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Not too long ago I asked everybody to write something for the site with the promise that I would post it here and try to keep the site regularly updated with interesting content. Now, as you can tell, that hasn't really panned out, but that doesn't mean that you shouldn't still send me something. For instance my friend Jeff Payne sent me the following story today and I'm going to post it. It's a story that just about anybody that grew up in the 80's will relate to. So if you have stories like this or anything even remotely related to the store, send it along! But for now, enjoy Jeff's story after the jump.
The ground turns to sand as we take the fork in the road and head towards the bay. I turn to watch the sandy cloud in our wake, thinking that our Mini-Van is now a sort of spy vehicle, that whomever is following will have no choice but to veer off the road and crash into something (foiled again!) and that I, of course, would safely deliver the microfilm, or whatever else the people following us were after.
We pass through a small section of the Pine Barrens and arrive in the clearing to dozens of scattering cats -- mascots of this area, which, to know about meant you've been here. I get out of the car and look back down the road, again thinking that there's no way we could have been followed, then look to the building: Oyster Creek, a restaurant that houses a gift shoppe specializing in Jersey Devil folklore.
As my sister gets out of the car, I yank at one of her pigtails.
"Don't fall," I say. But, my father notices.
"Knock it off," he says, as my mother gives a similar, wordier command, and we head towards the ramshackle bungalow.
It is late August. I am thirteen years old.
The walls are covered in nautical memorabilia -- nets, harpoons, paintings of men battling giant squid. My father nudges me as the hostess leads us to the table. He nods towards a wall with a large shark jaw.
"Jaws," he says, and we take our seats. I smile.
My eyes dart around, and after sufficiently absorbing the atmosphere, I am ready for something else.
"Dad, can I have a quarter?"
"Just relax, will ya?" he retorts. "We just got here."
I throw a pad of butter at my sister. She immediately rats me out. Still no quarter. I stick my fork in my ice water, stirring it around. No one notices. I put an ice cube on the table and watch it melt into the fabric of the table cloth. Nothing. I kneel in my seat and turn around, staring at the old couple nearby, wondering why they haven't touched their bread. They wave at me, I wave back. "You gonna eat that," I say, because I've heard it in movies.
"Here," my father says. "Here's a quarter. That's it."
"Honestly, Jeffrey...," my mother says.
I am out of my seat and on my way to the tavern before my mom can complete her thought.
Up against the wall, near the most famous sketch of the Jersey Devil there has ever been -- depicting him as an upright beast with hoofed feet and wearing a tuxedo vest, a pleasant yet maniacal grin on his face -- is the table-top video game I had been thinking about since we left the house.
I approach, and as I do so, the images on the side, the sounds coming from the box are not what I remember them to be. I sit and look: this is not Arkanoid. This is Mrs. Pac-Man. I don't want to play this game -- I have this at home on my 7800.
This is awful.
I play anyway, because I'm here, but my heart is just not in it. I am dead before the 4th board.
Before I mope back to the table, I stop at the stairs leading up to the gift shoppe. They are roped off. A waitress passes by. She looks at me. I don't say a word and just point up the stairs with a pathetic look on my face.
"Yeah, they closed that last year. Wasn't making any money. Sorry, sweetheart."
"Are you satisfied now?" my father asks, as I slump into my seat.
I shrug. "They changed it. It's not the same game anymore."
They look at me like it's not a big deal.
"Even the gift shoppe is closed!"
Before they can offer me condolence, the waitress arrives, and it's time to order. When it is my turn, I order the Tuna, which goes against my normal protocol:
"What, no cheeseburger?" my father says.
I guess not. |
