We lived in them, investing a petty penny
in them, one quarter at a time. Not on pinball, though. Pong gripped us at a
young age, and we were the video arcade generation. I remember four arcades we
haunted, specifically, vividly, their sound, their smell, their occasional
breeze of cannabis, although I can only remember the names of two.
The first arcade I ever found myself in
was in the basement of the 101 mall, name unknown. It was primarily a pinball
arcade, having a long row of them running from entry to the back wall, but
hidden from view, back behind the klaxon and whoop and lights of the pinballs,
and lurking behind a couple pillars, there were a few Atari stand-up games,
Asteroids, among them. Asteroids requires no explanation, not to my age group.
It’s forever imbedded in our minds, I think. I can’t say what the others games
were.
The second was Fun and Games in the Timmins
Square. It was a long narrow room, both walls lined with games, the change
attendant patrolling its length, the cash and kiosk in the middle. I recall
Tempest there. Tempest may require some description; I doubt many people
remember it, but I loved that game, maybe more than all the others. It had a
simple display, even for the time, but it was an adrenaline rush. It took place
on a three-dimensional surface, sometimes wrapped into a tube, which was viewed
from one end and was divided into a dozen or more segments or lanes. The higher
the level, the more lanes, and the faster the play. Enemies entered at the far
and crawled, then raced, up the lanes, laying spikes behind them, trying to
reach the top to drag the player down into the abyss. What I remember most was
that if you spun the level selector at the beginning of the game as fast as it
would spin, you would warp up to the highest levels, skipping the lower, less
octane fueled beginning. There were others I played, but that was the one I
always sought out.
The third was Andy’s Amusements. There
were long lines of pinball machines in that one too, but we ignored them and
plunged to the poorly lit back where there were ranks of Defender and Stargate
games. The games through more light into that dealers’ paradise than the
overheads; maybe, by design.
The final one was Top Hats. Of them all,
my favourite was Top Hats. Top Hats was our night club. It was our place to be
and to be seen, always full on weekends, day and night, the bike racks full,
the people spilling out of the open glass doors in summer, out onto the
sidewalk, some smoking, all aiming to look cool. In the winter, the glass was
dripping, steaming, but never freezing, such was the heat we threw. Coats piled
high alongside the machines, jammed in between. And like all arcades, it was
loud. Remember how loud they were? The machines blared, the music thrummed, the
bass beat, and we were all shouting to be heard over the din and all the other
voices reaching out, themselves; and there was laughter. Sometimes we were
three deep waiting for a turn on the games: Defender, Stargate, and Pac-man
usually had the longest lines. I don’t believe they ever made money on Dragon
Quest, though. Waste of space, that game. Too expensive at 50 cents a play, and
the laser disk was skippy, and no one had a clue how to play it, but we all
tried once or twice, just the same.
I still remember that thrill I felt when I
came upon it. How I scanned the crowd, checked out the girls, hung out, bought
pop and chips, and got high on adrenalin. How some played, like John Lavric and
Renato Romey, with an outward calm that was truly Zen and somehow awe
inspiring, only to lose it at the end; while others, like Garry Martin and I,
cursed, (okay, Garry didn’t curse, but he found a way) and glared back at the
machine as it taunted us with its lights, its music, and ultimately, its threat
of GAME OVER!
