SAM AND DAVE (wasn't that a rock and roll group?) got into it yesterday.
Sam, who is nine, carted his x-box all the way over to our house for the weekend only to discover it had the Dreaded Red Light of Death, which meant it was toast.
Sam was inconsolable.
Never have I seen a child cry so much.
Dave, who hates gaming and thinks the kids waste too much time on it when they could be learning real world skills like piling wood, actually felt sorry for the wee mite. So sorry that he snuck into Wal-mart yesterday morning and bought a brand new x-box game console.
Plus a second controller, wireless no less.
We're talking big bucks here, people.
Sam was ecstatic for about a minute and a half (that's approximately $300 per minute of child satisfaction) and wanted to hook up his old hard drive with his game in it, to the new console.
Dave, aka Bootcamp Dave, said, "Uh, uh."
He was concerned the screwed up hard drive would screw up the brand new hard drive.
Sam said it wouldn't.
Dave said he didn't want to take that chance.
Sam said he was willing to take the chance, but then again, it wasn't his money, as Dave pointed out.
Sam said something else.
Dave swore a lot.
The two started yelling at each other, the nine-year-old barely coming up to the 41-year-old's armpits.
Dave came out of the back room. His face was so red I thought his blood pressure was gonna pop his noodle like a ripe zit.
I'd never seen him so angry.
Sam laid on his bed and cried a lot, murmuring things like, "I wanna go home" and "I want my daddy" and other fun things.
The upshot is, Dave and Sam went back to the store and paid another $80 to buy the game that was buried in the dead hard drive.
Dave is broke.
Sam is happy.
He should have known better than to tangle with a nine-year-old.
(I'm wondering if I cry a lot if Dave and Dave's credit card will take me to IKEA....)