It’s what I imagine being inside an exploding firework is like. Blinding light. Deafening noise. All oxygen consumed. Furious, tornado-like winds. Finally, in a millisecond, you’re blown out of your senses into a thousand tiny pieces.
That was the experience as I walked in the door.
“Oh crap,” I said.
KABLOOEY!
I’m still not sure what the place is called. Or what the place is. A screaming arcade and kiddie playland mixed with a screaming sports bar and adult playland. An inside bowling alley with football games and pop videos displayed above each lane so you can watch Nicki Minaj while you roll into the gutter.
Behind you bleeping, screeching, blurping, crunching, blasting, ca-chunking video games. Over there a band warming up. Over there a baby crying. Over there … wait a minute … what the heck is that? AND HOW DOES IT MAKE SO MUCH NOISE!?!
And the lights. Fourth of July with a side of sunspots and a laser light show sprinkled on top for added seasoning.
“I like this place,” my daughter told me, squinting. “Let’s go play.”
My daughter used to hate these kinds of establishments. Too busy. Too noisy. Too overwhelming. But now she storms into them, bouncing from game to game, desperate to win enough tickets to buy something incredibly cheap in the reward shop.
“Two hundred and fifty tickets for this!” I called out. “Do you realize the mark-up?”
“Dad!” a voice chided me. Only, it wasn’t my daughter’s. It was a little boy’s voice. At first I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Until I realized it was me. Little me. The one who used to live his life in arcades. Who would plug himself into Skee-Ball, letting the tickets roll out in one unending loop until there were enough to purchase an army man with a parachute or a spring-loaded gun that fired plastic discs.
Or a Vegas-style slot machine, like I was a highroller in my tube socks and “Star Wars” T-shirt. Or a game that involved trying to dislodge quarters with quarters. I always imagined being swept away in an avalanche of change after landing one in the perfect spot. (It never happened, but just IMAGINE!)
Or the claw!
My daughter would drop the national debt into the claw. You know the claw, right? The game no one in history has ever won. Insert money. Try to grab cheap stuffed animal. Kiss money goodbye. Repeat 13,000 times until the college fund is dried up.
“So close!” my daughter said. “We’ll get it this time.”
Sure we will. But I used to play it, too.
After bowling was done, after greasy food was consumed, after dancing to “Gangnam Style” was danced, after tickets were turned in, we walked out of the pulsing, screaming, oxygen-sucking firecracker with a tiny stuffed duck that my daughter petted on the way to the car.
“Boy, that place was great,” she said.
I had spots in my eyes. My ears were ringing. I had been blown to bits. Yet, a little voice in me managed to answer, “Yeah. Sure was.”