Topic: Video Games

Author: Chris Dunn

“Hyah!” my father cries as he thumps the flippers in perfect timing with some not-so-subtle hip English to nudge the ball to within that flipper’s reach. Rather than losing the ball, he sends it back to rattle among the bumpers, racking up more and more points. Crude caricatures of Fonzie and Pinky Tuscadero, gaze down from the glass of the 8-ball machine as the lights tally up the score. The gathered throng of smoky teenagers gape in wide wonder as this old man -pushing 40 - takes the high-score-to-date on his 3^rd ball and continues to add to his lead. “Damn!” I remember one kid shouting, “Channel 9 News is going to be here in a minute!” In the end, the clock is the ultimate decider, as the time to reunite with mom rolls around, and the game must end. With points still counting up and 5 free games won, my dad glances at his watch. “That’s it,” he declares to his gang of groupies. “You can have it.” And with that he turns, gathers my brother and I, and heads for the door. The crowd screams out for more, but there’s no time for an encore. One quick kid jumps on the controls, and the game carries on, as Marty and I march out on the arms of the conquering hero. It was my first ever “mic drop” moment, and it sealed my love of the arcade forever.

Now, I’ve played video games for as long as they’ve been around. Marty and I snuck out the Atari 2600 from my parent’s closet weeks before it arrived officially from “Santa”. We would play Lunar Lander and Pong for hours while my parents were at choir practice or enjoying a night out, then sneak it back to the closet when we heard their car in the driveway. Next came Nintendo and my Commodore 64 - hours of Mario, Jumpman Jr., Oregon Trail and Zork. We found the cheats to give you double fire at Space Invaders and learned how to edit the code to add dragons to Oregon Trail. The games got bigger and the machines got more powerful over the years, but they never really replaced the joy of the arcade.

I see the sad excuse for arcades in the modern mall – a few on-rails, shooters and some carnival games where you give away money in an attempt to win a stuffed Disney character. They sit empty in brightly lit corners of the food court - deservedly neglected for their lack of soul. If you want a closer idea to what arcades were like in the 70s, the modern creation of the bar-cade comes closest. They couple the draw of a powerful nostalgia to the promise of alcohol. If people were still allowed to smoke in bars, it would be an even closer replica.

Red Baron was the arcade at Northgate Mall. A dank, dark hole-in-the-wall crowded with teenage boys jostling around tiny screens, a mad cacophony of bings and bongs and an ever-present electric buzz you could only feel in your sternum. It was always the same. Mom would need to buy some clothes for work or some such, and dad would get tasked with watching over us. With a flourish he’s present a roll of quarters from his pocket and the fear of a dreaded day wasted trying on pants was replaced with the giddy joy of a trip to a magic land of aliens and laser blasters. Dad would ususally play pinball while Marty and I wandered around trying to find a machine we liked. Eventually Marty found and mastered Galaga. I was more of Gorf guy. Whatever you played, you tried to make it last. When your allotment of quarters ran out, the only thing left was to wander the maze of machine checking coin returns. You’d be surprised how often that worked. Hours would melt away but eventually both Marty and I would end the day at the sides of dad’s pinball machine, watching as he massaged the ball with his hips and wondering if he’d managed to fins anymore quarters since the last time we asked.

A few years back, Marty brought dad down to the Northside Barcade for his birthday, presenting the gift with customary roll of quarters. Even though all the video games there were free, the pinball machines did cost per game. Dad tried his hand at a few of his old favorites from the video game floor – Centipede, Asteroids and even Defender, but in short order he was over trying to make a go at the modern pinball machine - overly complicated with multiple tiers and complex themes. Dad concluded that they would take a bit too much time to learn the story and technique necessary to master them, but he called the night a success. I hope he enjoyed it. We owed him that for all the good times he gave us.

I remember, the Red Baron Arcade was named after a particular machine that held a prominent place in the original layout. A very crude, pre-video, video game, Red Baron featured an actual tape reel of planes in flight. The player sat in a cockpit, maneuvered a set of crosshairs onto the enemy and fired his guns by pressing a metal crossbar. If the target was hit, the reel cut to a quick shot of the plane catching fire or exploding before another enemy appeared. I would sit on my dad’s lap and lean on the bar that fired the guns while my father worked the crosshairs. One day, we got a perfect score – 21 for 21. We were supposed to win a cheap plastic medal, but none fell from the slot. I felt robbed at the time. We asked the kid who managed the place, but he could only shrug in indifference. “Oh well,” my dad said. “We know we got it. We don’t need a little token.” I was heartbroken at the time, but now I realize he was right. I don’t need a token. I have my story.