The "Roofie"

         James, who'd been hunched over his laptop playing StarCraft, leaned back, yawned, and stretched his back and arms, all in one fluid, practiced motion, the message on his screen having triggered an instant release of tension from his twenty minute match.

         Fnatic.YayBa: gg

         Good Game. His adversary conceding. He'd finally won. He almost got up, but looking again at the message on his screen, he smiled and sunk deeper into his chair. That Fnatic clan tag meant a lot.  They were a sponsored team; their members were some of the best in the world, so it was unsurprising how incredibly quick and tight Yayba played. James'd been pleading for rematch after rematch with him after losing to him originally in a randomly paired game. Now, he'd finally beat him after losing by a hair countless times. He couldn't believe it. James smiled again and typed back:

         JamesK: gg :)

         The screen cast a sickly blue light over his face and the piles of dirty clothes and fast food garbage behind him. He'd been at it for hours, and his neck hurt, but still, he felt on top of the world. He jumped up as if to woop and punch the air, but froze, arms raised halfway in almost-celebration. No one was there to hear him in his small, lonely apartment.

         He slowly put down his hands and surveyed the wasteland of a room he lived in, and a tidal wave of loneliness washed over him. The dryer rumbled faintly downstairs. Everyone else in the sterile, gray prefabricated apartment building must have been sleeping. Sitting back down, fidgeting and uneasy, James racked his mind for something, anything, to distract himself from his solitude. Almost immediately another message popped open on his screen.

         Warning: unexpected socket request on port 2351.

         He'd installed this network diagnostic tool during one long, nervous night of StarCraft in an attempt to catch the hackers he was sure were trying to break into his computer through the game. All it ever did was cry wolf, though, to the point where James never opened the alerts, but right now, shivering in a panic attack, he clicked it. He scanned the details.

         Origin: StarCraft.exe::PeerSocket

         'User ID': Fnatic.YayBa

         IP: 89.102.2.34

         Port: 2351

         [Close]        [More Information...]

         A typical false positive. James was about to close it, but, not ready to give up his distraction, and idly wondering where the guy lived, he clicked More Information, then the IP Geolocation tab. The window that opened after a couple seconds took him entirely by surprise.

         Service Provider: Midcontinent Communications

         Location: Denver, Colorado, 80209

         Immediately, James clicked back to the game and began typing.

         JamesK: hey this is gunna sound creepy but I live next to u

         >>> Message cannot be sent, recipient is offline.

         Frustrated, and still dwelling on the previous match, James clicked back to the game's statistical summary. Both players had aggressively expanded their territory to the edges of the map, leaving the valuable resource centers split equally down the middle, and they'd traded hits back and forth, vying for control of the rich resource mines near the map's center. Finally YayBa seized it for good with a terrifying armored force, seemingly guaranteeing him the game, but James mounted a last ditch counter-attack with his small, mobile army hitting in multiple locations at once. YayBa, seeing his economy dismantled, went all-in with his massive force, but in a nerve-wracking final battle, James' last line of defenses held, and with his opponent's army wasted, he was able to retake the center. YayBa conceded at that point with the customary gg.

         James looked further at the statistics and laughed.

         Apponent's average Actions Per Minute (APM): 230

         Your average Actions Per Minute (APM): 137

         Whoever that Fnatic player was, he'd been clicking about four times a second for the last half hour. James imagined a pimply-faced nerd craning his neck over a laptop, focusing intently on the screen and spamming the buttons on his keyboard and some fancy laser mouse, droplets of sweat falling from his brow onto the keys and getting splattered everywhere. What a guy. Wiping sweat from his own brow, James started cracking up. I'm just like him, he thought. Top tier competitor for the Biggest Nerd in Denver Award.

-

         Work sucks. James worked at Wal-Mart, mopping floors and reshelving plastic toys. Lost in thought about the game last night, he was imagining Yayba being one of the customers. He would be one of the nice ones, one who just came in, grabbed what he needed, paid for it, and left, unlike most of the idiots who shopped there. Always of asking boneheaded questions, arguing with the answers, and inviting offspring to the toy isle to raise hell. The typical Wal-Mart customer. James came home smelling like vinegar (from a spilled mop bucket), showered, opened the pizza he picked up on the drive back, and turned the game on. He was delighted to see his new favorite player online, idling in the lobby. James opened up a chat with him.

         JamesK: so I was stalking you and I just have to mention- I live close to you, you're in the lakewood area of denver, right?

         Fnatic.YayBa: wtf you stalk me

         JamesK: ya your IP. I like to follow you when you go shopping n stuff lol

         Fnatic.YayBa: ur crazy man

         A slice of pizza halfway into his mouth, James froze and stared at the little space at the bottom of the chatbox on the screen. He'd taken it too far, YayBa was probably some Korean kid who'd never played the bromance game before, and he wouldn't get it. All the self consciousness, the quivering was coming back from the night before. Noticing the piece of pizza still in his mouth, he put it down and stared at it for what might have been the longest five seconds of his life. Then:

         Fnatic.YayBa: me and some ppl have a little SC club on friday nights you should come

         It took James a while to realize what was happening.

         Fnatic.YayBa: tomorrow night's special because we're going to the dubstep show

         Fnatic.YayBa: and before you ask, no I won't have sex with you you creeper

         James broke out in his first grin of the year. He hastened his greasy fingers for a response, but stopped, seeing from the chat indicator that YayBa was typing another message.

         Fnatic.YayBa: at least not until we're married

         The grin exploded into a torrent of laughter that reverberated through the empty apartment. We really are the same person, James thought, still shaking. He's good, really good.

         JamesK:  hahahhahahhahahahhaha but we will get married right? waht's your phone # honey?

         Fnatic.YayBa: are you sure you want to be hooking up with a stranger from the internet? I could be a really nerdy and fat old man who's gonna date rape you

         The pair, having already danced many an intricate tango together on the digital battleground, was now relieving the emotional tension behind each terse, respectful gg. James hadn't felt so connected for as long as he could remember.

-

         Later that night, in the apartment of the man we know as YayBa:

         OneSlice: hey man are you doing ecstasy before the show on friday?

         Fnatic.YayBa: umm idk I kind of invited this guy I met ingame to come

         OneSlice: does he do pills?

         Fnatic.YayBa: he says he's never even drank, he's a major care bear

         OneSlice: lol and he wants to come to the show with us? how do you meet these people dude?

         Fnatic.YayBa: he sounds like a cool guy, and he beat me legit in 1v1

         OneSlice: dude remember that time we emptied one of those gel caps into brians margarita and convinced him it was actually supposed to taste like robot piss

         Fnatic.YayBa: OMG we are not doing that

         Fnatic.YayBa: no. thats such a bad idea

         OneSlice: think about it. he'll have no fucking clue, he'll think hes drunk

         OneSlice: golden rule dude. always applies

         Fnatic.YayBa: i think u forgot what it means when I say something is a bad idea

         OneSlice: !

         OneSlice: lol, this is so why we're friends          

-

         That night, James'd enthusiastically agreed to meet YayBa and his friends at Area 51, a bar downtown. He had never been to a bar or drank before, but when he mentioned his unease, YayBa had reassured him. James figured it would be fine since he'd be accompanied by fellow gamers, but now, a few days later, standing at the bar's tinted window, he hesitated.  What had YayBa said? They'd only make him take a few shots. He started panicking, imagining himself getting mugged  or being loaded into an ambulance with alcohol poisoning, but as he began to clench his fists and bow his head, in a moment of introspection, he snapped out of it. No. Not this time. He was going to face this head on. He watched as his body jerked to the door, opened it, and stepped in.

         It was smaller than he had imagined. Only a handful of tables fit in the little space. Everything from chairs to the rack of bottles behind the bar had been painted black or splotched with glitter paint, and the space was only lit by a few blue tinted lights installed on the wall at eye level, making it nearly impossible to see anything from the door. Before James could try to find his friend, a roaring cheer erupted from the bar, startling him, and he stumbled a bit, not noticing that the floor of the bar was a few inches below street level. Now everyone was laughing.

         James fumbled his glasses back into position and saw a short Indian man in a bleach-white hoodie approaching him, face contorted in a grin.

         “It looks like you had something to drink already, huh?,” he yelled out across the bar. His dark skin and five o'clock shadow made a sharp contrast with the fabric under the dim blue light, giving him the appearance of an urban angel of sorts. “Let me guess, you're James?”

         “Oh, ah, yeah, you're Yayba?,”  James asked. He was surprised. This was not his fellow pimply nerd. This guy looked like he belonged behind the wheel of a jacked up street racing car.

         “Yeah, but call me Amal. Come on,” he said, leading him to the bar. It was then that James realized that the little group at the bar were the only people there, almost all of the tables were empty, except for one guy in the back who was little more than the orange dot on the end of his cigarette. The group of gamers was diverse; a dirty, blond, curly haired kid of about college age introduced himself as Brian, and another guy, whose name James forgot seconds after hearing it and shaking hands, was sharply dressed in a polo shirt, khakis, and too much cologne.

         “We were making bets on whether you would come in or not,” explained Amal, “so, thanks for grabbing that door handle, cause now Leisure Suit Larry here owes me a drink.” He elbowed his friend in the khakis. “I don't actually care about you, I just want free alcohol,” he added, turning back to James.

         “He also owes you a drink, if you want it,” Polo Shirt said nonplussed. “Are we going to make him drink it?,” he asked Amal.

         “Whoa, whoa, chill,” said Amal. “Excuse him. Have you ever drank at all before?” James felt something wrong.  They'd gone silent, and Amal and Polo Shirt were looking at him expectantly while Brian stared at the floor and rubbed his neck, an obvious tell. James, in dealing with his own social anxieties, had read all about behavioral psychology, and now he noticed those kinds of things people. He'd never acted on his observations, though. Saying “I can tell you're nervous by how you are holding your arms, what's up?” had mostly gotten him dirty looks. He just shook off the unease.

         “No, I haven't, not even a sip. I guess I never found myself wanting to drink.” Now James was the one with his hand on the back of his neck. Realizing that, he whipped it back into his lap, a bit frustrated. “But I'd like to try, I mean, here we are, why not?”

         “That's what I like to hear!,” exclaimed Amal, ruffling James' hair. “How about a rum and coke?”

         “Uhh, that sounds good.” The physical contact had surprised James, and he didn't notice as Amal ordered two cokes, no rum, in high ball glasses, lowering his voice to the bartender for the specific order.

         “So, what race do you play in StarCraft?,” asked Polo Shirt as the drinks were arriving. With the bartender's back turned, Amal took his cue, producing a small capsule from his pocket and carefully pulling it open above the drink. The tiny pile of powder inside slid out and alighted on the surface of one of the bubbling cokes, dissolving rapidly. He checked out of the corner of his eye. James was immersed in an energetic conversation about the game. Amal smiled and stirred the coke with his finger a bit. He took another two capsules from his pocket and swallowed them in quick succession, giving winks to his friends over James' shoulder.

-

         James' first experience drinking surprised him. He expected it to be like mouthwash, because that's how he had heard it described in the highschool hallway, but this was nothing like Listerine. The rum and coke reminded him of a time he accidentally drank oldschool kool-aid before the sugar was added, only a lot stronger. It was extremely bitter, and it left a taste in his mouth like the smell of burning plastic. It was hard to choke down, but he managed it with encouragement from Amal and Polo Shirt.

         “Is that enough to get drunk?” James asked.  It had felt like an initiation rite, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to be initiated.

         “Yeah, that's all you'll need until you know your tolerance,” Amal said reassuringly, “because they like to put an obnoxious amount of rum in at this bar.” He finished his drink in a massive gulp and slammed the glass down onto the table, the sight making James cringe. “Anyway! I think the show's starting soon, so we should probably start walking.”

         James was nervous as they bustled him out onto the street. He was gonna be drunk. He felt dizzy already. Amal had started talking about the DJs that would be playing, all of whom James knew nothing about. The four of them walked abreast on the sidewalk, with James sometimes forced halfway off the curb or into the gutter when it got thinner. He laughed to himself, recognizing again an obvious tell in his own behavior, the awkward-walk, when someone is walking with a group and can't seem to find a place around them, falling behind and being pushed off the sidewalk. Even with one foot on the curb and one in the gutter, walking through downtown at night felt good. It was unusually warm for a spring night, and the wind seemed to lick at his face playfully.

         When they got to the building, James was excited to get in. Something just felt right about it, the skinny college kids standing around slouching and smoking cigarettes, the muffled bass thumping  from inside, the brilliant neon signs, the smell and feel of hundreds of people breathing in a confined area wafting from the door. As they stopped to wait for tickets, James'd lamented how he'd neglected  the youth culture of his generation. It seemed alive and beautiful here outside the venue, with throngs of excited people everywhere, with trendy clothes he'd never seen before and smiles on their faces. He felt like he'd just woken up from the most wonderful of naps, the air felt crystal clear, and waves of feverish warmth washed over him. Being drunk was fine.

         “How are you feeling?,” Amal asked, after they left the ticket counter. James looked at him and smiling. “It's great, it's really great!” Amal's pupils were as big as plates, he looked like an Amal Collectable Plushy, not a hardass urban dude. James started laughing. “Your eyes are soo huge and cute! I'm sooo drunk!” Now everyone was laughing, and bigger and bigger waves of warmth washed over James' body.

         “Will you.. Will you marry me?” James asked, grinning like a maniac. Amal's face was contorted into the happiest looking scrinch, shaking his finger and nodding at the in joke between them. This was the Amal he'd talked to online. This was his best friend. This was the guy who played at 200 APM. They fell on each other and embraced, and tears flowing from James' eyes, both of them still convulsing with laughter.

         “James.. That wasn't alcohol you drank.”

         “Huh?” James stopped laughing.

         “I lied to you. I put ecstasy in your drink. It was just coke and ecstasy.”

         “What?” James was confused, still in mid-hug.

         “It tasted terrible, right? I put a crushed pill in there. It wasn't alcohol.”

         James stepped back out from Amal. It was a pill? “Why?” This was too much to take; his vision bowed and swayed around Amal's face. Panic started rising up, uncomfortably, fighting with the drug. “What are you, one of those... drug pushers? You...” Amal's wide open pupils. He was still smiling. James noticed. “You're on it too, aren't you? Are my eyes as dilated as yours right now?”

         “Yeah. As big as the moon, dude.” Amal hugged him again, and James felt the panic washing away. It almost startled him, as he'd never felt anything like it before.

         “I'm ok, I'm ok. Lets go inside.”