He
inserts his last quarter into the Pac-Man Machine,
bouncing
on his tip-toes, his sneakers slap his heels
like
flip-flops. Duct tape poorly covers holes
in
the middle of his sweatshirt, elbow skin flashing
with
the movement of his skinny arms
as
he moves the joystick, avoiding another Ghost.
Skin
black with dirt where his knee shows under
ripped
blue jeans.
I
never asked his name.
We
formed a routine each morning,
he
would wait for me as I raised the gate
to
the small arcade, lights on,
radio
set low as we exchanged money.
He
never failed to show with a twenty,
a
return of eighty quarters in a large green
bowl,
his hands much too small to handle
the
change on his own. He would immediately
return
to his Pac-Man game and insert
the
first quarter, toes his only support
in
reaching the joystick and white buttons.
I
checked all the consoles in the shop
before
dragging a chair over to the boy
who
was happy to kneel on the cushion
and
rest his feet.
At
lunch I would pull out
a
turkey and swiss sandwich, Doritos
and
a few Oreos. I’d call over the orphan
boy
to share my stash before we both
resumed
to our posts.
No
words exchanged,
silence
was all we needed,
a
mutual understanding of space
and
hunger was the building blocks
to
our companionship.
The
beeps of the game fill the room,
the
boy could lose now or in ten minutes,
either
way I need to close shop when he finishes.
A
woman of medium stature stumbles
into
the arcade, paper sack concealing
bottle
cradled to her chest. I open my mouth,
utter
an objection of her entrance and the time
but
she flicks a dirtied palm in my direction.
She
yanks the boy off the blue chair,
his
sneakers drag across the dark
galaxy
carpeting as his eyes widen.
The
orphan didn’t resist, he knew
not
to get in the way of a mother
and
the child she cradled in her arms.
