Chapter Seventeen
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As he had planned, Mr. Litwak went to see The Art of the Arcade on opening day. It proved as expansive and comprehensive an exhibit as any arcade lover could have hoped for. From the pre-recorded video interviews, to the concept art, to the games on display, it was a sheer delight. Adding to Mr. Litwak's pleasure was the large number of visitors, both young and old. As always, he found their enthusiasm infectious; before long, he was grinning like a child.
His grin faded when he passed by the exhibit's copy of Pong, and he felt a sudden pang of melancholy. A sad smile crossed his face as he gazed at the cabinet.
He lingered long around the exhibit, until six o'clock, when the museum closed for the day. By that time, he had wandered back to the Pong cabinet and was observing it silently.
"Sir?" said a voice behind him. "The museum is closed now. I need to ask you to le-"
The man cut off his initial sentence abruptly as Mr. Litwak turned. "Stan? Stan Litwak?"
"That's my name."
The man held out his hand. "Job Olsen," he said. "The head of the museum as of six months ago."
"We've glimpsed each other before," said Mr. Litwak. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Well, I guess I can't let you go yet after all," said Mr. Olsen. "I'd love your take on the exhibit."
"Oh, it's wonderful," said Mr. Litwak.
Mr. Olsen gestured toward Pong. "I see you have a taste for the classics?"
"It was the first one in my arcade," said Mr. Litwak. "I had to unplug it about a week ago or so- screen stopped working."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Mr. Olsen.
"I might find a replacement copy if I look long enough," said Mr. Litwak, "but it's a long shot. There aren't many Pong cabinets left around these parts."
"Nor arcades," said Mr. Olsen. "Your business is one the last bastions of a shrinking industry."
"I often wonder that it's still open."
"I was hoping you'd have insight about why that is," said Mr. Olsen.
Mr. Litwak shook his head. "I'm as clueless as you," he replied. "I've been trying to guess the reason, with no luck so far."
"You ever thought to ask your customers?"
"They don't have time for chatting with an old man," said Mr. Litwak, smiling. "They just come to play. And I'm happy to let them play."
When Mr. Litwak returned home, he checked his phone for messages. He usually didn't get many, and the few he did were typically offers for free vacations with strings attached that the robotic voices always glossed over. Nevertheless, he was adamant about maintaining the habit. One never knew if something important might come in, he reasoned. That night, Mr. Litwak's habit paid off; there was a message from Albert Rae.
At sound of his old friend's voice, Mr. Litwak's face lit up with a broad grin. Albert was coming to see his childhood haunts around Wilberforce again, and wanted to pay he, Mr. Litwak, a visit. Would he mind?
The grin still on his face, Mr. Litwak wrote down the callback number for future reference, and then dialed it. And there, on the other end of the line, was his best friend.
For two solid hours, they talked, discussing old times and current events. By the time he'd hung up the phone, Mr. Litwak was too excited to think straight, and only barely remembered to warm up a boxed meal for dinner.
The next day, he was no less enthused. Indeed, he practically danced through the doors upon arrival. When the employees made their appearance, Mr. Litwak's cheerfulness had reached levels unheard of among them.
"Everything's fine, right?" one of the employees asked him.
"Never better," said Mr. Litwak. "Say Johnson, you think maybe we should hold a tournament here or something? Give out prizes?"
"We'd have to put some thought into it," Johnson replied. "It might work, if we could entice enough people."
"Ah, just an idea," said Mr. Litwak. "You let it stew in your mind, and I'll do the same. Maybe our two heads can come up with something." With a parting wink, Mr. Litwak entered his office to check his email.
As he opened the laptop, he felt a sudden weariness coming over him. He reached for the button to turn it on, but stopped; his arm felt too stiff to reach it. Frowning, he stood up to reach the button. His finger missed it and hit the keyboard instead.
What's happening? What…
He turned towards the office door, grasping its handle with a shaking hand. Opening it, he passed into the main room again. "Johnson?" he called.
The Employee turned his head upon being called. "Yes?"
"I can't hit the 'on' button…" Mr. Litwak muttered.
Lightheadedness? Am I having a-?
He stumbled against the wall, a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere, as if from a very great distance, he could hear the sound of Johnson frantically dialing 9-1-1.
"I don't think we're opening today," Mr. Litwak whispered, staring at the floor.
"Just stay with me," he heard Johnson saying. "The ambulance will be here soon."
"No opening today…" said Mr. Litwak. "Poor kids. Thanks, Johnson. Ambulance- good…"
He heard the sound of the ambulance outside of the arcade, of the EMTs entering the building. He allowed himself to be carried out of the arcade towards the ambulance.
"No opening today…"