“You have high blood pressure,” his grandfather said, looking over a printed report of today’s medical checkup.

“That’s what the doctor told me,” Jason replied. “I started on a calcium channel blocker today.”

“Why do you have high blood pressure?” His grandfather took a bite of the salad Jason made using lettuce, olive oil, vinegar, tuna, and Italian spices.

“It’s hereditary.” Jason took a bite of his salad and washed it down with green tea.

“Perhaps,” the old man replied nonchalantly. “I had it, your dad has it, and now you have it. But I found that once I retired, my high blood pressure went away, and I don’t take medication anymore.”

“Are you saying it’s my job?”

“Is it?” Grandpa asked. “How stressful is teaching?”

Jason let out a long breath. “Seventh period is killing me. I’ve got 33 students, and all those desks can hardly even fit in the room. They’re almost all freshmen, and the middle school they came from is a disaster, where they automatically pass students—even students who do no work—and are on their third principal in three years. The principal had to call the sheriff earlier in the year because a student pulled a knife in the cafeteria. Someone from my 7th period carved ‘Mr. Whitlock is a fag’ into the desktop, which I had to remove with sandpaper. Kids are out of their seats when the bell rings, and even though it’s a tardy in my class, one kid’s parent went right over my principal’s head, and demanded a meeting with me, him, and the superintendent. Then he accused me of being out to get his son and wrecking his education.”

“Whew.” Grandpa reached for his glass of tea and took a sip. “So what did you say?”

“Nothing. I’m a teacher, so my technique is just to take it, rather than get into an argument with an irate parent.” Jason raised his hands palm up and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m powerless. I depend on the counselors and the principal to enforce discipline.”

“You need to quit your job.” Jason’s grandfather wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“What? You’re the one who’s always haranguing me about being broke. What am I going to do if I don’t have a job?”

The old man pointed to his head. “Quit your job mentally. Tomorrow you go back to work as always, but don’t make your work any harder than it needs to be.”

Jason was incredulous. “Are you saying I should just slack off?”

“Look, I appreciate the work you do as a teacher.” He leaned over and patted his grandson on the shoulder with his wrinkled hand. “I know it’s not easy. Ideally, centerfold models should be giving you blowjobs during your lunch break and you’d be out on your yacht this weekend. But the reality is that you’re underappreciated and underpaid. You’re always going to be broke and get nowhere with women.”

Jason didn’t know what to say. The young teacher took his job seriously, and was proud of the work he did. He just couldn’t bring himself to coast in his job to get a paycheck.

“Think of your health. How much work are you taking home on weekends? You need to be preparing for your next move.”

Jason scoffed. “No, not administration. I don’t want to be an administrator.”

“Who was it, Mrs. Carter, who had the affair in Chowchilla and had to follow her lover to your school, getting promoted from lowly teacher in the process?”

“Yeah, but I can’t see how you could want me to be like her.” Jason gathered up their salad bowls and took them to the sink. “Would you like a Keystone Lite?”

“Sure, I’ll take one.” Grandpa leaned back in his seat to stretch. “You’ve told me about your administrators—the English teacher who gets promoted to counselor after an affair with a dean, your college classmate who becomes a programs director after he’s laid off, Maravich, who stole a fellow math teacher’s program, and the lackluster teacher who suddenly got teacher of the year when he went into administration.”

Jason handed a beer to his grandpa and popped his own open. “Yeah, and the new football coach, for whom they find an administrative job so they can funnel more money to him. He then gets Teacher of the Year award.” Jason took a long swig. “You can’t want me to be like them.”

“No, I don’t want you to be like them. Thanks,” he said, and took a drink of his beer. “But you’re trapped. You view them with contempt, rightfully so, and you’re proud because you’re doing the real work. I’m proud of you, too, but you’ve got high blood pressure, and you’re going to be broke and frustrated for the rest of your career.”

“You sound like Dad, who’s always urging me to move up to administrator like Glenn, my childhood friend. ‘Glenn’s no smarter or more talented than you,’ he always says.”

“That’s true, but Glenn had a father who was an administrator, so he had a role model. Your father never really demonstrated any ambition himself. My father had the chance to go for sergeant, but passed. I’m afraid his example speaks louder than words.” His grandfather shook his head and seemed to look out the window, even though the curtain was closed. “I played it safe, your father is doing the same, and now you’re next. I’m afraid we’ll all work hard all our lives, and have nothing to show for it.”

“Sorry, but administrator is not for me.” Jason shook his head firmly.

“Could it be any worse than teaching? If all your administrators are lazy bastard incompetents, what’s stopping you from becoming one? Couldn’t you do a better job?” Grandpa folded up his grandson’s medical folder and slipped it into a leather case. “You don’t have to do it your whole life, but the extra income would move you toward money, chicks, and freedom. Plus, I bet your high blood pressure would improve.”

“I don’t know.” Like Jason hated disappointing his father, the young man also hated letting his grandfather down.

“Can you do this for the next 42 years?” He looked his grandson in the eyes.

Jason sat back in his recliner. He’d never done the math before, but he had 42 years until retirement at 65. If he had a class, or God help him, classes like seventh period every year for the next four decades, he realized he’d be a raging alcoholic.

“Try it,” Grandpa urged him. “If you don’t like administrator, quit. The extra units will still advance you on the salary schedule. I’ll help you all the way.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a shot.” Jason got up from the table. “Let’s go to the living room. Oh, and about the chicks thing, I’ve got a date lined up for Friday night.”

“I was afraid of that.” Grandpa shook his head and followed Jason to the living room, where the old man took his customary spot on the couch. “The Midas Game is still under construction., You’re a beta tester, and also, unfortunately, a beta male. Like me, like your father, you’ve got no clue when it comes to women. I’ve got to get that fixed in the game.”

Jason was stunned at his grandfather’s lack of confidence in him. “No clue? I’ve got a date lined up, and everything’s under control.”

Grandpa reached into his case to remove a pen, which he handed to the young man. “Take this. It’s a spy camera. Wear it in your breast pocket on your date, and we’ll see how it goes.”

“Spy camera?” Jason took the pen from him and looked it over. “I don’t know…”

“Come on, it’s your big chance to show how smooth you are with women. The camera doesn’t lie, as they say.” Grandpa stood up and went to the door. “You’ll like the game tonight. Getting a regular medical checkup is so crucial. If your high blood pressure had continued to go undiagnosed, you could have ended up with a stroke, a heart attack, kidney failure, or any other of a number of problems.”

“You’re right. I’m glad you and the game gave me the kick in the butt I needed to get the checkup. See ya.” Jason waved good-bye as his grandfather walked out to the driveway, carrying his leather case with him. Jason didn’t know about becoming an administrator: it seemed scary, but maybe that was the point, that all change for the better seemed scary at first.

* * *

“Well, Mr. Whitlock, everything looks okay, except for your blood pressure, which is high. As long as you make it through the weekend, you should be okay.” Dr. Steinman flipped a page over on Jason’s charts, then flipped it close.

“Make it through the weekend?” Jason echoed the doctor’s words, feeling as though the floor were a trampoline, and he had lead in his pockets.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said with a wave of his hand. “I give you at least a 60% chance of making it out alive.”

Jason thought. What was it his grandfather had said about conditions in the real world being magnified inside the game?

“There’s just the matter of the prostate exam,” the doctor said. “I need you to take down your pants and your underwear.”

Jason was incredulous, but the doctor merely looked at the young man calmly and expectantly.

“Aren’t I too young for a prostate exam?”

The doctor patted the table with the disposable roll of paper drawn over it. “You can just lean over here.”

Jason started removing his pants, and silently cursed his grandfather. The old codger could design a game with gunboats, jetpacks, and big-titted chicks in bikinis whose breasts jiggled as they fired machine guns, and make a fortune at it, but no, the old coot designs something this gay—not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. Jason bent over the table and tried to remember the safe words: why sand is cold, pie canned sole, Streisand’s old…