The Hero of Plastic Trash

The Hero of Plastic Trash

“Dad, this has been a great day!”

"Oh yeah, Berkeley? What made it so great?” 

“I’ve decided I love mini golf! I don’t remember doing this before, and you can’t do it where we live.”

“True dat. Mini golf doesn’t exist in Uganda.” It was really nice to see my 11 year old engaged in something other than screens. A day at the Fun N’ Stuff is also just a healthy blast of American culture for a young tween diplomat.

“I’ve had a good time too, Dad. Can we do the boats again?” 6 year old Quincy just couldn’t get enough of the bumper boats. This was our first summer back where she was old enough, and most importantly, tall enough, to actually drive the boats herself. She was still an inch too short for the go karts, but she probably didn’t have the arm strength to steer one anyway. 

“I like your kids. They seem to be having a good time. They don’t do this very often, do they?” Bailey said. She was being really cool today, so maybe she didn’t dislike me after all. I’ve spent the last several years wondering if she was the influence that steered my best friend from college, Brad, away from me. Today was our first day hanging out again in six years. But so far she’s been really chill. She even gave Quincy the oversized green gorilla she snatched from the claw machine. How the hell was I supposed to get that back to Uganda? 

“Dude, it’s nice to see you” Brad said, watching the kids wrestle over who got to shoot first on the next mini golf hole. 

“Yeah, it’s been too long. Let’s not let so many years pass. I miss you, man.” Brad and I had been friends for too long to let some squabble interfere in one of those friendships where it’s just as easy to hang out as it’s ever been. It's like not a day has passed since we graduated from college twenty years ago. One of those friendships.

“How about we grab pizza and then play some more video games?” Bailey asked. Both kids cheered at that, and you could see in their eyes they were struggling to decide which was more important: cheap pizza or fake video games that dish out tickets as prizes. Classic Fun N’ Stuff. And the place was hopping.

Sure thing, let’s do it. We hurried through the rest of the mini golf course, not really keeping score and distracted by all the other fun things to do here. The pizza itself turned out to be surprisingly good, delicious even, and we fought over who got the last piece. Then, on to the arcade.

So many blinking lights and electronic noise makers! Goddamn, I love places like this! I’ve been a gamer for decades, and the old arcade is just a blast from the past. This particular arcade had three flavors of games: shooter games, driving games, or variations of claw machines or coin pushers that generate tickets. We each had a card with 1,000 credits, which would last us about six minutes apiece.

Brad wandered over to my coin pusher after we had played a tandem zombie shooter. He sucks at video games, and I could see that the golfer in him wanted to play another 18 holes. Even mini golf was his jam, and he was frustrated that my kids didn’t have the mental fortitude to get through the entire 36-hole course. 

“Dude, look at that. That 50-ticket superhero card is about to drop.” I was totally in the zone, speaking from the side of my mouth so I could maintain eye contact and laser focus on dropping coins at exactly the correct moment.

“Geez man, look at you. You look like the drug addict I knew back in college.” Brad chuckled, marvelling at how my addictive personality hadn’t changed in three decades. “Does your wife know you have a gambling problem?”

“Don’t tell her. She’ll be pissed if she finds out how much money the kids and I spent today.”

“Oh man, so let me get this straight: she has to go back to Africa early, and leaves you and the kids here for another three weeks with a credit card? Who thought that was a good idea?”

We both laughed. I’ll be in deep when The Wife gets the credit card bill, but I’m all about fun today. And I want that damn superhero ticket. I swipe my game card for another round, and the lights start blinking again.

“You know these carnival games work on the same principle as Vegas casinos, right?” 

“What? How so?” My attention was focused elsewhere, and Brad’s voice sounded far away.

“Whoa…man…I didn’t see that one coming. You really don’t realize you’re being taken advantage of right now?” Brad really was taken aback at how naive my understanding of gambling was.

I fired my last coin, and didn’t get the damn superhero ticket. Gearing up for another round, I casually inquired as to what Brad was getting at. What do you mean I’m being taken advantage of?

“Look, these games give you a little taste of winning, but withhold the really good prizes. You never actually get those. The game just tricks you into thinking you might.” 

“How would you program something like that?” That didn’t sound like a video game to me. That sounded like sleaze. Like professional, coin-operated cheating. “You’re saying my skill and excellent timing aren’t going to get me another superhero?”

“Oh, you’ll get another superhero ticket for sure, but not until you’ve spent a bunch of money on it. And the prizes they have in return for your tickets are just plastic trash. Why do you want that stuff anyway?” Brad was amused now. I really didn’t get it.

“It’s not plastic trash. It’s treasure. It’s memories in tangible form. My kids want that plastic trash, and I’ll be a hero for getting them some.” Brad and Bailey never had kids, so they didn’t get that part. They didn’t understand the absurd lengths a father will go to to be a hero to his children. Dad wants that street cred, and that’s worth more than all the tickets in this place!

“Ok, man. It’s treasure. Pump in a bunch more dollars and win the big stuffed snake. Quincy loves her stuffies.” Brad was toying with me, now that he realized I really was hooked on winning these stupid tickets. 

“Alright, I’ll give it another shot. I’m getting that damn superhero.”