Arcade growing pains.
By The Son of Yesterday
There was an arcade I used to go to. The first time I went is a memory from my youth that will stay with me forever. If you had come to me at that moment and asked ‘What is Heaven like?’
I would have responded: ‘This.’
The thing that I remember most, more than the games and the people, was the noise. I had to cover my ears for the first few years I went. The sound of hundreds of machines pumping out coins and prizes in one corner and doing who knows what in the other was overwhelming. The arcade was built inside what looked like an old warehouse. It was connected to a miniature golf course. I can’t share stories about first kisses around the back, because they don’t exist. This was sort of like an old boy’s club, but for guys our age.
All kinds of other activities began forming around the arcade. Go karts, laser tag, you name it. As I got older, a couple of my buddies started working there, so it gave us even more incentive to hang out. This spoilt all other arcades for me. Every time I was at another one, I would think ‘This can’t compare’. One thing I noticed as time wore on, however, was causing me concern. The owners of the arcade had sold it on. These new owners had already annoyed us by getting rid of the previous ‘open 24 hours a day’ working hours. We should have known then what was going to happen. Looking back, it was inevitable really. The machines started breaking. Not that they never did before, but they would fix it so quickly, you wouldn’t notice. Now, we had to remember which machines had ‘funny’ joysticks and stay clear of them, while pointing little kids in their direction. We figured these new owners must be new to the business, and that we should cut them some slack. But the situation didn’t improve.
Broken machines are bad for everyone.
After many years absence, I went back earlier this year. When I said I wanted to go, friends who stayed in town even after they’d finished school, suddenly got very serious, almost angry, and told me that we were not going plain and simple. Why couldn’t we go to the arcade? Had it closed down and they were angry? Had the owner thrown them out and they had a grudge with them? What could have caused them to respond in such a manner? After a few hours of driving around, we stopped in a restaurant for a drink and a bite to eat. As we were leaving, I informed them that I was going to the arcade and that they could come with me if they wanted. They looked at each other, and then looked at me. There was a slight pause, and they walked over to my car.
As we drove up, everything seemed normal, until we entered the car park. ‘Where were all the cars?’ I wondered. There were a few old bangers and boy racers in the parking lot, but that was it. The incredibly small crowd of people hanging out outside the entrance looked an awful lot more shady than I remembered the crowds of old. The ticket window the new owners had installed when I still used to go was there, but was all closed up, even though the arcade was open. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that something very bad was going to happen. The kind of feeling you get when you look in the rear view mirror and see flashing lights. The kind of feeling you get when you smash one of old Mr. Grimgrumps windows with your football. As I opened the door, I couldn’t have known what to expect on the other side, because no one had warned me. I was still expecting the arcade from my childhood, the arcade that had so many memories attached to it, the arcade that forced me to cover my ears as a child.
Heaven.
I just had to look away. I know now why they didn’t warn me. They couldn’t have. Words would have been too painful. The arcade that had been such a pivotal part of our lives for so long had been neglected to the point where you could barely call it a functioning arcade anymore. The machines are there, but few were working, all had broken buttons, joysticks, and screens. The floor was an absolute mess. The small number of staff, now completely different from those before, just stood around, waiting for their shift to end. The change machines were nearly all broken. Instead of previously being on the cutting edge of new arcade games, the newest game they’d apparently had in three years was Tekken 5, complete with broken joysticks and an off-colour screen. I wanted to look around for my favourites, but, like a solider sifting through the dead after a massacre looking for his battalion, it was a painful process. Every time I would come across one, something would be wrong with it. After a while, I gave up. I just wanted to sit in the corner and try to pretend this was a dream, and that I would wake up, come down, and find the arcade it fighting form!
We wound up playing a broken basketball game where the hoop, which was supposed to move, remained stationary, and the wall that is supposed to come down after your turn is over to prevent the balls from being returned, was broken. I just leaned against the machine and watched the very shady looking children wander about trying to find a working machine amongst the burnt out remains of giants. Was it a mistake coming here? Why did I need to revisit this arcade? Why couldn’t I have left it alone, so I could have the memories of youth untarnished?
May 2005
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