Halo Love
By Bret Sable
How do you know when the love is strong? How do you know when the friendship will last? Well, there’s one ultimate test, and it’s all about Halo.
I’ll start where all love and friendship stories should start: me on the couch, eating pastrami on rye, watching some lame reality TV program, and trying to forget that in 10 hours I’ve gotta go back to work.
The phone rang.
“Hello.” A gob of munched pastrami dribbled from my lips.
“Yeah, get over here now. I’ve got a problem.” Click.
My shoes happened to be on, so without missing a chew, I headed out the door. I’d have gone anyway. When a friend calls with such urgency, you go. It’s usually a divorce or death in the family or something of equal scale. But, if my shoes hadn’t been on, I might have finished my sandwich first.
Anyway, John (we’ll call him), only lived five minutes away, so I suppose that, in the long run, I was the only logical person for him to call. (You’ll see why.)
I finished my sandwich on the ride over. So, naturally, I began to have that itchy finger feeling that road-rage folks get—the kind that has them stewing in their cars as they wait in a two-mile back-up behind an automobile accident before they finally blurt: “Someone better be dead!”
In my heart, I wished no such thing. But I had gotten off the couch, after all.
Parking was a nightmare. Apartment complexes in the greater Seattle region are stuffed to overflowing, forcing me to risk being impounded by parking in a fire lane. (It was either that or walk a full block.)
Then the moment of truth arrived. I stood at my friend’s door and braced myself for the terrible news. John didn’t often hang up without saying goodbye. At least, not without a crazed mocking laugh. I put on a sober face and went straight in. We’d long since done away with the ceremony of knocking on one another’s door.
There he sat …
In the warm glow of his measly 19-inch television set …
Just him and Master Chief.
Playing Halo …
On Legendary …
Alone.
“Can’t pass this damned screen,” he said.
“Everyone’s okay?” I asked.
“No! I just told you. I keep dying here. The Covenant has got this bridge absolutely secure, and I need you to jump in and help me get across.”
He didn’t look up at me once, his fingers dancing on the controller.
“Janice didn’t leave you yet, did she?”
He paused the game long enough for me to hear her snoring in the back bedroom. An impatient look sat in his eyes while he waited for me to understand the real gravity of his situation: He’d been blocked in his quest to complete Halo alone on Legendary. Asking for my help was just shy of moving back in with his in-laws.
I let go of my sober face, sat beside him on the carpet, my back against the couch, and did what every friend should do: I helped John preserve his chances of victory … and his dignity. Starting again, we went co-op.
It took us almost two hours and several dozen attempts. But about 2:00 A.M., we got to the other side of the bridge. Dodging Banshees and fighting our way across, we bonded like two guys stuck in a fox hole.
Once we got inside the far doors, a path of dead Covenant beasts and scorch-marked Covenant vehicles strewn behind us, we rested our fingers.
It just brings friends closer.
Something made me want a cigarette … and I don’t even smoke.
Then John turned to me and said the only logical thing: “You can go now.”
To the sound of his wife’s pleasant snoring, I nodded with understanding, stood up, and went to the door. When I looked back, his face again glowed a hellish blue in the light of his television. I was already out of his mind.
That’s the test of love, of friendship. To be used briefly because you have Halo skills and then tossed aside like a muffin wrapper—and understand it all perfectly—that’s what it’s all about.
No doubt about it: John’s my best friend.
