Advertising | Masthead | Archives | Contact | Home

By Jason Hom
Staff Writer

After a long day of work at the office, I set down my worn black leather briefcase and offered warm greetings to my son, who grunted and barely looked up from the video game we got him for Christmas, Grand Theft Auto III. As far as I can tell, the main point of the game is to steal cars, evade the police and cause tremendous amounts of violent mayhem.

“Son,” I began, “it’s time for the talk.”

His thumbs furiously pushed buttons on his controller and his eyes stayed glued with rapturous intensity upon the screen; the words of his father were clearly no match for his electronic criminal rampage.

I cleared my throat in a gravelly sort of way, which caused him to simultaneously look up and push the all-important pause button. “Son,” I solemnly intoned, “it’s time for ‘the talk.’ ”

“Dadddd,” he muttered as he rolled his eyes, “we’ve already had ‘the talk’! And besides, with the Internet, everything you kind of told me is…well…is…” He paused.

“Yes?” I queried with raised eyebrows.

“You know, outdated.” And with that, he smugly resumed playing his game.

“Son, no, no, not that talk.” I took the controller from him with a gentle admonishment as he shrieked in protest. “Another talk – a talk about your future and the way things work in this world.”

“Uhhh, OK”, he replied with a mixture of exasperation and confusion. “Shoot.”
I could tell that I had only a couple minutes before I completely lost his attention, and so I quickly began.

“I’ve seen the way you enjoy Grand Theft Auto III. I’ve seen how you enjoy viciously pulling people out of their cars, driving recklessly and shooting whomever and whatever you please. And…”

He quickly cut me off. “Dad, please! You and mom promised I could keep playing this game! We already agreed that it’s just make-believe, and I understand that, and if I keep my grades up…”
I interrupted. “Son, that’s not what this conversation is about. You can keep playing your game with the limits we already set.”

“Ohh,” he said with satisfaction, relief and perhaps even the slightest hint of gratitude. Perhaps he was now more favorably inclined to listen to his old dad for awhile.

“You see,” I continued, “your mom and I see how much you enjoy playing Grand Theft Auto III. We see how your eyes are riveted to the screen when you unceremoniously grab the latest sports cars from their rightful owners. And quite, frankly, we’re worried. We have nothing but the best aspirations for you – that’s why we want you to study hard in Algebra and English, try hard on your soccer team and dream big. We’ve worked hard our whole lives to raise you in this upper-middle class suburb with above-average schools, and we want you to make the most of your opportunities. We’re so proud of you when we see you studying your history book, reading Shakespeare or doing a math problem set, and we’d be so proud of you if you aspired on going into health care, law, engineering,...”

“Dad, what’s your point?” My son’s perpetually limited attention span to anything but video games was already wearing thin. “What’s your point?”

“Well, you see,” I said with a sly smile, “this sounds like your average parent-child talk. But here’s the twist: your mom and I are not your average parents. We’ve extensively pondered the possibility that you may not become a great researcher or inventor or judge or whatnot. And, unlike your average parents, we’ve thought a lot about the fact that you may in fact one day become a criminal, choosing to make your living by stealing from others. Granted, given how much we’ve invested in you and the relatively good genes that we’d like to think we’ve offered, it’s probably an unlikely scenario, but you know how much your mom and I like to plan ahead. And unlike your average parents, we’re not going to try to futilely dissuade you from a lifetime of criminality should you choose to go this route – we just want you to know a few things beforehand.”

Silence filled our house. For once, my son had nothing to say.

“And because we love you so much and want nothing but the best for you no matter what you do, I wanted to give you ‘the talk’ about how the world really runs. You see, the game you and countless youngsters are playing glorifies theft by brute force, desperate run-ins with the police and outright violence. I’m here to tell you that this is not the way to go. Your mom and I would be very disappointed if you ever go this (no pun intended) pedestrian route.”

Silence continued. I doubt that he understood my pun. He started to sputter something, but I continued.

“Please, please, if you ever choose to go into crime, you must certainly go into the white-collar variety – your mom and I cannot stress how important this is.”

“White-collar crime?” My son appeared puzzled. “What’s that?”

“Well, son, what you’re doing in that video game is one type of crime. And it’s likely to get you killed or thrown in jail for a very long time. Neither of those options are very attractive, and both would disappoint your mother and me. But there’s another kind of crime. Let me give you an example. There is a man in the financial world who has admitted to stealing tens of billions – enough to buy all the stolen cars you could ever want and then some. This man has caused suicides, the ruin of many charities and the loss of countless hard-earned family fortunes. And he is currently with his family in his seven million dollar Manhattan penthouse, while a low-class bank robber who handed a note to a teller would be behind bars at the county jail.”

“But, but,” my son incredulously uttered, “that’s not fair!”

I smiled ever so slightly to my son. “Well, that’s one of the lessons of today – life’s not fair. But let’s not dwell too much on that – let’s remember, if you’re ever contemplating ditching a respectable career in architecture or electrical engineering or journalism for a life of crime, please, please go into the white-collar variety!”

“Hmmm,” my son said, as the wheels in his head either started to spin or grind to a chaotic halt as he began to process the novelty and gravity of my plea.

“And to reinforce this lesson, I have a little gift for you – perhaps the best gift to get through to someone of your generation.” And with that, I unwrapped a brand new video game and handed it to my son.

His eyes widened. “White-Collar Swindler: The Game? Thanks, dad, you’re the best!”
I gave him a little hug. “I’m always glad to help”.

And with that, I headed to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. My wife was there, quietly reading the newspaper and sipping a glass of cheap Pinot Noir.

She looked up and smiled. “How did it go?”

“You know,” I responded contemplatively, “I think I got through to him. I think I really did.”
And with that, I opened the fridge, pulled out some defrosted chicken thighs and got ready to make some chicken parmesan for dinner.

Jason Hom is a fourth-year medical student planning on teaching his future children more appropriate things.