I had to tap the direction stick a couple times, but the delayed response didn’t put my faithful, triangle-shaped fighter in danger. Counter-clock 45 degrees, a gentle southwest glide and the spinning UFO dropped right into position. A single tap and my white pixel missile blew it back to the bits-and-bytes asteroid belt in the sky.
But then, as the next wave of geometric rocks appeared, ready to crush me to pieces, I stepped back and watched, uninterested. It wasn’t you I’d come for.
Leaving Asteroids, I glanced at the Dig Dug behind me, a Centipede a few steps down, with a broken screen and a handwritten sign saying “Parts Ordered”. I let my hand fall over the control ball of a Missile Command, mumbling, “Greetings, Starfighter.”
The purveyor, Dino, a heavyset, bearded man playing a Mattel Handheld Football on a stool by the garage’s entrance, continued the quote: “You have been recruited by Xur to defend the frontier…”
His voice trailed off and I gave him a knowing nod. His Centauri voice was spot on but the quote wasn’t quite right. But we were kindred spirits. Anyone who responded to his ad and arrived at his refuge filled with a generation’s best memories would be. He went back to his Mattel and I stopped at my heart’s desire, Donkey Kong.
The console frame was as advertised: in good condition, not great. Three corners of the base were pretty badly nicked and the decal under the control stick was half missing. My mind raced at the thought of how I’d track down a genuine replacement: auctions, eBay, garage sales. It would be a challenge, but a fun one.
The control board had been reset recently. The high score, by JAL, was only 247k. A decent attempt but that was my warmup. As the intro looped, I couldn’t help but be transported to my bedroom decades earlier. Surrounded by Atari Age magazines, my brother Callum and I would argue which new games for our 2600 would be the best and how much paper route money we’d have to save to get them.
I smiled…then it faded. I missed him.
“Free delivery, right?” I yelled out. “Yep. To DC you’re looking about two weeks for ground,” Dino replied.
It was a fair price, $600, and was easily within my budget, but I was hesitant. Why? The condo had space. Thomas had picked up the last of his boxes so there was an entire room I could use however I pleased.
I stared at the initials JAL on the leaderboard and sighed, running my hands across the glass as if to touch them. I couldn’t stop imagining this memento of my childhood in the empty room, all by itself, bleeping and chirping away, begging for attention. This extravagance for myself was beginning to feel like a rescue.
Looking at Dino, I hoped for a sign or an answer, but his unwavering smile and autonomic gestures offered none. He was entirely content letting these machines go. Of course, he’d have another one in a month or a year sitting in front of him again, to repair and love and send back out into the world. An 80’s console Geppetto.
“What do you think, Callum?” I said to the plexiglass, imagining him standing there, lining up quarters against the glass title display, fending off fat pre-teens and wannabe players while I practiced. Touching the aged buttons, I could hear him saying, “It’ll only ever have your initials, though.”
“But I’ll have friends over to play, some wine and a trip down memory lane. It won’t be just me.”
He’d give me a doubtful look and we’d both know he was probably right. I tapped the jump and hammer buttons and yearned to see him watching me evade and clobber flaming barrels again. He’d give me tactical advice and call out the timing in the later maps, and get as excited as I was when I got a new high score. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t need the help. Besides, it wouldn’t have been the same without him there.
“Maybe I could put your initials in,” I said.
“That would be stupid. You know I liked Dig Dug more.”
I smiled to myself and inspected the side panels and the title top plate, and I knew what my answer was. Dino set down the Mattel and with casual directness said, “You’re not gonna take it, are ya?”
”How did you know?” I asked. He smiled, “I could tell the moment after you touched it. I always can.”
What had he noticed?
I looked out towards my waiting rental car and hesitated. Something was still holding me here.
A BMW motorcycle rolled up and a tattooed, gray-haired 50-something popped the kickstand.
“Do you get any kids?” I asked Dino. “With their parents?”
“Yeah, not as often but still a few here and there.”
I reached into my wallet and pulled out the six crisp $100’s the ATM had so generously spit out, for the low price of $5 of my own, and handed them to him.
“Can you keep it here? And when the next kid comes in with his mom or dad and you see the look in their eyes, or the gesture you didn’t see in me, give it to them?”
He nodded, liking my paying-it-forward gesture, and replied, “Can do.”
We shared another mutual nod, then he picked the Mattel back up and, over its whirrs and chirps, said, “You and Pauline got the same hair.”
“Thanks,” I said, adding, “But I could rock that dress better.” He laughed. “I imagine,” then went back to the darting red dashes on his screen.
I got behind the wheel of my Ford Fiesta rental and looked back one final time towards this mini-Neverland, regretting it took a divorce to bring me here. Then I drove off towards the airport, to the drifting sounds of Dino scoring a touchdown and cheering the same way Callum and I used to.
It felt nice.