“Penguins will surely turn this depressing shit into something funny”, thought the Author with unreasonable optimism and despicable self-absolution.

Debriefing is common in certain LARPing circles. It serves the purpose of decompressing, sharing, etc. Recently, during a debriefing, I was asked what had been the worst moment of my game. I stood quiet for a while, kept a very convincing let-me-think-about-it face, and then replied slowly, as if I was just coming to realize it.

I don’t remember what I said, and it doesn’t matter really, because it was a lie. I didn’t need to think about it. I knew what my worst moment had been. It is always the same. I dread it during the months that precede the LARP, just about enough that sometimes I would rather not go to any LARP at all; I push it aside in the dawning of the game and then completely erase it up until the last second. It is a repeating pattern that ends up in late remembrance, when the moment is already there and I had no time to prepare for it — it rose up grim and unexpected, dark stranger with a familiar face, or visiting dead friend, staring at me with a thin little smile in the midst of all the happy faces, as if he had been there the whole time. For the sake of cheap cliches, let’s call him “Black Hat”.

Black Hat always comes visiting, but never stays long. He lives in those very special ninety seconds that follow the end of a game. He comes with the clapping hands, the hoorays, the chatter, the hugging. He is there when people suddenly step out of character and emerge from the deep waters like drowning, air-hungry swimmers. When their faces light up and they turn around, looking for their first hug — and second, and third, letting out all the “oh-my-god-that-moment-was-so-great” that are too urgent to wait for proper debriefing. He comes with that sudden burst of enthusiasm that lives in the immediate aftermath of a game, made of gestures and smiles and reciprocal recognition. You know what I am talking about. It’s that minute and a half, the excited mixing of bodies and faces, the tangle of hands and arms; the stepping out of deep waters.

In those ninety seconds, there will be hugs. And as many as those hugs might be, there will often be a first one. You played with plenty, sure, but shared with a few. And with someone, you shared the most. So there will be a first hug, and it will be with that person. It will acknowledge all those moments. It will recognize that bond. A fictional fragment of love — it might add up to a lasting friendship, it might disappear overnight, but at the beginning of those ninety seconds it will be there. And since it will be the first of a series of hugs, and smiles and quick chats, in a way it will legitimize all of them. A founding stone, and a fragile one: because as all things love-related, it happens (must happen) on common ground. Your first hug should be theirs. Second and third might happen on different levels of intimacy, sure, but the first one you have to do it right, otherwise all the others just won’t work.

In that minute and a half, Black Hat winks at me from a distance and says: well, partner, I guess it’s still you and me. In that minute and a half, I feel such a ridiculous amount of disconnection and estrangement that I wonder how could I ever think about coming to the LARP at all. There is not going to be a first hug. Nor a second, or a third. Here I am. The game ended. And there is absolutely no one to be looking for. No one that will look for me. No first hug whatsoever. Everyone is having theirs. But I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. I met no one. I interacted with no one. Nothing happened in the previous days, so of course there’s no one to hug. I am alone in a sea of happy unicorns, and no one feels right.

Then eyes meet. Someone gets close. First hug comes. Just proximity, says Black Hat. It won’t work. As awful confirmation of his malignant suggestions, conversation is discovered brief. Recollection quickly over. Looks like you didn’t share that much. And now there’s awkward silence, embarrassed looks — ok, I will go look for — Yeah, no, of course. Look at them go, were they smiling this much three seconds ago? Or maybe you’re wrong, maybe he (or she) was just like you; one to meet in shame, and compromise.

There’s also times when I manage to fight the lie; times when I realize that yes, I did something, met someone, there might actually be someone with whom I shared the most. Black Hat really loves those times: as I move close to that someone, he comes laughing, saying that no, Jesus, how could I think that? It won’t be him, it won’t be her. Can’t you see that they are already having their first hug? And it’s clearly not you. So just stand there, swallow your pride, and wait in line for your not-first-choice turn.

So I wander around in the small crowd, trying to hide that I have nowhere to go — hoping not to be caught as the impostor that I so clearly am. Black Hat is right next to me. He whispers ugly stuff, whispers that I am the only one, the only loser surfing the crowd with nowhere to go, whirling around with a pathetic hopeful smile that will eventually attract a fragment of pity. He grins and says that even this time I failed, even this time I should have interacted more, I should have bonded more, Christ why didn’t I just do more? But it’s too late. And now the only real hug that comes its his.

Black Hat always comes visiting, but luckily he doesn’t stay for long. He poisons those ninety seconds but leaves soon after that. And thankfully, there’s a lot more to do after his visit. There’s drinks to be had, and stories (suddenly remembered) to be shared. Reciprocal recognition. Smiles — all of them good ones. Decompression. But as the night comes to an end, and everything deflates — as the magnitude of those ninety seconds shrivels to reality, I know that if I look in the right direction, with just the right amount of doubt, I will see him. Standing in a corner with a dead, smiling face. He does not fear my lifted spirit. Whatever, partner, he says. I am not going anywhere. And he is one to keep his promises.

—

(*) This piece was subject to minor editing in its middle paragraphs after being published.