Through all the flashes, buzzes, and whirls around me, Galaga stood like an old haunt with Mrs. Pac-Man’s bedroom eyes peering at me.
There was no line. No fanfare. No kids clamoring around the cabinet watching someone destroy their high score as you see in 80s movies. Video games aren’t about high scores anymore, and these arcades knew it. You don’t even get tickets for beating the high score on these old cabinets. It sits here as a trophy, a relic from the past, surrounded by progress.
Nostalgia: the single weed that kills an entire garden.
It still took quarters, not the fancy plastic cards most arcades do now. While my niece and her friends indulged themselves in sugary cake in the arcade’s Party Room, my twitchy hands reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of quarters I had just exchanged from the change machine. Two quarters later, that familiar Galaga sound chimed.
“I knew you’d be back, darlin’.”
#
This is a story about Galaga, not video games.
I wanted to make that clear while sitting here writing this because I despise stories about video games from self-proclaimed “gamers.” They’re too idealistic and self-centered. I’ve spent countless hours reading these pandering stories because I need to tell my story differently. Let me give you an example of the kinds of video game-related stories I hate, and you’re going to have to bear with me on this one…
Many stories about video games start and end the same way. The introduction is always someone encountering a video game at a young age for some heartfelt reason. This person—let’s call them Dave—pours hours into a video game as a child even when everyone says, “Video games rot your brain,” making our little Dave seem brave. A tiny observation here: video game stories are always made for gamers, and it makes me sick. They never highlight any issues or problems with wasting your precious time in front of a screen for self-gratification. Gamers want to see themselves as heroes because they know that they aren’t.
There is always a deep, nostalgic connection between the gamer and the game with these stories. The one that gets me the most is what I call the “family connection.” Any video game story that begins with “I was six when my dad bought me my first video game” has me groaning. It’s never “I only started playing mobile games at 24” or “I ignored gaming until I hit 60.” It’s always a loving or disgruntled (or both) parent catering to their child’s wishes. Let’s say that Dave got his first video game from his mother, a distant person who knew nothing about video games or Dave. And what game was it? It’s always a popular one. It’s never a bargain bin game, but one that gamers can instantly recognize. It makes me question the authenticity of these stories. Surely, not every child on Earth had an original copy of Earthbound when it came out. Earthbound sold poorly, but those who write these stories make you believe everyone had a copy lying around. The game Dave plays also has to be challenging because all games have to be complicated. Gamers never want fun. They want achievement. So, let us say that this game is one where you have to spend grueling hours truly completing it. You have to collect all the items and defeat all the bosses to beat the game, and Dave cannot do it, especially with his nagging mother around.
Let’s talk about Dave’s mother because she’s not so well-liked in our protagonist’s eyes. She’s a no-nonsense woman, a workaholic who prioritizes practicality over everything else. Perhaps she made mistakes in life that got her to where she is now: joyless and longing for acceptance. Dave has a complex relationship with her. On the one hand, she’s his mother. On the other, she’s just there in body but not in spirit to him. He gets mad when she has to discipline him because of this lack of connection. No matter what, there must be an internal conflict like this to prepare you for the gut-wrenching part of a video game story.
Years later, Dave’s mom dies of cancer. He feels indifferent, having never understood his mother. Sometimes, it’s as if she never cared for him. After all the goodbyes and tears at the funeral, Dave comes across the video game his mother begrudgingly bought him. He puts it in the console for nostalgia and notices something: a save file he doesn’t recognize.
It’s titled “Love, Mom.”
He loads the save and sees something miraculous. Dave’s mother spent hours completing the game for her son, collecting every item and defeating every boss, even the ones Dave could never conquer. At that moment, Dave finally understood the moral of our story: his mother always loved him even when he didn’t realize it, and it took him a video game to learn this. Dave then grows up crediting video games for deepening his love for his mother.
Disgusting.
Even coming up with this example hurts me. This story has many issues; I don’t need to be a professional writer to see through them.
The biggest flaw was how self-centered our protagonist was, even when he had his epiphany. Dave claimed their mother was absent. How so? If he took their hands off the controller for a second, he might have seen his mother slave away at work to get him the electronic timewaster—something that Dave cared more about, something that connected him to his mother more than anything. It wasn’t family vacations or Christmas mornings or a life-threatening illness that got our naive Dave to actually care. It was a bunch of coding on a TV screen that she (somehow) was able to complete for him. Besides, you expect me to believe an adult who has never played a game before was able to 100% one without their child noticing?
This story proves my point: stories about video games are self-centered—to fulfill some fantasy or projection. My story may not be unique, but giving it a grand, artificial treatment solves nothing. I want many people to read my story about Galaga because I don’t speak my mind most of the time. A lot of my coworkers quip that my mouth acts as if it gets charged by the word.
Galaga was something that was always on my mind. It’s not a super popular game anymore, but it’s the kind where if I showed you pictures of it, you would have at least seen it before. The truth is that my history with this game is a complicated one. It seems too trivial, though. Actual wars are happening, and my mind is stressing over a fake one in outer galactic space represented by a couple of pixels. But in preparation for telling my story, I’ve read a few books on writing. Nearly all of them regurgitate the same platitudes: Show, don’t tell. Tell the story you want to tell. Write what you know. This was a story about something I truly know, but it’s not just that. This is also a love story, but I want to avoid any kind of sentimentalism or romance because many audiences cry foul.
At least I would.
#
There’s no need to waste your time explaining what Galaga is. There’s not much to it.
Knowing the history of Galaga isn’t important either. If you don’t play video games, it will bore you. Stories can’t be boring. That’s the cardinal sin for writers.
The only thing you need to know is that your fighter spaceship can be captured by a Boss spaceship (shown as green at first, then turns blue after you land a hit once). The process works like this: Boss captures your ship. You hit the Boss. Your captured ship flies down to you, and now, you play the game with two ships firing at once.
#
Take your pick: Chuck E. Cheese, Dave & Busters, your local mom-and-pop place. They’re all a dime a dozen. Yet, there also seems to be some strange deal each one of these arcades has to agree to: you must have a Galaga cabinet. Not just any. You need the Class of 1981 Mrs. Pac-Man/Galaga combo cabinet. It’s always that exact one, without fail. At this arcade, the Mrs. Pac-Man/Galaga cabinet was between a VR flight simulator and a tall, flashy slot machine for kids. No kid today wants to play a game from the 80s, so why do these arcades bother? Dave from our example earlier must be the Dave who founded this arcade because there was no benefit in having outdated arcade machines that sit and rot.
Gamers talk about their sweaty foreheads and clammy hands drenching their controllers while their minds are on critical alert, ready for even the slightest abnormality to happen. Not me. My numb hands worked involuntarily as I worked through Galaga. Winning wasn’t my goal anymore. Why waste mental power over a game you can’t win? Many arcade games are about bettering the person before you, their so-called “achievement” as flashed on the very top of the screen…
“Isn’t there something you should be letting the audience know, darlin’?” Mrs. Pac-Man’s familiar smoke-tinged voice echoed. My eyes didn’t meet hers.
“Like what?”
“What the point of this joint of yours is?”
“No. Let them wait.”
“Excuse me,” she huffed. “Just tryin’ to help, darling. We’re getting nowhere.”
“People need to be patient.”
“Honey, you can’t tease for too long.”
I didn’t respond to that.
“Oh, all right. Be mysterious, then. Can we at least take you back to Mojo’s?”
“Nostalgia does not help my story.”
“Jesus, you are serious about this whole ‘being different’ schtick.”
I was at the last cycle of the Challenging Stage.
“Humor me here, darlin’. I’m getting sooooooo bothered without the hubby home.”
“This isn’t erotica.”
“My husband’s the one out there chasing ghost tail. What do they have that I don’t?”
#
Mojo’s was a hole-in-the-wall pizza buffet in my hometown. That was where I first played Galaga. There is not much else to it.
#
“Darlin’, maybe this writing pipe dream of yours ain’t gonna work out.”
#
I’ll tell you more out of spite. The air was so thick with smoke that one could hardly see the pizza that had been lined up under hot lamps for probably a week. It tasted just like it smelled. They could have served rat poison..
Mojo’s was the cheapest place for lunch near my work. I hardly noticed the Galaga cabinet at first. It was to the right of the entrance, next to a claw machine. It was (you guessed it) the Class of 1981 cabinet. There she stood in all of her golden circular glory, looking at me with her half-lidded, blue-shaded eyes and a half-finished cigarette between her fingers.
“How about a round with me, hon?” she said, winking.
With nothing better to do than make small talk with the elderly owners, I asked them for some change and plopped them into the cabinet. I played Mrs. Pac-Man first and didn’t enjoy it.
#
“Well, fuck you too!” Mrs. Pac-Man spat at me as I blasted away more ships. At this point, my niece’s party was coming to a close.
“You just weren’t my cup of tea.”
“And yet you have the nerve to keep crawlin’ back here.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“Easy for you to say. You ain’t so good with them hands like you think you are.”
#
After a round with Mrs. Pac-Man, I went over to her sister, Galaga. That was where it started. Like a machine, my daily routine was to get up early, go to work, eat at Mojo’s, play Galaga, go back to work, go home, and sleep.
“Don’t you ever get bored with her?” Mrs. Pac-Man asked me one time. I didn’t know how to respond to that. This was just the person I was: if I stuck to one thing and one thing only, I would never be disappointed in life.
I still can’t tell why I became so drawn to Galaga. I had never played the game before, and I was never one for competitions. But there was a recurring nemesis during my time playing Galaga at Mojo’s that ignited jealousy in me, a feeling I’ve never felt so intensely before. He was a dark, mysterious figure whom I’d never met. I only knew him as DAVE.
It was hard for me to avoid him. His name mockingly flashed on the screen every time I approached the cabinet. He always had high scores and he wanted everyone to know it. Just look at how he wrote his name for the score screen in all caps. How egotistical could a person get?
Harboring such strong, negative feelings against someone I never met over a video game is childish, but at the risk of sounding even more childish, DAVE started it first. He wanted to play a stupid game and someone had to be the one to give him his stupid prize.
After weeks of going to Mojo’s, stomaching stale pepperoni pizza and going through hundreds of quarters, I got the highest score on their Galaga machine. In that brief moment, goosebump-laden euphoria rushed over me. It was pathetic to feel that way over a video game. People should be feeling that way over, say, the birth of their child, but I couldn’t help it. After spending so much time on a diligent schedule, it finally paid off with me winning. I inputted my name for the score screen and went back to work. My coworkers commented on how chipper I was that day.
The next day, there was a name above mine on the score screen:
DAVE.
He beat me by a measly 1,000 points. You could get 1,000 points by hitting just a few ships. Only a few lucky shots made me lose. Life just wasn’t fair.
I was able to get first place again that day, but imagine my shock when I was bested again the next day. This started the war with DAVE. For at least two weeks, we were trying to best each other, a constant power struggle. Walking into Mojo’s and seeing my top score taken from me without fail made me fume. DAVE was good. Too good. I began theorizing if he was even real. Perhaps he was an evil program or demon trapped in the cabinet just to torment me. I had wished DAVE would just let me win at something for once. My anger brewed. My blood pressure must have been awful. I once even called off work to stay at Mojo’s all day to spot the elusive DAVE. No one approached the cabinet that day.
I eventually asked Mrs. Pac-Man if she knew DAVE.
“Babe, we get lots of people comin’ and goin’,” she said, waving her hand. “I get Johns, Jacks, and Bennys galore. This guy could be some punk kid or an old geezer.”
I asked if there was anyone besides me who came to her frequently.
“Whatever happens with my sis is not my problem,” she sighed.
“Well, it’s a problem to me,” I said.
“Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. What’s in it for me? You only want me when you need her, anyway,” she spat. I left Mojo’s slamming the door.
DAVE must’ve been mocking me, but I had no proof. Maybe I was overreacting. A random stranger couldn’t have a vendetta against me over a video game.
I thought so until I got the note.
It was a yellow sticky note stuck on the far left of the screen. In big letters, written in ink: “SUCK IT.” DAVE’s score blinked on the screen. I jabbed my hands into my pockets in a blind rage.
“Hold it, darlin’,” Mrs. Pac-Man said. “I, uh, think I know how I can help ya.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Don’t waste your breath today. I can rig the game, ya see. I’ll talk to my sis and see if she can be a little more forgivin’, but she’s not in the mood today. Understood?”
I took her word for it and left in a huff. My anger was inhuman, but knowing I was going to get back at him tomorrow soothed me. I even drafted up a (more eloquent) note in response to his: “I choke on small objects.” I spent that night counting my quarters, unable to sleep, thinking about how I was going to best DAVE once more.
That day never came.
After my lunch break, my feet sprinted to the restaurant to find the doors bolted shut with two-by-fours. The health department had finally caught up to them. I laughed. Hard. DAVE had won. Through a small gap in the window was the unplugged cabinet and Mrs. Pac-Man’s stoic, flirty face with smudged makeup around her eyes.
#
Mrs. Pac-Man and I went to my apartment after my niece’s birthday party. The battles replayed in my mind while sitting on the couch in my living room. Left. Left. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Dodge. Right. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Boss turns blue. Shoot. Shoot. Captured. Shoot. Two ships. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Wait. Shoot. Stage cleared.
Mrs. Pac-Man floated in from the kitchen. With each movement, her mouth opened and closed, making that “waka-waka” sound everyone loved.
“Waka-waka-waka. Mind if I ask what ya do for a livin’?”
“A basic warehouse job. Nothing to it.”
“One for conversation, aren’t ya?”
I didn’t respond. She sighed and sat next to me.
“Look, I know why I’m here.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I do. And I resent it,” she huffed. “It’s the 21st century, and ya seriously need a girl to tell ya to pick yourself up? Don’t ya got any balls?”
“How else can I tell my story?”
“Not by pullin’ old tricks!”
“It’s not your story.”
“Then why did ya invite me!?”
“Spaceships can’t talk—”
“I don’t know how my sis deals with the likes of you,” she groaned.
“Just answer me something. Did you know Mojo’s was going to close that day?”
Mrs. Pac-Man looked away from me. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was saving ya, dumb ass.”
“Some help you were.”
“You were losing ya goddamn mind plunking quarters into my sister! I ain’t never seen someone with stamina as you. My poor sis was at death’s door between you and this DAVE fella you’re tag-teaming her with. I couldn’t just stand there.”
I balled my fist. “You could’ve just told me then.”
Mrs. Pac-Man zipped to the front door. “Look. You’re gonna have to fix your own problems. I ain’t gonna reduce myself as your dream-girl therapist. I know my worth, hon.”
The door slammed. She was right. I was running out of steam and needed a break.
#
My back was hurting. I stood up, stretched, and looked at the Mrs. Pac-Man scene I just typed on my laptop. I originally didn’t plan it in my story, but I had nowhere else to go. Kill your darlings. Bye, Mrs. Pac-Man. You taught me something valuable…
But what, exactly? Maybe if I figured it out, it would get me out of this hole I dug.
Had I stuck with Mrs. Pac-Man at Mojo’s, I wouldn’t be in the mess I was in. Mrs. Pac-Man and I just didn’t click. The gameplay was too repetitive. Galaga was not a perfect game by any means, but it was unpredictable. Any second could be your last. It was a danger I never knew. Mrs. Pac-Man was too safe, much like my story.
So far, there have been plenty of build-ups and little payoff. I’ve committed a grave sin: writing a story about writing a story—a cheap, cliched gimmick to compensate for a lack of originality. I was close to burning all 3,350 words written so far. I was wasting my time writing and should go back to mindlessly going to work and dwelling on my past silently. It wasn’t like writing about my connection with Galaga would give me a satisfying ending. DAVE won and nothing could be done about that.
But was that what Mrs. Pac-Man taught me? Was this the resounding moral? Did my story even need one? Some writers write stories to evoke a mood or give insight instead of teaching a lesson. My story could end here if I wanted, but no. Something was telling me not to. Perhaps it was DAVE. Perhaps it was Mrs. Pac-Man. Perhaps it was the countless creative writing books I’ve been reading.
It was time to break my own rule and make this a story about video games.
#
My arms and legs were sorer than usual. I could barely open the door to the break room. My coworkers were droning on about topics that didn’t interest me while I sat in the middle of them eating my ham sandwich, which became my daily lunch before the Mojo’s saga.
The discussion turned to video games, and that’s where the tall tales launched, some of the most unbelievable miracles I had ever heard. I swear one of them said video games cured his blindness. It sure didn’t cure Dave’s mother of cancer.
My coworkers were rattling off all these titles I didn’t know and they were all in disbelief when I admitted that to them.
“How do you not know Doom?”
“Not even Portal?”
“I bet he thinks Minesweeper is too violent.”
Video games were never a part of my life. My parents couldn’t afford them, and I never asked for them for Christmas. I didn’t have friends who invited me over to play Grand Theft Auto under their parents’ noses. I had to research all these games to add authenticity to my story, and frankly, they all seemed like generic crowd-pleasers.
“Do you like anything? At all?” One coworker asked me.
I was taken aback by that question. So much so that I didn’t know how to respond besides a shrug. That was when everyone in the break room hounded me, saying I needed hobbies or at least to try one single video game to see if I would even like it. I had no idea where all this came from. I thought I was in good standing with my coworkers. What about video games unleashed this side of people? I get that they were joking around, as they always do, but why me? What was wrong with not caring about video games? Frustrated, I asked them what video games they recommend I start with.
With a smirk, one of them said I should start with something easy like Pac-Man. I had at least heard of that. Then another chimed in, saying that he would pay to see me play Mrs. Pac-Man. I then foolishly asked, “Pac-Man is married?”
“Yeah, and you’re not.”
“You’re desperate.”
“Go get laid.”
This all happened a week before I first visited Mojo’s.
#
The dim, flashing lights of the arcade swirled around me.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Mrs. Pac-Man on the screen.
She sighed and looked away from me. “I’m no fun, ain’t I? I just don’t excite you like her.”
“I never said that.”
“Just dump your quarter and go ahead.”
“I’m not here for her.”
Her pixelated eyes met mine as she gave me a puzzled look.
“Then what’s up, darlin’?”
I gave her my quarter and played until I got a decent score, not a high one. I rammed Mrs. Pac-Man straight into an on-coming ghost, watching her dematerialize in front of me with a blushing smile. The high-score screen popped up. My score was at the very bottom, but it was a score nonetheless. It asked me to put in a name.
“Love, Mrs. Pac-Man.”
She was my other ship.
Nathan Nicolau is a writer/poet based in Charlotte, NC. His fiction, poetry, and essays have been featured in numerous publications. His debut novel, TWO, is out now on Amazon. Find out more about him at nathannicolau.com.