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| Ben "Mouse" McShane is a junior telecommunications major and writes 'Classical Geek Theatre' for the Daily News. His views do not necessarily agree with those of the newspaper. |
I love her.
Sometimes, on cloudy Muncie Sundays, I get to go visit her at the Muncie Mall. I bring a couple dollars in change. She's a year older than me. I smile when I see her.
She is a Galaga arcade game.
Galaga and I go back. Way back. When I was three years old, the bar my dad frequented allowed me to go inside with him. Dad would hand me a pocketful of quarters and I would play Galaga endlessly. The memory is sharp and distinct. It was my very first taste of escapism-entertainment. I believe it is the very reason I began to play videogames.
Galaga is simple. I put it in the same class of games as Tetris, Arkanoid or Mike Tyson's Punch-Out. Each time you play one of those games, it is nearly the same as the last; it's just a matter of how far you can get. To play Galaga is to block-out the outside world, to bunker down into a series of calculated movements. It is patterned and routine. You can predict it and find comfort in the routine, unlike the real world.
Not everyone remembers Galaga. It isn't Pac-Man or Centipede or Donkey Kong or Space Invaders. Galaga is a little more obscure. You control a pixilated starfighter that slides back and forth on a vertical-scrolling screen, fending off the barbarian hordes of dive-bombing alien bugs. Galaga is the under-appreciated classic that spawned countless imitators. Of course, there is only One.
I've always told myself that if I ever had the extra cash I would buy my very own Galaga machine. I have it on Atari 7800, but it isn't the same. I've seen them for sale on eBay for as cheap as $550, shipping not included.
I've dreamed of the day the sleek black cabinet with glorious, 80's sci-fi artwork would sit on the floor of my bedroom. The rabbit hole to Wonderland, the closet door to Narnia, the flight to Never-Never Land would be in my very own room.
The last time I was at the Muncie Mall, my heart skipped a beat. She was for sale. $1,000. A dealer in Muncie was selling their Galaga machine.
I don't have the money, but I could get it. I have a fair chunk of cash, and I could get a job to work off the rest. Maybe I could convince the seller to drop the price a couple hundred dollars. Yeah, I bet I could. I could even sell my DVDs, or my comic books, or my body. Sure thing.
I don't think I really want to buy her, though. I imagine the cabinet in my room. What if she broke? What if one of my friends spilled Mountain Dew on her buttons? The thought is terrifying. Besides, I would always have the high score; the goal would become obsolete.
Somehow, it would seem wrong to own her. She doesn't really belong to me, she belongs to everyone. The enjoyment I get from her should be available to anybody with a quarter.
No, I couldn't own my love. I'd rather just visit from time to time.
Write to Mouse at bbmcshane@bsu.edu
Visit http://www.classicalgeektheatre.com
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