Memories of Turbo
I know this isn't a real poem
With a rhyme scheme and all that,
But there's a lot of stuff in my head
That needs to get out somehow.
. . .
I remember the first time we met.
I was in Game Central Station
With nothing to do.
I sat at one end of a bench,
All alone.
He sat at the other end,
Surrounded by admirers.
I didn't think much of him.
Dull grey skin,
Creepy yellow eyes . . .
He was hardly a dreamboat.
More like the Titanic
After it sank.
He wore a bright red-and-white racing outfit
And he had about half a dozen other characters
Standing in a semi-circle around him.
One of them – a guy dressed in dark-blue –
Glanced at me and sniggered.
"Hey, you!" he yelled.
"What have you done with my tyre pump?"
Unless I'm right next to some tubby leprechaun that's visible only to him,
He must be talking to me.
I frowned.
"Aw, don't be like that," he moaned.
"I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly!"
Everyone laughed –
Except the guy on the bench,
Who folded his arms.
His next words still ring in my ears:
"Think about it.
Is he fat, or just muscly?"
His voice was so clear and every sound so deliberate
That no-one argued with him.
He slid along
To smile at me with bright yellow teeth.
"The name's Turbo," he said.
We shook hands.
"Ralph," I told him.
"Wreck-It Ralph."
. . .
The next months were a little less lonely than before.
The gameplay was still the same, of course.
I was always gonna wreck it.
But later,
When the players left the arcade
And Mr Litwak turned the lights off,
I would catch the next train to Turbo-Time
(Or he would drive to Fix-It Felix Jr.)
And we hung out.
We could moan about the players,
Like the teenage boy with the ridiculous haircut
Or the bratty little girl who kept scratching the screen for no reason.
We could moan about other characters,
Like the Nicelanders who ran away from me
Or the Turbo-Time twins trying to hog the limelight.
His company was refreshing
As I let my feelings flow out.
I guess, in a way,
We were "going out,"
Although we never left our games.
"Let's keep it private," he ordered.
"Don't want gossip, do we?"
So it was decided.
. . .
And yes, I admit it,
We kissed.
Once.
I didn't even like it.
His wet lips stole the air from my lungs.
His tongue wormed around my mouth
And tried to burrow into my throat and choke me.
I was the one who pulled away first.
"I love you," he whispered.
I stared at him.
"Wanna do more?" he asked.
I shook my head.
What was wrong with me?
. . .
The truth paid a visit later.
I was still a Bad Guy,
Capital B, Capital G.
But he could reassure me that
I wasn't a bad guy.
That was all I needed.
It wasn't about sex or romance
Or wet kisses.
It was about the talking.
It was about having another guy to be with
When no-one else wanted me around.
I didn't want a lover.
I needed a friend.
. . .
I had to tell him.
"The time we've had together has been . . . Turbo-Tastic," I said,
For want of a better word.
He grinned.
"But I can't go out with you anymore," I added.
He stopped grinning.
The next minutes were a blur.
All I know is that
A part of Turbo died that night.
And when he regenerated,
He wasn't the same.
. . .
RoadBlasters got plugged in the next day.
The rest is history.
. . .
Sometimes I wish that the Cy-Bug I used to know
Hadn't gone into the light.
I think of him burning in Diet Cola
And I shudder.
I knew he was meant to be a Good Guy –
And I thought he really was a good guy.
We could have talked, cleared the air.
We could have made things work.
We could have made a change.
. . .
But then
I think of her
Running up to meet me,
Giving me a big hug,
Telling corny jokes,
Laughing at herself,
Racing every day,
Winning almost every day,
Being happy.
I imagine her under Turbo's rule –
Having her kart destroyed,
Being pushed into a mud puddle,
Eventually getting sucked into unplugged oblivion –
And I realise that
If I had to choose between Vanellope and Turbo,
I'd know who I really wanted.