Quarter for your thoughts

Kla-chenk, kla-chenk.

A Technicolor light show parades on my face.

Digitized quarter tones run amok out of the side-stereo.

Gloop-gloop-gloop!

I pick my character. “It’s on, chump,” I say with murderous intent. An instinctual neurotransmitter rushes past the dam of my frontal lobe. It commands: destroy.

The computerized monolith towers above. A shadow is cast in the dusk of the arcade.

I throttle the joystick then pull back to create a reverberation upon release.

I taunt the machine.

The machine chortles, “bz-rrink, kump!”

I’m new to this game, but not new to games. The machine knows my weakness–quarters. I’m all out. So I’ll have to make this count.

The method is simple. Do what my automated adversary can’t. Take chances. Risk death.

My pixelated avatar manifests on the screen and I’m off sprinting. Dodging and bouncing. Killing and thrilling.

Attendance just spiked to three. Another couple looks onwards from the Whack-a-mole. Can he do it?

It’s a digital demolition. I’m tossing these weeping pawns back to their motherboard.

I look at my health bar–badly battered, but not mortally wounded. I press forward.

Hours of mine were spent in the damp crevices of that arcade and many others. There was the one in Westminster. There was the one in Westwood. They all faded– replaced by adulterated “adult” gaming like Dave&Busters. And by that time my interests had moved on from games to girls.

But to this day, I’ve never forgotten the feel of those arcades. Or the lights. Or the sounds.

Bwoop-bwoop-bwoop.

Game over