I sit in my chair at my desk in my room, reading for class. I glance at the clock: 10:51 p.m. I read a little more and glance again: 10:52 p.m. I can't take it anymore.
Temptation wins; my willpower gives in so easily. I take my mouse and double-click the "Counter-Strike" icon. The all-too familiar menus fly by as I navigate them with exceptional speed. I've done this before.
The server is full.
I begin to impatiently click the "refresh" button. This is very familiar to me. The Purdue Counter-Strike server is the best of the best, and getting in isn't always so easy. I hammer it endlessly, so I know the very moment somebody leaves the game. The "refresh" button makes a clicking sound that taunts me.
I hit "refresh" for 15 minutes. Finally, there is an open slot. I click "Join Game" and announce to the world my imminent entrance into heaven with a boisterous "w00t w00t!"
While my computer is logging on I get up from my chair and go to the refrigerator. I grab a can of Mountain Dew: Code Red (the first of maybe five for the night) and a box of Milk Duds. I sit back down and open the can. Ah, that tastes good.
I put on my headphones and check the monitor. "Cannot connect to Purdue Doug's Death Shack, the server is full" says The Machine.
I curse. Ball State's God-forsaken Internet connection wasn't fast enough; somebody beat me to it. After five more minutes of waiting, I try to connect again. This time I get all the way through.
The round in progress appears on my screen and the sound comes in full and clear. Thank God. The hand-grenades go off. The gunshots rattle. A player dies. Like a cigarette smoker taking the first drag from a cigarette, I feel like everything in the world is OK. My muscles relax and I breathe normally. Almost.
I tell The Machine to randomly assign my team. It assigns me to "terrorist." Back in September, I refused to play on the terrorist team. This is January: Addiction always wins.
The round ends (my team lost) and a new round begins. My entire team is alive again and I get to play this round. My teammates recognize me and I recognize them. Everybody here knows your name; we all have the same dependency. Short and sweet greetings are exchanged. I buy my desert eagle (can't afford anything else, yet) and tell my teammates to rush left.
A third of them listen to me. Armed and dangerous, we brave soldiers charge down the left tunnel. We bust through an archway to see an entire S.W.A.T. team. Hand-grenades and flash bangs fly. My screen goes white; I'm blinded. I hear an MP5 on my left, an AK-47 on my right and four M4 Colts ahead of me. My desert eagle thunders, though I still cannot see. Half of the gunfire is halted. When the white light dissipates and my vision returns, I see that my team has failed. All three of us are dead. We got rocked.
I scream and curse. The other team cheated; I know they did. They downloaded and installed hacks, those dirty punks. At that moment, I truly hate myself. "Counter-Terrorists Win" blares into my headphones. The round is over.
A new round begins and I am happy once more. The entire night is an emotional roller coaster that lasts until the early morning. I laugh and scream. Last-minute victories, close calls and moments of sheer glory pass me by, coupled with utter failures: good plans gone wrong and fallen comrades.
Finally, I can take no more. The wild ride of emotions has left my eyes dulled and my face numb. I quit the game, wasted. Goodbye, Machine. I crawl into my bed. The reading assignment remains unread.
Nightmares await me in my sleep. Hell awaits me the next morning.
Write to Ben at bbmcshane@bsu.edu
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