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The Arcade: School of Hard Knocks
Growing up, we didn’t have to crop for twelve hours days in the hot sun, or walk two miles to school, uphill, in a blizzard - and than three miles back…also uphill - but at least we weren’t hibernating in dark basements surrounded by 60” HD screens and theater sound systems, playing video games against some Asian kid in Wyoming, with headsets wrapped around our faces like a science-fiction movie. No! In my day we had to go to the arcade!
What happened to all of the arcades? At one point, they were a staple in the American youth culture. I’m not talking about ESPN Zone, Dave & Busters, or those pseudo-arcades you find in resort towns and tourist traps (where kids drop $2.00 a pop on virtual-skiing or row boating, and burn through their parents’ money in ten minutes). I’m talking about the local arcades in your hometown’s strip mall - where if a hobo bothered you for change, you gave him a token just to be a prick.
Every life-lesson, worth remembering, was learned at the Flicker’s in Chatham Mall. That place turned boys into men. First of all, we had to leave our houses - actually go outside - and hop on our bikes for twenty minutes just to get there. That was at least some kind of exercise. Once there, we were stuck on our feet five hours; not slugged over our mothers’ couches.
Unlike today, we had to face our opponents - look perfect strangers square in the eye. Flicker’s was it’s own living and breathing social entity. It had hierarchies; bullies, regular kids like me, and its fair share of nerds. It even had the man - employees in their early teens - who could kick us off games whenever they wanted just so they could play. A kid had to learn how to survive quick in those days. Otherwise he’d be cast off to the outdated games, like Ms. Pacman, with the other losers. Hey kid, that bow went out of style in 1984. Oooh, double burn!
If you wanted to get in on the big boy games, like Street Fighter II, you needed the chops. You had to earn the respect of the older kids just to stand beside them. But gaming skills weren’t always enough - if you were too good, and the bigger kid was having a bad day, he might take you outback and pummel you. It was a tenuous, nerve-racking, situation to be in. Those not cut out for it, resigned themselves to the Simpson’s Arcade Game (a great game, just not one to test your marbles).
We found lessons in the drawing and severing of alliances. You’re teammate in Final Fight became your opponent in Pit-Fighter - hopefully animosity would not manifest into skyscraper tussling in Rampage later that day. And as for trash talking, it wasn’t separated by five states; insult someone’s momma and you might get banged in the mouth.
We learned to budget. The ten bucks our moms gave us had to last. We had to get good fast. Lose too many Mortal Kombat matches or die too much in Altered Beast and you’re biking home alone within an hour. Either that or learn to hustle your way back into games - find a token loan-shark or get bankrolled and make some Tecmo Bowl wagers.
The ticket queers had to budget too - they didn’t cash in on the first colorful bouncy ball they could afford - they had to save up for the trick gum with the mousetrap inside.
Budgeting went beyond mere frugality. There were some harsh realities that we had to face. First, we learned about scams from the scam games; claws that waited until they were six inches above the stuffed animals to clamp, and that one last quarter that would knock over all the other quarters if only they weren’t resting on a magnet.
You needed a backbone those days. Kids from subsidized housing complexes across the street were always trying to borrow coins or tickets. Even though, you felt bad for them, you still had to man up and say, no. With jelly in your spine, you’d get cleaned out before you got your coat off.
Occasionally, the desperate ones turned into bullies - no game credits encoded on magnetic strips with five layers of protection - we dealt in cash money! We had to take care of what was ours. Sometimes we backed the punks down, other times we got beat up and cut our losses. Either way, when it was said and done, we had a little more hair where it counted.
I miss those days; they made me who I am. Times change and I know you’re supposed to change with them. But without real arcades, I don’t know how I’m going to teach my son to be a man.
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