Chapter 1
Up until today, I thought the biggest bummer of the summer was when that tropical storm closed everything for a full day in May. Or maybe it was the day Top Gun left the local Tower Twin theater, after I only got to see it once. I might have said it was the day Donkey Kong stopped working for no reason at the Plug & Play Arcade, costing me hours of frustration, a total loss of the high-score table, and probably a hundred bucks in quarters at least.
Those were the biggest bummers of the summer up until today, but today’s totally bogus extravaganza blows them out of the water by far.
I woke up early this morning like I do every day, threw on my yellow bermuda shorts and green Putts & Stuff t-shirt, and poured myself a giant thermos of coffee to give me life until noon. I stepped out into the purple-orange glow of early dawn, feeling the warm summer salt air against my skin, and sipped my coffee as I walked the hundred yards down the beachside boardwalk from my little bungalow to my business: Putts & Stuff Boardwalk Playland. The ocean was calm this morning, the light blue water pulsing silently onto the shore. Some other early-risers slowly walked the beach, combing for seashells and other interesting sea things left behind by the outgoing tide.
A group of pre-teen surfer boys shuffled past with surfboards under their arms, their colorful Jams board shorts swishing quietly and bare feet slapping against the boardwalk.
A young woman in neon green shorts and a black crop-top roller skated by me, her perfectly teased-up blonde hair flying behind her, and I could hear a few notes of “Conga” by Miami Sound Machine blasting through her Walkman headphones. The scents of Aqua Net hairspray and Love’s Baby Soft perfume followed on the breeze she created.
You wouldn’t know to look at it now, but this right here is where everything happens in Wahoo Beach. Every day around noon, it starts to pick up, and by nightfall this place is packed to the gills with locals, tourists, and about a million teenagers out looking for ways to have some fun and get into some trouble.
I passed a tall, skinny punk kid with a short black mohawk leaning up against the closed door of a t-shirt shop, smoking a cigarette. His black jeans were ripped in so many places I wondered how they stayed together at all. His black Misfits ‘82 concert tee was held together across one shoulder with a dozen safety pins in a neat line. He jerked his head at me. “Hey, Tiff.” The silver chains between his ear piercing and nose piercing jangled.
“Zero, what’s up? Give me some skin,” I said, slapping his hand in greeting. I knew Zero worked an early morning shift on a Wahoo Beach cleanup crew. He didn’t like to talk about it. I think having an actual job might be against the rules for the punks. But Zero spent a few hours each morning picking up trash and cigarette butts along the boardwalk and beach, usually getting done before the sun came up. Then he’d stand here and chill and smoke, then disappear on his skateboard to wherever these kids go during daylight hours. “We have a new golf course opening today. The Exxtreme 18! That’s with two Xs and an exclamation mark,” I explained.
He exhaled a puff of smoke and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Cool, cool. Not my jam, but ok.”
“Hey, how’s this for a jam? Could you just do a quick walk around the outside of the course, pick up any trash for me? It would take five minutes, and I’ll give you five bucks.”
He studied me for a long moment, looking directly into my eyes in a way I found extremely unnerving. Then he nodded. “Alright, sure.”
“Anytime in the next two hours is fine. Just walk around the outside of the fence and do a quick pick-up. Let me know if there’s anything gross that I need to handle myself. Then just come inside to the arcade and find me and get paid.”
“Cool.” Zero stubbed out his cigarette, and stood up straight. I thought he might be going to follow me and take care of it right now. But then he pulled a gray Walkman out of his back pocket, placed the small foam headphones over his ears, and hit Play on the cassette tape. I could hear the immediate notes of some Rites of Spring song blasting through his headphones. He leaned back into the wall, his eyes closed. So apparently the conversation was over.
I arrived at Putts & Stuff and surveyed the front of the building. It was a low two-story clapboard structure, its weathered green and turquoise paint peeling here and there. I had done some touch-ups on the worst spots in preparation for today’s big event, but hadn’t had the time or money to repaint the whole thing. I should have hung a banner over that spot -- a new peeling area near the front door. The bright neon palm tree lights that bordered the front door to the arcade were dark, and the speakers that would pump out the best radio hits of 1986 and the Rick Dees Weekly Top 40 hung silent along the front of the building.
I unlocked the door and switched on the banks of lights, listening to that satisfying thwunk of the fluorescents jumping to life above. I walked past the putt-putt check-in desk on the right and down the main aisle of the arcade toward the prize counter, which was a mess, as usual. I eyeballed the Donkey Kong upright game to make sure it wasn’t out of order again, and saw the barrels rolling across the screen as they should be. I made my way through the skee-ball machines and past the change machines to the far wall, then climbed a set of stairs toward my office upstairs, enjoying the gentle hum of the upright arcade games and the background ping-zing-boop noises of games running through their short demos.
The Plug & Play Arcade is half of my business at the Putts & Stuff -- the “Stuffs” half -- and is the biggest arcade in the entire tri-state area. I have more than 300 arcade games, from classics like Asteroids and Pac Man, to the top-of-the-line newest releases like Rampage and Super Punch-out!!, to the not-so-top variety, like... Dream Shopper. I’ve got skee-ball and pinball and even some old carnival games in the back. I have it all. We were the first arcade on the eastern seaboard to pre-order Street Fighter and Araknoid: Revenge of DOH, and have been growing fast since I took over the business two years ago after my dad retired and moved to Costa Rica to pursue his dream of living in the rain forest surrounded by Capuchin monkeys.
The other half of the business is obviously the “Putts” half, which is a giant mini-golf complex with three complete 18-hole courses, interwoven over two acres of beachfront property, and one extra-challenging course called Exxtreme 18!, which would be opening for the first time at today’s Grand Opening party.
I plopped down into my rolling office chair, feeling the patchwork of duct tape repairs rough against my legs and back. Surely the new putt-putt course would bring in enough revenue that I would at least be able to get some fresh duct tape on here. I checked my checklist for the grand opening today -- everything was on target -- and straightened up my desk a little. I had heard about the personal home computers making a name for themselves around the country, but knew I would never be able to afford one. Imagine a machine doing your basic calculations for you and keeping track of your calendar? Shyeah, don’t make me laugh.
As I got down to the end of my thermos of coffee, I made my way back downstairs to do a little organizing in the arcade. The high school kid I just hired to run the ticket redemption booth in the arcade hadn’t quite figured it out yet, leaving the area messy each night when he left. I made a mental note to chat with Colby later about it and show him how to refill the rewards and ticket machines again.
I grabbed a cardboard box full of prizes and pulled out an armful of stuffed creatures to refill the half-empty glass case.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Tiffany Sloan,” the voice came from the shadows over between the skee-ball and the Centipede game.
“Jeez Louise!” I turned to face the voice, stuffed animals flying. “Andre? You scared the bejesus out of me. What, precisely, is your damage?”
Andre Boyd laughed and ran his hand through his shiny blonde feathered hair. It fell perfectly back into place, making me jealous that such an effortless look would be wasted on a guy. It was very Emilio Estevez in Breakfast Club. I had to put at least 30 minutes of curling and brushing and back-combing and hair-spraying myself into a sticky, ozone-destroying fog of oblivion to get that look, so most days I just gave up and threw my long red hair into a side ponytail with a fat scrunchy.
“Chill out, Tiff,” he said, walking toward me. He flashed me that imperfectly perfect crooked movie star smile that has always made me a little weak in the knees. “I just wanted to say hi, see how things were going, you know.” He picked up the dropped stuffed animals and placed them on the counter. He popped the collar on his baby pink polo shirt. The material stretched across his chest and arms in a way that was so distracting it almost made me angry. Almost.
“Andre, I haven’t seen you in months. You can’t just come in anytime you want and skulk around in the shadows like a total freak,” I said.
He nodded, meeting my eyes in the half-dark of the arcade. The whizzing twirling lights of the pinball machines flashed against his skin like a faraway disco ball. “That’s true,” he said, moving closer, taking the prizes from my arms and placing them on the counter one by one. “Though I do still have a little invested interest in this place, given our history with it.” He winked at me.
“And I do appreciate that, but I have a lot going on today. And,” I reminded him pointedly, “we are no longer together. So you can’t just come in anytime you want and skulk around in the shadows like a total freak.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” he laughed and pulled another box of prizes up off the floor and onto the counter. “I know today’s a big day. 18 Extreme, right? Should be totally rad.” He opened the box and started pulling bright yellow Ms. Pac Man dolls out.
“Actually, it’s called Exxtreme 18! -- with two X’s and an exclamation mark,” I corrected him, taking the Ms. Pac Man dolls from him. “Which I think you very well know. And it really should be awesome and bring in some new business.”
He laughed again. Everything made him laugh in a way that actually seemed cool and friendly and not rude. Some people laughed and it sounded sarcastic, but Andre always had a way of enjoying every moment, no matter what was going on. It was part of what brought us together in the first place, then kept us together for a while.
“Here, take these, too.” He stuffed two more of the circular yellow toys into my already-stuffed armload, then stepped back to take a good look.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I said, giving him what I hoped was a withering look. Or as withering as a look can be when surrounded by fluffy yellow cartoon characters.
“I wish I had my Polaroid. This would make a great photo.”
“Hey nerd, open the case so I can put these away,” I said, pointing with my foot to where I wanted the items to go on the shelf.
As Andre leaned over to open the case, still laughing, I heard running footsteps slapping on the wood floor, getting closer and closer. Then Zero came sprinting up the main aisle, wild-eyed and breathing hard, his nose chain swinging and his headphones jangling around his skinny neck.
“Tiff, you know you said come get you if there was something gross to deal with?” He took a deep breath.
“Yeah, totally,” I said. “What is it?” I couldn’t imagine what kind of vomity chunks or old seagull carcass would be gross enough to get this punk kid to actually sprint somewhere.
“It’s gnarly,” he swallowed hard. “Follow me.”
###
So yeah, that was my morning. One minute, I’m checking on Donkey Kong and refilling the arcade prize display. The next thing I know, I’m standing out on the ninth hole of my new Exxtreme 18! putt-putt course, with my arms full of these yellow stuffed Ms. Pac Man dolls, staring beyond the clown obstacle’s giant wide-open clown mouth into the blank and lifeless eyes of a stone-cold dead dude.
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