by Matthew Watson

My ammunition was low. My fingers ached from tense movements. I could hear my heartbeat pumping some relief into the silence that surrounded what was extreme chaos only moments ago. Greg’s voice interrupted the dead air.

“That was a close one, man! How’s your barrier?”

“It’s pretty busted up, but I don’t have time to fix it.”

“They’re coming,” I replied, keeping my scope locked on the vacant, blood-spattered streets. Just as I let out a suppressed exhale, gunfire erupted in the distance. My scope landed directly over the head of my target, who then exploded with a confetti of blood and bone fragments.

“Wooooooh! Did you see that snipe?” Greg laughed, as I scanned the streets for our next victim and took a large gulp of cold beer. Just then, gunfire from the left, from the right. Soon the whole area was flying with bullets. I picked off a few before an unsuspected intruder stormed through my barrier and forced my retreat.
“I’m taking heavy fire! You okay?” Greg’s voice echoed through the turmoil.

“They’re breaching my barrier! I’m alright, though.” I replied, ducking behind a cement wall. I peeked up to see my unwelcomed guest rushing in my direction. I swung around the corner and caught him in the temple with the butt of my rifle. He stepped back, dazed, but quickly regained consciousness and fired a few shots just above my head. I shot blindly from the hip, and managed to bring the bastard to his knees. Regaining my composure, I aimed and fired. Blood danced through the air and painted a hateful picture across my clothing. This dude won’t be attending any future parties uninvited.

“I think we’re clear,” Greg said, pumping lead into a stray cat that had been finding sanctuary behind an abandoned car.

“Not this fucking song again,” he said, mimicking the lyrics with terrible exaggeration.

“Fine, I’ll change it,” I said, rising from my chair and tossing my controller down. I scrolled through my iPod, looking for something Greg wouldn’t patronize. The pickings were slim. Why does he always do this? Between work, my daughter, family, and all other obligations, I rarely get the chance to do this anymore: bro out and play some video games, eat food I don’t usually allow myself to eat, and escape the busy, needy, and convoluted monotony of my life.  As of late, Greg always manages to find something missing from our evenings.

We should have ordered pizza while it was still open. Fuck this night.

Aww, man, we should have hung out earlier when I wanted to. Now my stomach is acting up again. Fuck this night.

This movie sucks, man; we should have just played Gears of War.

Should have gotten more beer.

Should have watched Ace Ventura.

Should have gone out.

Fuck this night!   

“Dude, play that song by Between the Buried and Me, ummm…. Obfuscation,” Greg yelled back, after downing the rest of his beer. “Oh, dude, can you grab me another Rolling Rock?”

“I only have the album Alaska on here man, and get your own damn beer,” I said, scrolling through the songs.

“Just YouTube it, man,” he said, starting the next game.

“What’s it called? Ob-Fuss-What?” I replied, beginning to get pissed off.

“Obfuscation! Dude, hurry up, the hoard is invading! This is wave nine, man, and shit is going to get crazy,” he called back. I kept attempting to spell the name over and over, coming up with absurd results. Observation… Nope. Odd fascination… Nope. Obese Caucasian… Come on!

Just as I found the song, I heard heavy gunfire. I leapt across the living room, grabbed my controller, and watched as a “mauler” pelted round after round into my digital self, leaving him a bloody mess on the concrete.

“What happened, man?” Greg laughed.

“What happened? What happened was I got killed trying to look for your stupid fucking song, because you just couldn’t let one song you didn’t like play. I like putting my iPod on shuffle for background music. This is my house,” I snarled back.

“Oh, I get it, man,” he began, getting up and shutting down the Xbox, far more aggressive than was necessary. “Why do you have to be so fucking passive-aggressive all the time? If you don’t want to change the song, or you want me to get out, just say so.”

He wasn’t wrong. Well, about the passive-aggressive part, I mean. These days, I held back a lot of anger. When someone pisses me off, I just shove it down into a fiery pit with the rest of my misfortunes and spite. This could sometimes lead to letting it out in heinous little bursts. I just wanted to have a few beers with my friend and relax. I should have said that. Agreed to disagree, and move on.

Instead, “Fuck you! You condescending prick,” I bellowed out, beyond control. Within a matter of seconds, Greg was inches away from me. Before I could express how much I hated anyone being this close, or that I could never fight one of my best friends, or that the combination of Doritos, beer, and cigarettes made for foul breath, he shoved me. Greg and I have boxed in the past. I was stronger and quicker than him, but Greg is a former athlete. He times his shots well, and when they land, they hurt. I didn’t want to find out how his punches felt without a few inches of padding.

“You really want to fight me, dude? Over a song? Come on. What’s really going on, man?”

His raised shoulders slouched back down, and his irate stare eased up and focused on the floor. “I’ll just go home. I know when I’m not welcome,” he said, shuffling away. I felt sorry, but it was probably for the best. Neither of us spoke while he gathered his things and left. I locked the door and slumped down, exhaling my deflated adrenaline. A mouse-like tap sounded behind me. Shit. As I opened the door, Greg muttered that he had left his keys and walked past me, never losing eye contact with the floor.

“What’s going on, dude?” I asked again. “You can’t really be that pissed about a song or me being an asshole.”

“I haven’t heard from Sarah in over three months now. I talked to her parents, and they haven’t heard from her either. I just hope she’s okay,” he said with a sigh.

“Come on, man. Let’s go sit on the porch,” I beckoned.

It’s so easy to assume that the conflicts right before us cause the struggle; that everyone’s actions are a direct result of our own. Unfortunately, it’s just not that simple. We’re all fighting our own personal battles. Sometimes, someone stands in the way of the crossfire, and takes a few unfair shots. What are friends for, anyway?

That night, we talked for a while, and it turned out Greg hadn’t been getting out much, so we headed to the bar. When we got back to my place, Greg looked at me with contemplation. After a few seconds, he said, “Gears and beers?”

“Hell yeah”, I replied. We reentered the battlefield with much more enthusiasm, focusing all our animosity on the enemy.

Matthew Watson is in his fourth semester as a finance major, and he is a Navy veteran. As the winner of “Best Essay,” he is glad that everyone enjoyed his essay.