic and reasoning and estimation skills (at least insofar as you know what may be calculated), and above all on your fortitude and dignity. It draws on the essence of being human, of conflict in a crucible, of performing your most noble and decent qualities in the face of danger and catastrophe.
