FAQ
©2026 by Parker Poindexter
The knob of our garage side door thwacks the wall so hard that that even with my speakers cranked to earsplitting I hear the glass pane shimmy in its 1960’s vintage frame a good, oh, eighteen feet behind me. Oh, man, I’m dying to update that door. But, one little affordable house improvement at a time, to make it a little bit more 2020’s modern. Updated flooring and kitchen come first. Anyway. Sorry, I should try to stay focused, I guess. Is that right?
All right, here goes. The jolt of annoyance I feel melts in an instant when after the door bonks I pick up Millie’s faint signature pattern of footfalls hoping to outrank my giant screen and high-end sound system. My seven-year-old baby girl Mills- I swear to you she is the most important thing in my world. I mean it. She’s once again bringing her special skip, hop, and slide combo from the tile entry onto the concrete floor, barely audible though it may be under the music and gunfire blaring in my far corner of the garage. It’s enough, though, to put a big smile on my face, but I feel a tinge of guilt because she’s loped in, I guess I lost count how many times, to entice her daddy out of his make-believe video game world and into the street mushball game with the neighbors. How many times total I’ve promised to come out very soon? Her entrances play, I confess, second fiddle in my mind to recent important game events and visions of future ones that persist in holding me in thrall to my giant screen’s virtual priorities.
Next, Millie’s cajoling voice reaches my ears over in the half of the garage that’s my man cave I call In Cahoots East, after a nightclub I used to go to all the time when I was at UCLA. In Cahoots was often where I could be found when I should have been studying. I wasn’t there to drink; not to excess, anyway. It’s just the house music was great, and my friends were regulars. But even with my schoolwork pushed back to many an all-nighter my grades landed me at graduation one one-hundredth point shy of cum laude. I’d have gone over the top if In Cahoots hadn’t been so seductive.
Anyway, my speakers are on the wall flanking a whopping flat screen, all a boulder’s throw from me because I moved the recliner in front of the sofa. Almost anything that’s not coming at me from that wall would get zip attention from me. But my beautiful little girl? She bops in and gets a piece of me right away.
A mere one one-hundredth percent more of a piece might very well have made a difference and I wouldn’t have to be talking with you right now.
But my prized home fricken theater system- my brand-new baby, my pride and joy, is the best of anyone on the block. The whole neighborhood even, I would have bet. Eighty watts of amazing pure, clear quad stereo from mini speakers with only two-inch woofers. Continuous eargasm city. Not to mention seventy-five inches of gorgeous OLED low-glare UHD three dimensional four fricken K mind-blowing visuals. The day after I got it I and my buddies had an All-Star game party, and Sundays they started coming over for the Phillies games. Then, the night before Millie’s last dance from the mushball game hoping to get me to just be a good dad, I and my wife Kendra had our first date night at the movies out there the two of us alone with that awesome picture and sound. Millie’d gone to sleep over at her best friend’s and Kendra and I sat right up close in the extra-wide recliner and we had one large blanket around us both, popcorn with real butter- not that cheap microwave or eight-dollar multiplex crud, I mean the really good stuff- Jolly Time organic, with fresh melted real butter- and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio. Tell me what’s better than that: my wife cuddled up with her head on my shoulder, quality snacks, and a decent vintage? But, twenty minutes into the movie, I nod off and my Pinot dumps out of my glass into my lap, which doesn’t even wake me. Kendra’s combo of sweet laughter and sympathetic moan do the trick, but I got to chide her back. I told her, “You’re the one who picked ‘The’ fricken ‘Notebook.’”
What I wouldn’t give to be able to watch it cuddled up with Kendra now. That or any other movie.
Anyway.
The next morning. That’s what we’re here to talk about.
It’s a beautiful sunny Sunday, and I’m alone in ICE. I.C.E, that’s In Cahoots East-
Millie’s- my God, to have to live with something like this at only age seven-
I’m already in my third hour in front of my beloved big screen playing “Vigilante Vignettes.” Being up extra close with the recliner still in front of the sofa from movie night, I feel like I’m right in the action and I am the MAN. The recliner back is full up, my spine is stick-straight, not even touching the chair back, and I’m in rapt concentration. For nearly three months every Sunday morning has been for practicing my new religion of vigilantism before my seventy-five-inch altar in my very own house of worship, In Cahoots East. I’d been showing up every other day of the week too, for at least a little bit. So today, on this most beautiful of summer Sundays, I feel ready and able to ice anyone in ICE. I remember thinking that morning if those Catholic sisters who rode me in middle school could see my perfect posture and dedication and accumulating wisdom before my altar- oh boy, would they be so fricken proud. They’d see their lessons had stuck and they’d earned their ticket to heaven.
No disrespect intended. Really. They were well-meaning ladies.
Kendra had been carping me that I only had good posture when playing my game. Everywhere else I was a sloucher, according to her. I absolutely loved being with my family and felt justified denying that I slouched too much at home. I for sure had no problem sitting straight up at work all day every day- but then again with my boss camped right across from me in her office with her floor to ceiling wraparound picture windows- let me tell you, a neurotic shrew of a boss with big picture windows inspires you always to sit straight as well as say everything she wants to hear, same as a nun. But you still have just no chance. Everyone knows that type of boss that can’t handle people with smarts and ideas and prefers their underlings to be lackeys just like them and never a threat by having the nerve to display an ability to think. Don’t think, please, that I have a problem with female authority, I know there are plenty of male asswipe bosses out there. Anyway, Gloria the shrew, through her almighty wraparound could see things that weren’t happening, hear things in the wrong way, too. And when I would politely try to explain the facts, she’d interrupt me with “The team needs you to be more cooperative and self-aware.” She even called me combative once, and she put all this in my performance review. So what chance did I have at a promotion, or even a decent raise? Three percent I got, cost of living only. Bosses, man, I swear. Why are they so mental?
Anyway, I’d never even wanted a first-person shooter before. I tried my dad’s Sim City for a while when I was a kid, but I thought it was silly. Kendra and me both like Wordle, we do it together most days. Same with Connections. Then this one day I get this pop-up ad for “Vigilante Vignettes” with the cover art featuring this one criminal. It’s Gloria, my boss shouldering an automatic rifle and lording it over the scene! Her spitting image, anyway, and she’s behind a picture window, looking all smug. I truly have no idea why the advertising gods picked me for that ad. What is A.I. coming to? Did it somehow pick up on something I muttered while surfing, or something? Can it do that now? I wouldn’t be surprised, would you?
So anyway, I hustle right over to Game Stop to buy the game. Who could blame me for just indulging in a little make believe, right? The lady on the box looks just like fricken Gloria.
So, on this Sunday when Millie dances in over and again, I’m three months into driving around this big city that kind of looks like Philly- another reason this game has me spellbound- but number one is I’m on my hunt for Gloria.
What Kendra had really been saying- I recognize now- was that around the family I had come to seem in highest devotional mode only when I was before the altar. Mind, body, and soul totally committed, then and only then.
Needless to say, I won’t be playing that game ever again. Nor will I ever be caught anywhere sitting any way but up straight and stiff from now on. As you can see.
So- in my third hour in front of my big OLEDeity, reverent good boy that I am, I’m bent on ridding the world of a piece of scum. Now, picture this- because I haven’t gotten around to putting curtains or blinds or something over the big garage window, the seventy-five-inch altar reflects the room. Not all of it, though, and not all the time, because in “Vigilante” you travel your character around the city, where it’s sometimes day, sometimes night; sometimes you’re inside, sometimes out, so different parts of the altar are always changing between lighter and darker, you know, depending on the story, and how fast you’re driving, or running. Different parts of the room reflect according to the flux of the story. When Millie comes in again I’m already kind of tense, as always when on the hunt, and when she whomps the side door that riles me just a TINY bit more- really, that’s all- because Millie is such a good girl overall and even though I’ve told her before, quite a few times, to take it easy on doors it’s so cute the way she scoots when she’s excited. She becomes part of the perfection of my Sunday morning in my plush man cave, my game controller in my lap, my bare feet up on the recliner’s open footrest, a jumbo mug of coffee on the little side table. Millie as usual ignites a lovely glow from my chest up through my neck and face. But I continue being oh so busy manipulating a stick plus ten buttons and switches wrapped around all the curves and recesses of the holy controller. I’m gripping it tight with both hands like my real as well as my virtual life depend on it.
I call to Millie- loud, because of the speaker volume, but I’m polite- “Mills, I’m glad you’re here and I love you, honey, but a little softer with the door next time, please?” I say it in a very nice way, with a real smile in my voice so she’ll know I’m no less happy that she’s approaching. But- I do not turn around to look at her. I don’t take my eyes off steering through the big parallel stupid universe.
Pretty soon I catch her reflection in the darkest part of the night scene, and finally my eyes move a whole couple of degrees- for a flash, no more, lest of course I miss catching sight of my intended victim. It’s long enough to catch a peripheral glimpse of Millie making a hop out of her cutie patootie scoot to land by the coffee table in front of the sofa, which both stick out from beyond my chair back. In her onscreen reflection it looks like she’s putting something down on the table.
I have no excuse for not turning around right when I heard the door thunk, to see her and welcome her, because of course at all times she should be a bigger draw than the fricken game. And I damn sure should have been aware of everything she was doing the whole time after she came in. Even if she was only in a reflection, I could have seen my daughter onscreen since she first came in, because daylight was now coming through ICE’s side door window as well as the big window in that same wall. But, driving around in that other world to get to and kill the make-believe goons protecting Gloria and then the lady herself was OH so much more compelling. A good dad would have dropped the holy controller and headed for the door with his kid to play mushball and be social like a normal person.
Any normal dad- any good dad- sure wouldn’t be having to share all this now with a shrink.
Thank you, Kendra, thank you so much for being willing to be here with me for this and for manipulating the Kleenex on my face for me. I think my nose needs blowing. Could you please?
Thanks, honey.
All right, where were we? So I’m driving along a very dark suburban street, and even though my primary focus is my hunt for Gloria I catch Mills’s reflection moving back behind the sofa a ways toward the door, and then it spins a 180 and goes straight into a run toward the sofa back. I know what’s coming because I’ve seen this stunt a hundred times, but she doesn’t look like she’ll get up enough speed. I see from her hips to her feet rotating upward as she takes a wobbly handstand above the sofa back, balanced on the part the altar can’t reflect behind my chair. My right big and number two toes stranglehold my left big toe and my feet fidget because as many times as I’ve seen her gymnastic moves they put me on edge that she could get hurt. But do I slow down on the controller? No, because my big screen is the rear-view mirror I can track my kid with well enough, I figure. I come out with a tense, “Careful, Mills,” and go right on steering my car into an alley, my hunt for fictional enemies proceeding uninterrupted, virtual gun in hand. Poised to KILL.
In a second my girl, still a little off kilter, resumes forward rotation, and she disappears behind my chair back. “Mills, you okay?” I call out, as I jam on my virtual brakes at the building where I think I’ll find the charming Gloria. I’m thinking to myself Man, is my kid something else? She is AWESOME. As soon as my car comes to a stop I look slightly up and see Mills’s barely visible reflected hands already thrust up in victory above and behind my chair back.
My lungs fill to power a sigh of relief that she’s safe after plopping into a sitting position on the sofa, but I spot this punk goon who thinks he can keep me from my ultimate target and he shanghaies my breath into a gasp. My heart pounds and throat pinches as I fire out my window multiple times and down he goes. “Man, you scare me sometimes,” I shout to Mills, to make sure I’m heard over the music score, trying to make my voice friendly, with a little laugh, even, and next thing I know Mills’s chin comes to rest on my shoulder, from behind me. Gotcha, pussy I’m snickering in my head as I zoom in on the dead goon. I move my real eyes down a little to both Mills’s and my faint reflected faces. They’re broken up by the close-up graphic of the bleeding dead body; I can’t clearly make out my daughter’s facial expression, but when she puts her hand on my other shoulder I take that to mean she’s liking what she sees. I go ahead and start the gun reload sequence, and I finally take a whole split second to whip my head to Mills and she’s looking in my eyes- not the reflection, but my real eyes- and she looks worried. I’m back on screen verifying my available shots total goes back up when a, “What’s wrong, honey?” comes out of me.
“Which guy scared you?” she wants to know. Not as if she’s being tough and taking my side against the goon; she sounds sympathetic and worried for me, and I love that our heartfelt concern is mutual.
I turn to her and say, “I meant you, honey. I was a little scared for you. I don’t know how you get in one piece through that flip, but- definite ten, as usual.”
“Daddy, it’s not always a max of ten,” my Millie says with her sweet, gentle laugh. She’s chiding me for having made this mistake umpteen times. “That was in the olden days. Gymnastics moves have different maxes now,” she reminds me, with customary unwavering patience through my protracted effort to remember that simple concept.
In my mind, with my eyes now back onscreen, I believe I’m totally reciprocating with total support when I say, “I’m sorry, honey, I know that, I won’t forget again.” But my primary focus remains directing my busy hands to run my virtual self towards the building where I’m pretty sure I’ll find the dragon broad. It’s then I notice my poor, overworked fingers are getting sore and tight and so are my wrists and I know they’ll cramp up soon if I don’t give them a break. Sometimes I would worry about carpal tunnel setting in or my fingers getting permanently gnarled. But a smartass goon or moron punk or my skank with her Glock might pop into view any second, and what of more importance could I possibly have to consider? I decide it’s safe to treat my hands to a quick break from his holiness the controller and give ’em a good shake while I keep scanning the scene on screen. Three seconds and my hands are back on the job, a little looser, but they tighten back up even worse the more I play. And my response? I concentrate on ignoring the strain and ache while my abused fingers and hands and wrists steer and shoot and manage every other function. Mind, body, heart, and soul in devotion to vigilante success and that’s number one, instead of to what’s going on in my real, immediate surroundings with my little girl.
Then Mills- her arm- I feel it around my neck and her temple connecting with mine. “Daddy, come outside and play with us. Please?” she says. “The whole block is out there. Mr. Levinson has to leave but he’s waiting till you come out.”
My little nova’s rapid breaths are pulsing, and she’s radiating real world heat and humidity and excitement. Come play with US, she says to me. In other words, We’re more fun than those game people. As I open my mouth to offer some version of soon, she gets another wild hair, lets go of my neck, and launches into a cartwheel. Here we go again, I’m thinking, and I tense up a bit. But since she does this all the time and she’s never taken more than a minor spill I know I should keep quiet. I see her reflection better now in a larger dark corner patch of my screen, and I feel a real strong draw to turn to see my ardent little athlete do it live, but somewhere in the decrepit UHD world before me some cocksure goons with assault rifles and one gnarly bitch boss who I’ve been after for almost three months are bent on taking me down. My dominating feeling is I have reached this level of the game seven times before and seven times I have failed to take out the boss.
A “boss,” in case you don’t know, in gaming lingo, is a character you have to get past to move up to the next level. So- Boss Gloria who I was so combative with at work is now starring in my vignette as this burly, pear-faced chunky blob of not very bright looking lilac-haired, flabby-titted street trash. Except for the blue hair and the flabby tits, and this virtual bitch being like twenty years younger, this IS Gloria. The same dopey, smug, condescending face. I swear, the resemblance is crazy. My mind persists in obsessing on If I do this, tomorrow I can walk into work and be able to not let Gloria get to me.
I do get that my kid is dying for attention. Through some kind of miracle, I do choose to risk my fricken precious virtual life and limb while my eyes dart leftward, followed by the rest of my head. Mills’s feet hit the concrete floor off the carpet and she’s angled a ways off her intended straight line which makes my heart jump because if she falls she could get really hurt, what with the garage floor being concrete except for a softish Berber under the furniture in the ICE section. She bobbles a couple steps but ends up solid on her feet.
I guess I should give myself proper credit. It must have taken at least a whole uninterrupted two seconds, maybe even three, to watch her do all of that. Yay for me.
So. I turn back to the altar and say with enthusiasm, calm and nice as I can, “Nice one, Mills. Try to stay on the carpet next time, though, okay? Like at the gym when you’re always on pads. Points off for out of bounds, right?” Gymnastics is her thing, and what kind of dad would I be if I’m not gonna support her?
She says, “Okay, Daddy. I wish you’d seen my home run outside. It went all the way down the block to Stacy’s house. Please will you come out now?”
My eyes widen then, as onscreen I think I spot a bit of shadow appear from around the end of a block wall. I’ve been at this particular abandoned office building over and over and I know every nook and cranny of it like I know my own real live workplace. I’m nothing if not thorough, right? As they say, God is in the details. I’m sure I know every possible place a goon could be hiding, so on this occasion, my eighth of being on the brink of success, how could I possibly fail to nail the two goons protecting my fine lady, and then the lady herself? From behind the wall an arm with gun in hand pops out, which elicits a raspy grunt from way deep within me. While I’m squeezing off most of my clip I raise my voice for my daughter to hear me over the earsplitting volume of my gun. “A home run, really? Mills, my little nova, I’ll come out real soon, I promise! Just as soon as I nail this- this- triumvirate of scum.”
I hear her utter softly “Trarumvirate?” with a sense of wonder in her voice. “TRI-UM-virate, honey,” I shout. It’s a- um-.” My effort to explain is vanquished when the rest of the goon that goes with the arm pokes around the wall. I pull the trigger three times in rapid succession, and yelp, “Yeah, baby!” with glee as he crumples. Once he’s on the ground my fourth shot wastes him for sure. My peripheral vision picks up Millie once again right next to me and when I turn to her she’s looking serious in the direction of the screen. She right away senses me looking at her, turns to me, and smiles back. I conclude She’s proud of me. Cool.
“We’re having fun outside, Daddy. Come and play? Please?”
I turn back to the altar, smile, and say, “I will, I promise. Very soon,” with plenty of heartfelt sympathy and longing in my voice, that’s the honest truth, and I throw in a kiss to my hand which I transfer to her cheek without looking. Can there be any doubt of my sincerity? Regardless, inside my head I start to hear Kendra’s voice admonishing me for too much time spent in ICE alone. I hear then my own inner voice replying Ken, I only play a little in the evening before bed, a few hours on Saturday and Sunday. Can’t I have a hobby?
Kendra and I, we argued about this a lot, since very soon after I started playing. I kept denying I had a problem because why should I not be able to give up the game when I wanted? I’d promised Kendra that very Sunday morning, again, and I meant it, that once I got past my current level I was done. “I’m NOT addicted,” I repeated to her when she suggested I was, again, at breakfast. I even thought at that moment that she was being just like Gloria, seeing and hearing something that just wasn’t there. I said to her, “I’ll show you I’m not hooked. I promise I’ll crush this level today and then I’ll throw the game in the trash.”
I hadn’t yet shared with her all the details of the character I was after. I would have, if she’d ever looked close enough at the game package or saw the boss on screen. In hindsight now, of course she’d have been justified to get furious that some dumb doppelganger was my reason for spending so much time cut off from the family.
So. Here I am getting close to my goal for the eighth time, and Kendra’s voice in my head starts harping on me, and deservedly so, as my own dumb doppelganger skulks around inside the altar.
How much I wish I’d listened. God, I’m so worried my amazing wife’ll cut me off now for good. I’d be helpless. I’d do anything to make up. Anything. How possible is that, even, at this point?
She’s diligently wiping my tears again. Does that mean I could have faith that someday she’ll forgive me? Could I have another nose blow, please, Ken? Sorry.
Anyway, I managed to shut her voice out and get back to keeping my promise to her, and the one to my child to come out and play. My next thought besides the scum I need to kill is that a nova is just a phase. Just like my vignette it’s a temporary phenomenon, so it isn’t apt to call my daughter that. I decide that what she is, in fact, is my Higgs boson- the building block without which my life could not be complete, and nothing would make sense. I make a mental note to toss that clever bit Kendra’s way if she comes in and rides me again about all my gaming time, which, anyway, is going to be over today on my eighth try. I love Mills, nothing could change that. She’s forever. And so are you. This vigilante thing is just very temporary, and it’ll be over soon. Could you please be more supportive, and show the commitment to our family you think I’m lacking?
Yup, that’s what I thought. Just call me Gloria’s protégé. Why, oh my God, why could I not be aware enough to know what was happening to me, becoming as mental as my boss?
Anyway, I turn to check on my Mills, the in-the-flesh version, and she’s gone. Stretching my neck a little farther I see she’s standing by the coffee table sipping from a soda can. That’s what she had put down on the table. I catch her squinting eyes flicking all over the screen from behind her partial veil of stringy, sweaty hair. Problem is- my chair’s high back blocks my catching another somewhat prominent detail - the fact that Millie has been in grave danger every time she’s come to get me that morning. What I do notice is that I’m just as worked up and sweaty just from pressing ten buttons over and over in my nice, air-conditioned ICE as she is from playing ball in the sun. Maybe I SHOULD get outside, and get some real exercise. My instincts, again, as correct as they may be, are no match for my virtual party.
For whatever it’s worth now, I promise you both I will never again fail to hear the wisdom of the voices of reason in my head.
As soon as my eyes are back to the screen, Kendra’s voice cranks itself right back up, not loud enough to drown out the electronica, but it does have a commanding presence. I’m hearing her the time she told me the direct attention I give to Mills when I’m playing “Vigilante Vignettes” could be measured in nanoseconds. My oh-so-clever response in my Carl Sagan impression: “Yeah, billions upon billions of them. Hundreds of billions.” Pretty good, huh? There I am on another gorgeous Sunday neglecting my family to play inside alone, reminding the world how glib and clever I can be, thinking why does Ken not understand that “Vigilante Vignettes” is expendable? I really can quit any time I want.
So I squelch Kendra’s voice out of my head again to concentrate on squeezing off some more rounds, and curse as I miss.
“Sorry, Mills,” I shout. “I meant ‘shoot’.”
“I’m right here, Daddy,” she giggles from my left.
I look over for an instant and indeed she is next to me. She offers the soda can at a tilt in front of my mouth, so I need not divert a hand from my controls. “Want a sip?”
That’s my sweet kid Millie, always thoughtful, always ready to give and share. What if I had offered something of mine, like my undivided attention?
“No, but thanks,” I say. “Sorry I shouted so loud. I didn’t see you come over.” I don’t interrupt my prowling for my goons and bitch and I fire a warning shot just to remind them I’m there. I prowl, and prowl, and prowl, and finally find a second to look to my daughter and start saying that her cartwheel looks better since I last was at her gymnastics practice. I’m latched back onto the screen for the last part of the compliment.
“That was a long time ago, Daddy. I’ve practiced a lot.”
“Sheesh, that WAS a long time ago,” I say. That night I was late and missed her first unassisted back walkover on the beam because freakin’ Gloria decided five PM on Friday was the perfect time for my performance review. I feel my lips tighten and my breaths get shorter and my throat starts to throb. But if I’m gonna get this thing done and get outside to play, I gotta hold myself together. I snap back to attention. Time for another reload.
A few billion nanoseconds really were all I diverted from “Vigilante Vignettes” that morning. My own mind was murmuring to me the whole time that the world in which my ebullient daughter tumbled and danced and hit home runs was the higher priority, yet the parallel universe onscreen kept dominating. It just kept mining deep within me for a mother lode of- what? Anger. Resentment. Stupidity, maybe? Yeah, more like total brainlessness, the kind that only advanced technology could bring about and make my presence in my daughter’s day into a mere vignette.
Not even that. Just mere snippets.
Now I’ll never get to chase down one of my little slugger’s line drives.
My peripheral vision shows me Mills’s hand with the soda can as I feel her forearm come to rest on my shoulder, her perspiring head and body continuing to emanate the heat and pleasure of the real world. I see her reflected head, floating in an ephemeral dark shadowy patch of the ever-changing inner-city Ultra High Definition shitscape, turn toward me.
“Who’s winning outside, Mills?” I ask, and resume firing warning shots. I’m trying to put extra caring and sweetness in my voice as I keep looking to murder the boss. “And where did you get that little soda?” It’s a short, squat can, about half common size, like I’ve never seen before.
“Mr. Levinson gave ’em to everyone. WE’RE winning. Me and Mr. Levinson and Stacy and her dad. Mr. Levinson has to go soon, so you can take his place. Daddy, you’re sweating. Sure you don’t want a sip?”
“No, thanks, honey.”
She presses the cool can to my neck.
“Oh, that feels nice. Bet I could hit that little can at a hundred feet. I’m shooting really good right now.”
“Could you shoot it with your real gun from that far?”
The somewhat important detail I missed- when I first saw her behind me drinking her soda- was that I’d left my Colt New Frontier on the coffee table. And now, with her up next to me, I manage not to notice that she has it in her left hand.