Arcade Monsters

Sebastian's parents decided at the end of a three-hour dinner that they should renew their vows. They were in Vegas, after all, and it would be fun to have their own son serve as the ring bearer. Sebastian was darkening in a wizard on his children's placemat when they told him the plan, and after they finished their vodkas they were walking down the strip to the nearest chapel.

The chapel they found was small and triangular. A woman played the organ as Sebastian's mother walked down the aisle with a crooked smile, which was nice. Sebastian had her ring and his father's in his hands. They were wet now, his hands and the rings. The air conditioning wasn't working.

A tall man presided over the couple. He was white and had the seedlings of a beard poking through his chin. Sebastian's father was a man and his mother was a wife, and they kissed for a long time. The organ woman struck a chord, then swiped their credit card, and the renewed family was back on the smoggy sidewalk.

At the hotel Sebastian's mother sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands and supported by her bare arms. His father gave him two rolls of quarters. "This is for being a good ringboy," he said, and patted Sebastian on the shoulder. "Go play in the arcade. Try to beat all of the games, if you can." His father's breath burnt his nose, but Sebastian didn't care. He was happy to see his father happy, and he had quarters now. There was so much he could do with a roll of quarters, and now he had two. It was like having a chest of gold coins. He hugged his father and kissed his mother, and then his parents kissed each other, and that's how he left them.

*******

The hotel arcade wasn't the biggest he'd been to, not even close. It had about ten games, five lining each side wall, and an air hockey table guarding the wall opposite the entrance. No one was playing; all the other kids were probably asleep. Sebastian felt like an adult for being up so late. He walked around the room, reading the titles and watching the game demos. In front of Wrestlefest he kicked away a milk crate, the kind of thing he needed a year ago, and started playing, standing on his own two feet.

The Million Dollar Man was jawing away when he heard soft footsteps behind him on the thin carpet. He could see a silhouette in the screen, small at first and walking across the room, then bigger and stationary. He heard a man's voice from behind him: "Hey, you're pretty good." He was pretty good; Sebastian knew it. He was the fastest tapper he knew. His fingers were like lightning. He liked to call himself Merlin in his head.

"You like Mr. Perfect, huh?" the man said. Sebastian nodded and kept his eyes on the screen. "Do you know how to do the Perfect-plex?" Sebastian nodded again, but the man reached over him and took his hands. "Here, let me show you." The man's hands were big and white, and there was hair all over them, even on the knuckles. They were warmer than Sebastian's, like they'd been holding a mug of hot coffee, but they hit the buttons clumsily, and Mr. Perfect was pinned for a three-count.

"No!" Sebastian cried. He ducked beneath the arms around him and looked for another game.

"You could always add more quarters for energy. Hulk says so." Sebastian ignored him. "Have you played The Simpsons game?" the man asked Sebastian's back. Sebastian nodded. "I wish I could play it. But I ran out of money. Could I borrow a quarter?" Sebastian took a quarter out of his pocket and softly tossed it at the man's stomach. "Thanks, kid. You're a really nice boy. Most people aren't very nice to strangers."

There was a game called Ghosts 'n Goblins which Sebastian had never played. He put his quarter in, and he controlled a man in armor. He threw a lance at zombies and other colorful monsters. Sebastian wished his character had magic powers, because that's the only way to really kill monsters.

Sebastian died, as everyone does. He walked around and came to a basketball game in the corner. It was the kind with an actual hoop and actual balls, and the game counted how many shots you made. He couldn't reach the balls, though, so he walked past it, looking for the spurned crate.

"Did you want to play that?" the man said. He walked over next to Sebastian. "A big boy like you doesn't need a crate. I can lift you up if you want to play." Sebastian squeezed a quarter in his sweaty palm. He nodded and stood in front of the game. The man put his hands in Sebastian's armpits and lifted him until he was standing on top of the machine. There was a gate ahead of him, which locked the balls up until he put his money in. Then they would roll to his feet.

"Here, I'll use the quarter you gave me." The man started the game. There were digital notes playing "Charge!", and Sebastian got excited.

"I'm really good," Sebastian said. "I'm gonna be the next Michael Jordan."

"I bet you are, kid. Now shoot some hoops."

Sebastian bent over to grab a ball. It was huge in his hands, not like his child-size one at home. He chucked it at the hoop, brushing the bottom of the net. The man was holding him at the waist so he wouldn't fall, and he shot some more, getting closer every time. He must have been moving a lot, because the man held onto him by the waist of his sweatpants. "Don't want you to hurt yourself," the man said. Sebastian shot rapid-fire, then took his time. He threw a ball up with all his strength, and it felt like he was watching in slow-motion as it bounced off the rim and through the hoop. Sebastian pumped his fist in the air, and the man yelled "Yeah! All right!", and then Sebastian felt funny, like he was getting his temperature taken. He felt an evil presence in the room. He put his hands down and spoke in a low voice, chanting a spell he had written to kill monsters, and then the man stepped back, and the feeling went away. Sebastian jumped down on his own and walked out of the arcade.

"Where are you going? You didn't finish the game."

Sebastian cast a spell on the arcade entrance, and then on every third tile he stepped on. When the tiles became carpet, he enchanted the green boxes, but left the red ones alone. He took the elevator up to his family's room, and put a curse on the floor buttons. The curse was only meant for evil fingers, so he didn't feel bad. The door was locked when he go to the room, and he could hear his dad snoring when he put his ear against the hallway wall. He knocked and no one let him in. He was tired, though, so he sat with his back against the green door, took off his sneakers and put one on each side of him, because he had a spell that would create a forcefield between them, and he knew he would be protected.

A wizard with a purple coat and starry hat

It's called a 'window.' It's smooth
and flat and made of glass
and it's called a 'window'
because that's what it's called.
Don't call it a 'wind-no,'
despite all the logic
you want to conjure
to convolute the fact
that a window is named so
because it let the wind in.
This was in a former time,
of course, before we got clever
and melted our beaches
into see-through panes,
when there was nothing
to press your nose against
besides stone and metal,
dirt and grime, and not even
Merlin's magic could stop the cold
from penetrating your bones.
You've heard of him? A wizard
with a purple coat and starry hat.
That's as much as I could name.
That doesn't change the fact that
coughing all over this 'wind-no'
and drawing in the surface mist
is not itself a magic trick.
It's only hot and cold and moisture
and a million other things
we could measure
if we had the time, the tools,
and the reason of adults.

Lust on a Bench

A clown is throwing trash away
around the corner from a kissing couple
whose cold fingers cling to each other
and fit like a flesh pangea,
and it will only be a time until
their saliva begins to crystallize
and their lips fuse together
like braced pre-teens
kissing in a closet
among the oldsters' smoky trench coats
while their friends stand outside
giggling and watching a stopclock;
when will they learn
that lust is not a fire itself
but needs a flame below it
like a kettle or a popcorn popper,
that the cold can seep in
and freeze the blood,
crack the veins
and the foundation, even,
that the clown has it right,
as his red wig bobs
and makeup comes off
on everything he touches,
as he places the discarded
in metal bins
like his actions are a panacea.

A blinding shine

Rumor has it
a farmer once found
Happiness
at the bottom of a well
in a damp leather attaché case
wrapped in rusted iron chains.
It was there when
he pulled up the bucket
so his thirsty retriever
could lap from it,
and he had planned himself
to maybe splash some water
onto his tongue
with his soil-caked palms.
So he threw it back down
not knowing what he'd found,
and lowered the wooden bucket
for his companion, and rested
it on the well's stone surface
so he could sate himself.
As you've already guessed,
the sun was a blinding shine,
and if you told him now
he'd be hard-pressed
to discern the difference
between that moment
and what was in the case.
He might even
give you a quizzical look
and scratch some soil
across his brow,
but it's not something
one talks about, as if
you could ever explain.

She's got legs

She's got legs
and a terrible habit
of bumping into corners.
Such brilliant bruises
appear overnight,
blue and hazy, swirly
like a galaxy.

My rabbit died from neglect.
There was a summer storm,
and while my dinner was warming
in the oven, or maybe while
my brother and I
played tic-tac-toe
on the kitchen tiles,
poor Penny's hutch blew over,
and the metal gating broke loose
and punctured poor Penny's gut.
He was still alive, shivering,
you know, shaking off
that extra energy,
and he wouldn't blink,
his eyes were frozen black holes.
I wasn't even the one to find him.

Sometimes I'll find the marks
on her legs before she does,
and she won't remember
the culprit. I can't criticize.
My hands have secret slits
from sorting sheets of paper,
and I won't even notice a new one
until I see a red splotch
in the white above a signature,
or a streak across a manila folder.
It's really impossible to erase
that kind of stain. But at least
bruises heal, evaporate
in the skin, and at least
there are other parts
that won't bump a wooden desk
or car bumper. At least she has lips
and she knows how to use them.

An Adequate Opening?

The infant crowned through a red mess. The doctor reached inside and pulled him out in relative silence, only the beeps of machines around him and the nurses and the father looking down at the spent mother. The infant cried, dripping in umbilical disarray, and was shown to his father, who glanced once and nodded, his eyes drawn back to his wife whose eyes were closed, as if she were only sleeping.

They asked him for a name later, the father. A name for the survivor. It's likely the thing that had transpired was still on his mind. She had to have been on his mind, her name ringing "Judith" like church bells. The nurses knew he was grieving, too, and knew he would continue for, they hoped, an appropriate amount of time. The question was meant to provide stasis: grieve for your wife, but here, there is tangible joy. But he was not ready, not yet. So when they came upon him, not with forms, out of respect, just an index card and a pen and said, "Mr. Newbell, a name for your son?" he took the card and pen and leaned against the smooth but imperfect concrete hospital wall and wrote: Judas Newbell.