Last night, I went to work at a coffee shop that crawls with fedora hipsters and, last night on the patio, cockroaches too (unrelated). I took one of the two tables outside–both empty–and within five minutes was joined by a pair on a date at the other outdoor table. I was downwind from them and so was immediately enveloped in their cigarette smoke. I am certainly not complaining–just noting–since smoking is only allowed on the outside tables, of which there are two, of which I had domineered one. In fact, I quite enjoyed the smell, though their smokes were cheap to be sure.
I was wearing headphones and am not one to stare, so I got back to my business. But only minutes later, I became aware of elated celebration coming from the girl. I glanced, then double took, and saw my patio comrades embroiled in what seemed to be a life-and-death game of Yahtzee.
(If you don’t know what Yahtzee is, stop reading and leave this culture now.)
Scorecards were out and these two had devised the rule of rolling the dice in the opened box, so as to contain even the most aggressive rolls–which, let me tell you, were not rare. The game did not bother me, but simply appeared in my periphery when I would glance up for a diversion for my work or throw my head back for a deep breath of air, or rather, their smoke. Each time, I had to stifle a laugh.
I was at the coffee shop for upwards of two hours and when I left, the Yahtzee game was far from over. It was only then that I took off my headphones and heard a snippet of what I am sure had been their dialogue for the past twelfth of a day:
Girl: That was a full house! Take the twos, you idiot!
Boy: Oh. No, I have to roll again.
Girl: Suit yourself.
On my walk home, I thought about God when he was figuring out the predestined fate of these two souls. How bored he must have been, chronicling dice-roll after dice-roll. 5. 6. 8. 6. 12 (oooooohh, doubles).
Then it struck me. It was when episode of human existence that prompted God to make smoking kill you. He didn’t want to have to figure out any more Yahtzee game destinies than he had to. And He knows that those crazy Yahtzee kids ain’t quitting any time soon.
- The bane of the creator
Thanks, Yahtzee, for lung cancer.
Too bad that God couldn’t have given the inventor of Yahtzee lung cancer. Then smoking would have been okay. But it was too late. No one can go back and change already figured out destinies, not even God. And no one is perfect. Not even God.
I would say this is an accurate assessment of the Yahtzee! situation, as our paternal grandmother was both a rabid Yahtzee! player, as well as smoker extraordinaire. I feel it is a little bit of a chicken vs egg situation, as well as a dangerous self-fulfilling prophecy: I enjoy Yahtzee! (especially when I play it against my head-injured patients!); does this mean I am destined to become a smoker?!
Not necessarily. Maybe God made your destiny before he made Yahtzee(!), or made your destiny after he, whoops, He, made Yahtzee but before he devised his cigarette solution for my coffee shop friends. Full disclosure: I prayed to God last night about my theory, but he put me on with St. Francis who denied the whole thing. But, c’mon…St. Francis? I don’t trust him.
Also, you shed new light on the hazy genesis of God’s head-injury initiative, but that needs further investigation.