“Whoa!! Come check this stuff out, Trini-Beanie!!”
Trini hustled over to her brother with enthusiasm. To even elicit a bit of excitement in her these days was borderline miraculous, but with the awe of being in a mansion still in her conscious, she was apparently buttered up for a good surprise.
Peter stood just inside the doorway of the treasure trove, and Trini stood just next to him. They ventured together into a room full of old pinball machines and arcade cabinets. Peter’s inner nerd applied so much pressure to his manners that he capitulated and started playing an ancient pinball cabinet almost immediately – no coin required! A few feet away, Trini settled herself into an arcade racing machine, complete with pedals, transmission, and an additional screen as a rear view mirror.
“Hey Pete,” Trini inquired, “Do you think we’ll get in trouble playing these old games?” Her concern for staying out of Mom’s wrath was evident in her voice. However, Peter reassured his little sister that all that fancy food and drink upstairs could keep a battalion of middle-aged, career-driven worry-warts entertained for years; there was literally no reason for any one of them to go downstairs for a workout, or a round of pinball.
Peter played around on a few different cabinets, excited to be trying all of these relics in the flesh. Being born in the late 80s, he missed the arcade generation by just a few years. He would read columnists in gaming magazines and hear stories from his older cousin, Brody, about the intense arcade rivalries and arcade culture that bloomed in the 80s, blossomed in the early 90s and then died, leaving no legacy. Trini played a few different cabinets, but had trouble reaching the buttons and sticks, as she was yet a little squirt. Nonetheless, she was enjoying herself. Playing on these machines was stepping into a wormhole and visiting the past.
From the basement gym, a muffled clink of glass was audible over the blips of their secret recreation. They both heard it and froze, a horrifying realization dawned upon them immediately – they had been found! Now, a most certain course of action would involve a casual rumor circulating that a few young kids had been found playing in the game room; a lanky kid of about sixteen in a suit and a little squirt without her butterfly clips in. The witness to their crime, according to the informal parents’ constitution of not chastising other peoples’ kids, would most likely not burst into the room and administer justice for not having asked permission to visit the downstairs game room. Trini locked eyes with her brother, and they both understood that it was only a matter of time until Mom’s hellish fury was unleashed upon them for their recklessness.
“What’s going on in here?” An older man lightly asked, poking his head through the doorway. He sounded pleasant, and not necessarily surprised. “Find anything cool?”
Peter eyed up the man before answering. He was an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, physically built, and held himself confidently. A sports jacket and a green shirt with matching tie constituted his colorful garb; he probably did not quite fit in with the fashion scene upstairs. A bottle of liquor and several glasses were in his hands. Wearing a playful smile, he emanated good humor rather than intimidation, so Peter replied casually, “Just playing some of these old games. Pretty sweet, actually.”
The older man set his bottle and glasses on a bench in the gym, just outside the door. “I was just getting some old liquor out of my cabinet down here, and was surprised to see that someone had the common sense to come down here and enjoy themselves. Yeah, I put a lot of time in on some of these. A lot of money, too; some of these machines are twenty years or older, and cost me a pretty penny. They’re worth it, though. I guess you could call me a collector.”
He strode inside and extended a hand. “You can also call me Pavlovitch. Theodore Pavlovitch. Mr. P if you prefer.”
Peter shook his hand in disbelief, trying his best to realize that they were not – for the time being – in heaps of trouble. His heart sunk back down out of his throat, and into his chest. “This is your house?”
Mr. P gave a hearty laugh, and a wide smile. “Yup! Every inch of it. My boring party, too.” He inched closer to Peter’s screen. Trini remained motionless. “You know you’re getting your ass kicked by aliens while you stand there gawking, right?”
Peter followed his implicit command, and returned his attention to the game screen, trying to wrap his head around exactly what was going on. “Oh, and I’m Peter. This is Trini.”
Mr. P turned his attention to Trini, who politely extended her own hand for introduction, with slightly less robotic mannerisms than she exercised with the upstairs company. He sincerely shook hers, smiling, but did little to relieve the apprehension on her face.
“Hey, come over here and try this one out! All three of us can play together.” Mr. P beckoned them over to cabinet with three sets of buttons and sticks; another team-based, multiplayer, alien-slaughtering explosion-fest. The trio booted up the game and began issuing extraterrestrial death sentences.
“I used to play these things all the time with my nieces and nephews, when they would come to visit. They’re a bit older now, but we still play sometimes for old times’ sake. Y’know, during reunions and stuff.” Peter had not even wondered why a man in his fifties had a room full of arcade cabinets. “How old are you guys?”
Peter replied truthfully, and Trini followed suit. He elaborated on the party upstairs, and how they got a little bored and curious, and then how they wound up downstairs. The conversation drifted to how Peter and Trini occasionally played games together at home, what they were doing with their time in school, and other small talk. To Peter’s relief, he never inquired about what he was planning to do after high school, because Peter never had a good answer to give.
After a few levels of gaming, Mr. P sighed, and walked back to the door. “Well, folks, I gotta run. There’s a few brown-nosers up there, waiting to suck down all my booze. Have fun!”
As he bent over to pick up the bottle and glass, Trini spoke up, “Hey Mr. P? Don’t tell our parents. Please - I mean, don’t tell our parents we came down here. We’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Mr. P replied with nonchalance, “I got you covered, Trini. Who are your parents again? Oh, well, nevermind anyway. If anyone asks if I’ve seen their kids, I’ll just tell them I haven’t. Good deal? Good. No one will be coming down here anyways. See ya ‘round!”
The siblings watched in amazement as the owner of such immense wealth casually strode up the stairs, leaving them as he found them. Not wanting to press their luck in the game room any longer, they went outside, around the house and back in the front doors again. They were awkwardly re-introduced to “Mr. Theodore Pavlovitch” later, by their father. Mr. P played along as though they had been strangers, to their relief. Trini, however, attracted Mom’s intimidating glare, suggesting that she had not gotten away with the disposal of her butterfly clips.
When the daylight waned and was replaced by a pink sky, and the surrounding woods were replaced by a dark skyline, the guests were leaving, and Mom and Dad led them out to the rental car. On the way home, Peter was subject to a lecture he would hear countless times over the next few years: the virtues of a college degree.
Mom and Dad both were constant and sincere in their conviction that a college degree leads to assured prosperity. Dad, in his time home, had always included in his lectures, the phrase, “The working man stays afloat, but the thinking man rides the waves.” After that night at Mr. P’s house, Peter had acquired a taste for a completely different lifestyle. Forget name-brand cereals, he wanted high-class anything. No longer were stability and equity promising goals; now he knew he wanted vacations, cars, basement gymnasiums and underground arcade rooms. He latched onto an idea that would, like a rocket, carry him to the stars; but what never crossed his mind was the possibility that it might not launch, and would bind him where he stood.
History of a Mother
Hoagie panted in the passenger seat. Being a furry little mongrel, he always left quite a bit of himself wherever he went, but Peter hardly cared, given the sad state of the interior in the first place. The angle