Victor Hesse sat in a threadbare recliner in the windowless basement of his mother's house. He was eating unnaturally uniform potato chips from a can and watching videos on his phone. The room smelled of mildew, body odor, and unwashed laundry. This was exactly how Victor spent most of his time if he was not playing video games or working. He had grown up in this house, though his bedroom had originally been upstairs. When he graduated high school a few years ago, he’d informed his mother Clara that he was a man now and needed a space of his own. It hadn’t gone as intended.
“It’ll be good for you, having to stand on your own two feet,” she’d said. “You’ll have to learn some responsibility. When you moving out?”
Victor hadn’t been prepared for this…eagerness.
“I wasn’t planning on moving out. I was planning on moving to the basement.”
“You won’t learn a damn thing living in the basement,” she said indignantly. “Your late father would shit a brick if he knew you were going to turn out to be one of those kinds of sons, the kind who lives in their mother’s basement.”
“I don’t make enough money to move out,” Victor said.
“Then get a real job! Selling video games to other losers who live in their mommy’s basements isn’t a job. Selling insurance, welding, embalming—now those are jobs. Selling games? I’m ashamed to even tell the other Methodist ladies what you do.”
“Mom, you’ve only got one life and you’ve got to let me do my thing. I have to be me. Life isn’t about work. It’s about everything else.”
His mother had burst out laughing hysterically at that. In fact, she’d laughed so hard Diet Sprite came out her nose. “You think anyone in my day gave a tinker’s damn if I got to be me or not? Hell no! No one cared if I was happy, fulfilled, or any of that shit. All anyone cared about was that you finished school, got your head out of your ass, and contributed to society by not being a bum or a layabout. That’s what you’re turning into—a layabout!”
“I’m not a bum. I’m employed. I pay taxes.”
“You’re under-employed,” his mother pointed out. “Your generation wants all this free shit but none of you pay enough in taxes to support it. You know who gets stuck with the bill? Me, peckerwood. You’re just one more bum in a generation of bums. Lord help us all.”
Victor sighed. “Can I live in the basement or not?” he asked, hanging his head and pouting. “I didn’t come down here for a lecture.”
His mother snatched a Salem 100 from a pack on the kitchen table and lit one. She wrapped her too red lips around the butt and regarded him through the smoke while he shifted uncomfortably. She was contemplating. Nothing was easy with her.
“Okay, but I want fifty dollars a month for rent and food. You’re also going to do your own damn laundry. And I don’t want no sluts down there either.”
“Jesus Christ, Mom!” Victor said. “You’d charge your own son fifty dollars a month?”
“Sorry, did I say fifty? I meant seventy-five,” she said firmly. “And another word outta your pie-hole and it goes to a hundred.”
Victor snarled but bit his tongue. He turned and walked off.
“We have a deal?” she called after him.
“Yes!” he bellowed.
“Payable upon move-in!”
Victor groaned in frustration.
“And no sluts. Are we clear?”
“No sluts,” Victor agreed as he stomped up the stairs to start packing.
Clara snorted. “Who am I kidding? No girls, not even the sluts, are going to date a boy living in his mother’s basement.”
Victor paid her the money before he moved the first box. If he didn’t, she’d complain non-stop. He scoured Craigslist for a couch, a small refrigerator, and a microwave. He brought down his flat-screen television, a recent Christmas gift, and plugged up his video game consoles. He set up his gaming computer with its fancy keyboard and expensive monitor.
When he had his electronics situated, he hung his knife collection on the wall. Just handling them brought a smile to his face. They weren’t expensive knives, but brutal-looking zombie killers he bought at a local flea market. He had over a dozen and thought they were badass. Maybe one day he’d outlast his mom and the whole house would be his. If that happened, he’d hang knives and swords in every room.
Victor glanced at the time on his phone screen. It was almost nine P.M. Most evenings he had a standing online appointment at this time. He'd been hanging on a certain game server for several months now, playing with the same group of guys on a variety of games. He never had met any of these players in real life and he didn’t know any of their real names, but they were as much of a social life as he had. Most of the people he actually knew in person were stupid. They didn’t understand any of the things he felt were important.
He put the lid on his chips and moved to the desk chair, booted his computer, and clicked on the icon to open the game they were playing now. He selected the server then entered his login credentials and was verified. Online, he went by the name DeathMerchant6o6o6 and he thought it was the most badass name he’d ever come up with. Sometimes he even strapped on one of his knives to put himself deeper into character. Some days, he never came out of character at all. He would sit at the counter at work, scribbling the moniker DeathMerchant6o6o6 on a scratch pad over and over.
The list of players began populating and he saw the same familiar names he recognized. His friends, or the closest thing he had to any. Victor slipped on his gaming headphones, adjusted his microphone, and jumped into the chat. He fell into the comfortable banter like a man greeting his coworkers around the morning coffee pot. It was a feeling of belonging he didn’t have in his everyday life. There were reasons for that. Some of those reasons were his fault, others were not.
It started with his personal appearance. He was a large young man, quite tall and overweight. He had stringy hair that was overly long and not washed frequently enough. It was crudely cut by Victor himself and hung over his eyes. He considered his hair to be both a filter through which he viewed the world and a mask that concealed him from it.
He dyed streaks of red and blonde into his hair and scruffy beard. In an urban high school his appearance would not have been unusual. As an adult working with the public in a small town it made him stand out in a way that was not entirely positive. He was fortunate the town had a gaming store or he may not have been able to find a job at all. In that environment, he blended in as well as anyone with his appearance might.
His manner of dress had been cultivated over several years of experimentation. He usually wore black cargo pants and combat boots. He had a variety of black t-shirts and tank tops he wore with them, topped off with a black hoodie. He accessorized with a trucker’s wallet chained to his belt and a pair of fingerless black gloves he only took off at home. In those clothes, he felt like a warrior stalking the surface of the Earth. It was his armor. It was the uniform of DeathMerchant6o6o6.
The gamers gave it a few minutes to see if anyone else was showing up. About ten minutes after nine they started a round. The matches lasted around forty-five minutes. This game was a combat shooter and those were Victor's favorites. He’d never shot a gun in real life but had mastered an arsenal of online weaponry. His current preference was the Beretta 92 and the Aug Steyr. With those two weapons and a few grenades he was practically unstoppable. He also carried a badass knife because edged weapons were part of his identity.
Most nights he played at least three or four matches. He had played as many as ten, staying up half the night drinking energy drinks and eating candy bars. His mom thought it was a total waste of time but it was his favorite thing to do. Who was she to judge? She just didn’t understand. What had she ever done in her life to ever accomplish anything? When had she ever had as much fun as he had on those nights?
She never had. She was stuck in the 1950s where all life was about work and being a good citizen.
After several rounds he called it a night. The other players called him names and made fun of him for logging off but it was a good-natured ribbing. They were his tribe. As such, he always felt a tremendous letdown when he signed off at the end of the night and powered down his computer. After the combat and the intense chatter that went with it, it was depressing to suddenly find himself back in the basement again. Those moments were when he was most aware that his real life was way less exciting than what he did online.
He wondered if this was true for the other guys he played games with. He thought about logging back in but it would definitely make him look like even more of a loser. They would give him some serious shit about it. He was too tired to fight back tonight.
He settled into his recliner and picked up a warm can of soda, taking a swig. Maybe he’d just watch some more videos. He’d received notifications that new videos from his favorite channels were available. He watched until he fell asleep in the chair.