Camp Erie Lake

1

I hunch over the old arcade cabinet at the back of the mart, the lights buzz overhead and the air feels thick with all the kids crowded around, watching me play. My palms are slick with sweat as I command the joystick, the rough plastic biting into my skin. The arcades screen flickers with that familiar pixelated glow, displaying the classic Pac-Man maze. I'm so close to beating the high score.  Jenna and Mac are right behind me, breathing down my neck and cheering me on.

"Move your ass, it's gonna getcha!" a kid much younger than me yells from the sidelines, his lollipop—almost as big as his head—glued to his hand. Sticky remnants of the candy smudge the corners of his lips as he shouts.

The game is loud with Pac-Man's munching sounds, and I'm focusing hard despite the outburst, dodging ghosts and gobbling up dots. My heart's racing—I can almost taste victory. I'm so close to beating the high score, a feat that would etch my name into this place's history; ReeseRift34 holds the new high score!

My thumbs burn with cramps as I push the joystick to its full extent, somehow hoping the harder I push, the faster  Pac-Man will go. I quickly shove the joystick up and then yank it to the left as I race Pac-Man around the corner for two of the last dots. As he swallows one up and closes in on the last piece, a pink ghost floats in from above him, grabbing him before I am able to switch direction. I slam my hands against the controls in frustration, my fingers trembling. The display screen flashes its high score list, mocking me with the one name I could never quite reach, "MazeMaster."

What a nerd, I think to myself, purely because of my own jealousy.

My friends are sympathetic but, they show it by insulting me, "Alright Pixel Putz are you done mashing buttons? Can we go grab a slice of cheese pizza before the vultures get all the fresh ones?"  Mac asks, pointing his thumbs towards the pizza being passed out over the counter.

Mac does not mean; literal vultures. Mac just has a way with words. When he says vulture's—he's really referring to the other high schoolers that come to Freddie's Mart after school for a juice and a fresh slice.

You would think we would be tired of eating the same thing everyday, or maybe you'd wonder how we can afford it once a day—being we are only in the 9th grade. Lemme tell ya, it's as simple as saving your lunch money consistently, and using it for the arcade machine or maybe even a snack—like I often do.

There was a point in time where I went without eating school lunch for a month so I could afford to buy a new hair crimper that all the other girls in school had; "Crimp, Flip, and Shine: Unleash Your Boldest Look!," was the slogan that convinced us. It was a great choice, until a few weeks later there was another hot commodity out, and the crimped, flipped, and shiny hair was long forgotten.

"Well, seeing as how there's only two ways to control the game— buttons and a stick; button mashing is a must." I say, slightly offended while tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. But knowing Mac, it's all out of love. So I let it slide.

"Did you know, Pac-Man's gameplay and ghosts were inspired by comic book characters? As Iwatani continued to develop the idea of a game which involved eating, he added the concept of a maze, and then came the power pellet-or power cookie, a special item that allowed Pac-Man to eat his enemies." Jenna says, with an all knowing attitude as she explains the origin of the game to Mac and I.

"Honestly, I had no idea before, but thanks to you, I can now add something else to my list of 'things I didn't know but find intriguing.' So, thanks to Jenna Dinwhittiez, I'm now well-informed on where Pac-Man's gameplay came from." Mac says, sarcastically as we slide behind a kid in line.

I watch through the high glass windows at the front of the small mart just outside, as a little kid drops his ice cream. He glances around, then picks it up without bothering to brush it off, devouring it as it drips down his arms in the summer heat. The melting ice cream quickly runs down to his elbows, making a sticky mess in the sweltering sun.