Rescued By A Fistful of Quarters

 

My mother only had one child and one alone. My uncle acted as my older brother and was actively the only male role model in my life. James, my uncle, was a child of the eighties. The dawn of a new era for video games. Sure games like Pong and Pitfall were all the rage in their day. But James grew up with heroes like Mario, Link, Samus, and even those maddening creatures Domino's had brought into existence, Yo! Noids. So sure enough, I grew up with the greats. No EA sports, only NBA Jam, BOOM SHACKALACKA!!! Aladdin's Castle was our local mall's arcade. Precisely the size of your local school cafeteria with none of the mystery meat. Walking into Aladdin's Castle, the echoes of new challengers rung through the air. Whether your game was DDR, Mortal Kombat, Simpsons, or even Hydro Thunder, the castle had it all. That was until about the time I turned twelve. The castle was turned inside out and filled with jerseys and the newest basketball shoes. Childhood had ended before I even had time to cash in the tickets I was saving for an alien lamp. Ended by a couple sets of shoe strings and a never ending supply of Bulls memorabilia. By all means, if you are a sports fan, have at it. But my fortress of solitude was destroyed by the everlasting Air Jordans. What was a child to do with no arcade?

A solid decade of what felt like Purgatory had passed. Where there was once flashing screens and never-ending Hadoukens was now a void. Quarters never turned to tokens. The closest thing to an arcade was a poor excuse for an arcade park with mini golf or a bar/arcade crossover. Ticket games were plentiful. Prizes were dull. Memories and nostalgia buried underneath a claw game. Fighting games, Co-op games, FUN GAMES were gone. All hope was gone.