The Barrel Jump cabinet arrived with a mysterious dent on the left side panel — about the size of a fist, right at waist height. The delivery guys swore it wasn't them. I didn't push it. You learn not to ask too many questions in the used cabinet business. But the real surprise wasn't the dent. It was what we found behind the monitor when we were setting it up.
My buddy Tony was helping me get the cabinet positioned and he tilted it back to check the wiring, and this piece of paper floated down from behind the screen. Folded twice, a little yellowed, written in blue ballpoint pen. It was a love letter. From someone named Christine, to someone she called "J." No last names. Just Christine and J, and two pages of handwriting that made Tony — a grown man who once arm-wrestled a vending machine — go quiet for a full minute.
I framed the letter. It's been on the wall in my office for forty years. I never tried to find Christine or J. Part of me wanted to, but a bigger part of me thought the letter was exactly where it was supposed to be — in an arcade, where they probably met, preserved behind glass instead of forgotten in a landfill. Wherever they are, I hope they know their love letter outlasted most marriages and at least three economic recessions.
The cabinet had a regular named Danny. Tuesday kid. He'd come in after school, put in one quarter, and play until the kill screen. Forty-five minutes on a single quarter. I never rushed him. I never charged him for the extra time he spent in the arcade afterward, watching other people play, waiting for his mom to pick him up. Some kids you just know are going to be alright. Danny was one of those kids.
Dear J,
I know you probably won't find this,
but I'm putting it here anyway because
this is where we met. The arcade on 5th.
You were playing this stupid barrel game
and I was watching because you were the
only person I'd ever seen get past the
third screen.
You looked up and said "I'm going to
beat this thing" and I said "I believe
you" and I meant it about more than
the game.
I don't know where we'll be when you
read this. Maybe we'll still be us.
Maybe we won't. But I wanted something
to stay here, in this place, so that
no matter what happens there's proof
that for one summer, in one arcade,
two people were completely happy.
All my love,
Christine
P.S. You never did beat that game.
But I didn't care.
"I never found out who Christine and J were. But wherever they are, I hope they know their love letter survived longer than most marriages." — Sal "Pixel" Martinez
_____ | _ | | |_| | - Sal "Pixel" Martinez | _ / Galaxy Zone Arcade |_| \_\ Est. 1982