Monopoly

“OK, Chief, it’s your turn,” my father says.  He hands me the dice with a flourish.

He’s sitting across from me at the kitchen table with a big grin on his face. My mother is upstairs nursing the baby.  The rest of my siblings are in the next room, watching TV.  My mother calls this grin his “shit-eating grin.” I don’t quite understand what that means.  But I do know there’s something about that grin I don’t like.

My heart beats fast as I pick up the dice.  I’m scared.  My father has just put hotels on St. James, Tennessee, and New York, the orange properties which are his favorites.  I’m on Connecticut, just around the corner from them.  I count spaces quickly as I shake the dice around in my small cupped hands.  If I roll a seven, a nine, or a ten, I’ll land on one of his hotels.  I’ll owe him $950, or even $1,000, if I land on New York.  I don’t have to look at the paper money in front of me to know that this is far more cash than I have.

My father is still grinning, but I only have a few more seconds before he’ll scold me for dawdling.  He’s anxious to have his victory. He knows he’s going to win the game and he’s already feeling triumphant.  When the game is over, he’ll find my mother and crow about it.  He always does.  My anger rises. I want to be the one who crows.  I want to be the one who wins my mother’s admiration.

I started playing Monopoly with my father two years ago, when I was just seven years old, even though the box says, “Ages 8 to adult.”  I’ve tried so hard to learn to play the game as well as he does.  I’ve learned how to count my money and make correct change.  I’ve learned how to read the Chance cards and the Community Chest cards and follow their instructions.  I’ve learned how to buy a property, how to build on it, and how much rent I can charge.

I’ve also figured out some tricks.  I’ve realized that each side of the board is exactly ten spaces long.  That means it’s ten spaces from one corner to the next, from “Go” to “In Jail” to “Free Parking” to “Go to Jail.” So of course, it’s also ten spaces from the property three after “Go” to the property three after “In Jail.”  And, since the railroads are exactly in the middle of each side, it’s also ten spaces from one railroad to the next, from “Reading” to “Pennsylvania” to “B & O” to “Short Line.”  Knowing these tricks, sometimes I can move my marker, the little silver dog, pretty quickly.  But I can’t begin to move as quickly as my father, who looks at the dice and moves his marker, the little silver car, without ever counting the spaces.

It doesn’t matter how much I figure out.  My father always knows more.  He seems to have some special, almost magical, wisdom.  He knows exactly which properties to buy and which to pass up.  He knows exactly when to build and when to wait.  No matter how hard I try, I always make mistakes.  So I’ve never won the game, not even once.  

“Let’s go, Chief, take your turn.”

I can’t put off rolling any longer.  As the dice leave my hands, I close my eyes and wish for an eight.  I try to picture one die with a five on it and the other with a three on it.  An eight would land me on Community Chest, right in between St. James and Tennessee.  How satisfying that would be, to land in the middle of my father’s properties, but not on any of them.  When the dice stop rolling, I’m afraid to add up the dots and count my spaces.  The first die is, in fact, a five.  And the second, is that a three?  I start to smile, but no, it’s another five.  I’ve landed on New York, the most expensive one.

“That’s one thousand dollars!” my father announces.  His voice is full of glee.

I’m crushed and I feel tears coming, but I hold them back.  Crying would be a disaster.  Crying would make me a baby, or a sore loser, which is almost as bad as being a cheater. Instead, I count out $650, which is all the cash I have.  Then I mortgage my two railroads, which gives me $200 more.  Finally, my hands shaking, I take my little green houses off of Kentucky and Illinois.  That gives me the last $150 I need.  I hand all of the money to my father.  I’m not out yet, but I know the game is over.

Sure enough, in a few more turns, I’m bankrupt. My father has won again and his horrible grin is back. Now comes the hardest part of all. He wants me to say, “Great game, Dad!” But I can’t bring myself to admire him. Luckily, he doesn’t insist. He leaves me to put the game away while he goes off to find my mother.