Jonathan massages his own beard so aggressively that clumps of little curls have started falling to the linoleum floor. He is in the electronics section of Target, standing slouched in front of a boxed up Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles arcade machine--not one of those neutered RCA adapted joysticks you plug into your TV to play a half-ass simulation of an arcade machine. This was a full-blown, five-feet tall, Teenage Mutant Ninja fucking Turtles arcade machine, just like the one at the arcade he used to go to with his brother, Will, decades back. Who knew you could just buy one of these things at a Target in central Iowa?
He pulls out his wallet and stares up at the price marker above the machine. $399.99. He knows he doesn’t have $400 dollars in his bank account, but he had just opened a credit card so he could “afford” groceries. Maybe he could just put it on that. His credit line is only $500 though. Maybe I could stretch $100 in grocery money until I pay this off.
Jonathan just keeps staring at the box the machine is in. He drags his fingers along the corrugation in the cardboard, becomes hypnotized by the bright lime green of the turtles’ shells and skin; the little red, orange, blue, and red slivers of their masks. Every little component of the design brings thoughts of the arcade back into his brain. The conspicuously smoky air. That tobacco smell mingling with the soft pretzels he’d always buy with his allowance money. Quarters avalanching out of the change machine, accenting mishmashed 8-bit symphonies. He remembers his brother standing next to him, playing as Leonardo while Jonathan controlled Michelangelo in the co-op mode. He wonders when the two of them played that game last. He wonders where his brother was right now, and wishes he was here to split the cost of this with him, so they could take it home and smoke enough cigarettes to recreate their youth in their apartment.
In a trance, Jonathan pushes through the box without any resistance, as if he is dipping his hand in bath water.
“Can I get you any help, sir?” a seventeen-year-old in a red polo asks Jonathan.
Jonathan doesn’t respond to the employee. Through the box, he begins to blindly mash the buttons on the machine. His second hand sails through the cardboard and grips the joystick. He swings it violently, still blind to the screen.
“Sir?”
“Shut up,” Jonathan shouts indiscriminately at the voice vaguely near him. He transports completely inside of the box. There is not enough room for him, but he is there. The game is not assembled, but Jonathan keeps smashing the buttons and pulling the joystick. Nothing happens on the screen, which is lying at Jonathan’s feet in the machine’s disassembled state.
The Target employee has left, but when Jonathan looks to his right, he sees Will inside the box with him.
“Coming in as Leonardo,” he tells Jonathan.
“When did you get here?” Jonathan asks him without looking up from the “action.”
“Been here the whole time,” Will assures.
“Are you telling me you’ve been in this box playing Turtles in Time for the last eight months?” Johnathan interrogates, his hands still focusing on controlling the joystick and buttons.
“Yeah, man. It’s great in here.”
The two brothers fight through the 8-bit New York City streets for what seems like forever. They laugh and high-five their way through every level. Will’s Leonardo slashes a katana combo on Bebop and Rocksteady, finally depleting the big bads’ health bars.
Jonathan exclaims, “Dude, they are the worst! If we can beat them, we can beat anything!
Will chuckles, “Well, maybe not quite anything.”
Jonathan stares at the screen, trying to ignore what his brother said, and waiting for the next wave of bad guys.
Once they move on, they quickly move through a fleet of Foot Soldiers in a sterile steel lair. Johnathan shouts, “Hell yeah, now we just gotta beat Shredder and we did it!”
Will starts moving his mouth to join in his brother’s excitement, but all that comes out are staccatoed high-pitched beeps.
Jonathan’s Michelangelo--just Jonathan’s Michelangelo-- moves onto the building’s roof. Instead of seeing the notorious baddy, Shredder, Jonathan finds his brother’s character in a hospital room. He stares in disbelief, or in denial.
Leonardo has an IV in his arm. Will keeps speaking, but it keeps coming out, “beep-beep-beep.”
The lines on the hospital’s heart monitor zig and zag. Leonardo says, “I don’t want any of this anymore. Will’s mouth goes “beep-beep-beep.” Michelangelo bawls hysterically. Jonathan stops pushing buttons. Will’s mouth goes “beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep” and he disappears.
Jonathan massages his own beard so aggressively that clumps of little curls have started falling to the linoleum floor. He has his wallet in his other hand, his eyes glued to a black Amex card.
“Sir? Can I help you?”
Seth Thill is a poet from Dubuque, Iowa. He enjoys wistfully staring out car windows while listening to Emmylou Harris and drinking Diet Cream Soda.