The Fun-N-Games arcade is located in the remote corner on the second tier of Bridgewater Plaza. It rests right below one bar, and directly above another. During the summer, Bridgewater is thriving with tourists coming off the lake; they chat about how they’ll spend their days, whine about the heat, and drip ice cream on the decks. In the winter season, however, the plaza dies. The bars remain open for their loyal patrons—both the Franklin County locals and the Bedford bums from across the lake—but the Ice Cream Cottage, Harbortown Golf, and the Mousetrap all close down. Aside from the bars, it is only the Fun-N-Games arcade that stays open.
That arcade holds many memories for me. It used to be my favorite place to go as a kid. It was owned and run by my best friend’s step-dad, so I usually got away with being able to redeem my tickets for extra prizes. Sometimes I would even get extra quarters. During my teenage years I would work there. The Fun-N-Games was my first experience as a part of the work force: four years of minimum wage work where I dealt with screaming children and broken arcade games. Time passes and places change, though. Memories come and go; some remain in stasis while others alter—for better or worse.
Child’s Play
My earliest memory of the arcade isn’t the memory of my first visit there: I can’t quite recall the first time my mom took me and my siblings to Bridgewater. No, my first memory was on a winter night. Mom and Dad had been loud that night, which would’ve normally been upsetting, but then Mom said we could go to the arcade. We barely had time to put on shoes before she rushed us out the door—she must’ve been as excited as I was.
We pulled into the parking lot, and my mom handed me a twenty.
“Split this with your brother, okay?” she said. I nodded enthusiastically, and took off down the stairs, brother in tow.
We pushed straight through the glass double doors into the warmth of the game room. The games blinked and whistled all around us, drawing us in. I can remember going up to the woman at the counter to exchange the cash for quarters.
“Little Walter!” she blurted. “How ya been?” Anne had worked in the arcade ever since it had opened, so she knew my brother and me pretty well. I remember that she was always joking with us, but every time we’d walk away, she’d get a sad look in her eye. I never thought too much of it at the time: the games were calling for me, after all!
My brother and I were always very strategic about the way we played the games. It was a redemption arcade, so some of the games would give you tickets based on the points you earned. You could then spend those tickets to win prizes from Anne. Jon—my brother—and I would hone in on the games that had the highest ticket payoff: Spin-to-Win, Storm Stopper, and Bonus Jackpot. In the end, we’d collect our tickets at the counter, and get our prizes. We’d always load-up on candy because our parents never let us get any at home.
When we were done, Anne waved goodbye to us with a smile, and Jon would race me up the stairs to Moosie’s Bar. I remember this particular trip so well, though, because when we stepped in the bar, my mother was nowhere to be seen. We looked all around, but we couldn’t find her. Eventually, the bartender asked what a ten year old was doing in his bar. He told us that she had just left, so Jon and I went to look for the car. It was where Mom had parked, so we decided to go wait in the arcade for her; she would come to get us.
Anne shook her head, puzzled, when we came back in. “Didn’t I already see you gentlemen in here tonight? Don’cha know I was just about to close up?” we told her that we were just waiting on Mom, so she let us stay while she shut down the games and counted the money for the day. Five minutes became ten which became thirty, but my mother still hadn’t shown up. Anne had begun to get worried, and had insisted that we call home, just to make sure she was coming.
“No,” I told her. “Mom was upstairs and the car is still here. And if we call home, Dad’s just gonna get madder!” After more persistence, though, I caved and called home. I kept getting the answering machine, though, and started to cry. I didn’t know why, but I assume it was from frustration. I ended up calling my grandmother, who picked up immediately. I told her where we were, and she said that she’d come get us. Within minutes (she lived right across the bridge) she arrived and led us out to the car. She went back over to the arcade though, and started talking to Anne. As my brother fell asleep in my grandma’s van, I watched the two women talk. Anne kept looking over at the van with that same sad look in her eyes. My grandmother had it too, as I recall. It wasn’t until years later that I actually realized what had happened.
All Work and No Play
I started working at the Fun-N-Games while I was in high school and spent four years on their payroll. Summers were always busy, and I made plenty of cash, but the winters were cold in more ways than one: my hours were cut to only weekends, and then, only weekend nights. It was only Anne and I during winter because the owner couldn’t afford to keep more of us on, and I worked nights because Anne didn’t feel comfortable doing it.
Most nights I sat alone doing homework at the counter. I might occasionally walk around and play a game or two, but I had lost that childhood interest in the place the same year I started working there.
We usually had a customer or two every night. More often we had older couples stumbling in from one of the bars to play Mrs. Pacman. The alcohol heavy on their breath, they’d come to me asking for quarters; when I redirected them to the change machine, I’d watch in silent bemusement as they fumbled to get the dollar in.
Aside from the occasional customers, though, I was alone. Despite the happy music playing from the games, or the brightly colored lights all around, I could feel a deep-seated despair in my heart. This place used to be so cool. The games were fun, and the prizes were neat, but now—now I could see how run down the place was getting. The walls were grey and there were a few stains in the ceiling: remnants of kitchen floods from the bar above. There was a constant fight to keep many of the games running, but it was a losing battle. I became suddenly aware of the duck-tape fixes and the improbability of winning the high-stakes games. I grew dismay for the people who would come in and blow $20 on games, just to win a few packs of Skittles.
Closing up was even harsher. When I flip the breakers to turn everything off, there is sudden silence. There is no fade-out—just silence. Every night I’d count what little money had been made, log it, and lock it up. I’d wipe down the games, pick up any trash that might’ve magically spawned during the day, and restock the prizes for the next day. Then I finish the routine: grab bag, grab trash, set alarm, lock door.
The plaza is silent on winter nights. The arcade stays open almost as late as the bars do: a place to babysit their kids while they escaped their troubled home-lives in the comfort of a drink. Some nights I’d find my mother outside of Moosie’s, crying on the bench. I’d take her keys and lead her, without words, to my car. Nights like that I would drive her home in near silence—quiet, save the sound of an occasionally pout. I’d take her to her bed in the “guest room” and tuck her in. The next day I’d wait around the house and endure the awkward silence between my parents. When I leave for work, I take her along so she can get her car.
Anne would know the days that I come in after one of those nights. She remembered that time when I came as a kid and my parents were fighting; she told me that my dad had come to get Mom, but he hadn’t realized that my brother and I were with her. Anne would always have that same sad look in her eyes. I had it too, by then. She knew then—as she knew before—what I’d been through that night…all those nights. Some things, after all, never change.
Round Three
Fun-N-Games switched ownership during my last year there. Anne wished me luck in college, and told me that she was retiring: her fibromyalgia was preventing her from working any longer. The new owners were making changes, so that meant a change in staff, too. But that was fine. I had school to attend, anyway.
I came back to the arcade again, though, as I’ve always done. My first winter home from college and nothing has changed; in 18 years of living in that place, nothing ever changed. I need save no space for memories of home because I can relive any moment at any time. The first week back, my parents drank and fought. They yelled at me and my brother. I left. I never knew before what it was about that arcade that would always draw me back, but it always beckoned to me: in my time of need, when home life was colder than the world outside, I’d find myself crossing that bridge again; I’d find myself staring at the double-doors smudged with fingerprints; I’d find myself pulling them wide and entering the cacophony of familiar sounds.
But things do change at the arcade. My home may be static, but the Fun-N-Games has evolved since I left. The walls look like Easter Bunny came in and exploded, smearing pastel greens and purples all over the walls. Newer games have replaced the old, and there was no duck tape in sight. Instead of Anne’s warm greeting, I’m greeted only by the slightest nod of some punk high-schooler hiding behind his laptop. I investigate the changes and see things that wouldn’t have flown under the previous ownership: coin jams and trash on the floors; finger-print smeared windows and games with empty ticket dispensers.
Despite the flaws that I see, there’s still a small gathering of the typical winter clientele: fat balding middle-aged men playing Pacman, middle aged women that reek of cigarette smoke and booze paying little attention to their kids running amok, and stoner teenagers with nothing better to do in the boons of Franklin County than hang out in a noisy arcade.
I can’t stand the changes for too long, and I leave to walk along the docks by the lake. The moon reflects on the still waters making it light enough to see the docks since the street lights are out. I can see the neon signs from the arcade shining up at me from the freezing water as well. These reflections, to me, are just like the arcade itself. The Fun-N-Games is a place for nostalgia—it is the home of memory and reminiscence. As a child, I built my memories there; it protected me from the reality of my home life that I couldn’t understand at that age. When I grew up, the memories changed and were replaced by blurred reflections of the originals: the arcade became a place that reminded me of the harshness of reality; it pulled up those repressed memories of my childhood. Now that I’m back again, I can see that the arcade brings back memories for everyone. People come back here to relive their pasts and to build new futures. These middle aged drinkers want to forget their problems, so they stifle them with booze and video games—the keys to their past. They bring their kids here to hide their innocent souls from the marital problems of their parents. The Fun-N-Games arcade may have changed and my memories may have been spoiled by experience, but at least the memories are still there. On the corner of the second tier of Bridgewater Plaza, situated beneath one bar, and above another, the Fun-N-Games stands as a constant reminder that, no matter how bad things get for me, there’s still a place in this abysmal Hicksville in which I can hide on a winter’s night—there’s always a place there where I can drown my sorrow away in sweet nostalgia.
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