Chapter Ten
Pong Plays Out
When Mr. Litwak arrived in the morning, he saw the blue lights once again.
There they were, the same little blue flashes darting through the wire from Tapper's into the power strip. This time, upon leaving the power strip, they passed into Dance Dance Revolution.
Must be the drunks heading home, back to their game.
It was the facetious explanation he'd finally concocted to explain the odd phenomenon. Obviously, there was some more rational explanation. Nevertheless, Mr. Litwak found the notion of the characters being alive hugely entertaining.
I could probably come up with some daft old stories about them. Imagine Zangief going shopping…
On the way to his office, he gave the Pong cabinet an affectionate pat, as he had done so many times before. Once inside, he checked his emails. And then he settled down to await the employees. When they came, he awaited the customers. And when the customers came, he opened the doors.
As usual for a school morning, the initial crowd was small, and was comprised mainly of adults, with the occasional child who was too young for school but had to stay in the care of their parents or guardians. Mr. Litwak greeted them at the door, as per his usual custom, and then settled behind the front desk.
He wasn't sure how long it had been when he heard a customer calling his name. He had grown so used to the sound of chattering customers and games being played over the years that any request for assistance was like a car horn jolting him awake in the middle of the night. Instantly alert, Mr. Litwak looked about until he saw a middle-aged gentleman standing by a familiar cabinet. Pong.
For the first time in his life, Mr. Litwak hesitated to answer a customer's call for help. What if…what if…
"Mr. Litwak?" the gentleman called once more.
Mr. Litwak gulped. "Coming," he said, getting up from behind the desk. He strode towards the customer.
"The screen's not turning on," said the customer, gesturing towards the cabinet.
Mr. Litwak tested the controls, and glanced at the screen several times. It remained completely black. He inserted one of his own quarters and tried again. Another quarter passed from his wallet into the slot, and then another. Each time, the screen failed to turn on.
"Mr. Litwak?" the customer asked. "Is everything alright?"
"Busted," said Mr. Litwak. His voice was strained; he didn't turn.
"Mr. Litwak?"
Mr. Litwak took a quarter from his wallet and handed it to the customer.
"Here, take that," he said. "I'll check with the repair man in the morning, but Pong's probably played out."
The customer thanked Mr. Litwak and headed off to another game. Slowly, Mr. Litwak walked back to the desk and retrieved an orange "out of order" sheet from one of the drawers. He walked back towards Pong. Once in front of the cabinet, he paused. Then, with a sigh, he placed the paper over the screen.
The rest of the day passed before Mr. Litwak's eyes as though it were a blur. By the time the arcade was closed, he was aware only in a general sense that he'd kept to his routine, greeting each wave of customers and saying farewell to customers and workers alike. But his pleasant tone had been forced. The many looks of concern he'd received attested to that.
It's just a game, he told himself. It's just a game.
But it wasn't- not this game. It was the one he'd started his business with, a reminder of that joyous adventure of his younger days, a memento of the past. And it was a reminder of a friendship.
Albert Rae. Where are you now, I wonder? I really should try and find out.
On his way out, he passed by Pong once again. He stopped, looking the cabinet up and down once more. He peeled back the corner of the orange paper and glanced at the blank screen.
"Otis, Floyd," he said. "It's been great having you around."
Mr. Litwak patted the cabinet one last time and passed through the arcade doors.
Inside the cabinet, three beings had heard his words. One, behind a black door with a grey knob, smirked callously. The other two, on the field beside the net, floated silently in place, letting the words sink in. They had no faces, but they saw; no ears, but they heard. They knew their home was doomed, but for those few moments, as they watched Mr. Litwak and listened to his words, their alarm receded. For those precious moments, it was replaced by something else: pride. Not the stubborn, conceited pride that is unearned, but pride merited through long years of hard toil and genuine accomplishment. For nearly thirty seven years, they had brought happiness to many. But of all those many, the old arcade owner was the one they were most delighted to have pleased. Mingled with their pride was one more feeling: gratitude. Gratitude to Mr. Litwak for the care he had lavished upon their cabinet through the long, repetitive years. Gratitude for the enthusiasm he had shown for their humble game.
Mr. Litwak's face receded from view; the moment passed. And then concern for their present situation rushed back upon Otis and Floyd. Nevertheless, obscured though it was by pressing matters, the twin feelings of pride and gratitude remained buried within their coding, where they would forever remain for the two paddles to cherish- no matter what the future brought.