PixelVixen707

(Photo: Scott Rettberg)

So I just made a bet - a really stupid, reckless bet - with my dad.  And I’m already regretting it.

Last Thursday, I was in an especially snitty mood.  Work was deadly.  The boss’s voice never went below a scream.  I found hair in my take-out – not a hair, but a whole clump.  And blue gum got stuck to the side of my favorite cherry red Doc’s, and hardened before I caught it.  I was feeling bitchy, and Zach wasn’t home to hear about it.  So I called my folks.

Here’s where the argument started:

“You don’t take anything I do seriously.”

That was me talking to my dad.  I’d been telling him about some clever thing I’d just written, and right when I got to the good part, where he should have been impressed, I knew – somehow, I just knew - he was actually watching television.

“Dad, you are not watching the news right now.”

“Hmm?  No honey, I just saw something that – no, Rach.  I’m listening to you.”

“Dad, you don’t take anything I do seriously.”

Two second pause.  “Rachael, that’s not true.”

“When I tell you about my writing, you tune out.  I hear you flipping the stations.  You’re looking for news about the swine flu.”

“Rachael, you know I don’t know anything about videogames.  But I read your blog.”

“You do not read my blog.”

“Of course I do,” he lied.

 “Look, let’s not even talk about this,” I said, briefly turning into my sixteen year-old self.  I was good and ready to change the subject.

But then my dad surprised me.

“I know you love video games,” he said.  “In fact, I know more about it than you think.  Do you remember the first video game you ever played?  Because I do.”

“No, I don’t remember.  What was it?”

“I don’t remember the name.  But we were living in Sacramento, when I was reporting on the capital.  We were at that roast beef place down the street, what was it called.  Balthazar’s – “

“Balthazar’s Hot Beef Hut.”  Ugh.  Grease and bleeding meat and the best cheese fries I’ve ever inhaled.  Mmmm.

“Yes.  So Balthazar’s.  And you were, maybe six.  And they had a video game there, and I helped you get a stool so you could reach up and play it.  And I gave you quarters.”

I hesitated to ask, but: “Was I any good?”

“No.  You were lousy.  You went through all my change in five minutes.”

I did remember Balthazar’s always having a coin-op near the front.  If too many teenagers hung around it, the owner would yell at them until they bought a soda.  But I couldn’t remember the game.  “What was it?  Pac-Man or something?”

“I don’t know the name, but you were underground.  And you had to dig tunnels and push big round things onto monsters.”

“It was Dig Dug.  Dig Dug’s the game where you dig around underground.”

“Okay.  And you were a little clown.”

“No, that can’t be.  Dig Dug didn’t have clowns.  The guy in Dig Dug has a blue face and a white hazmat suit. He looked like a smurf at Love Canal.”

“I can tell you for certain that it was a clown, because that’s why you liked it so much.  You loved clowns.”

Sigh double sigh.  All these years of dyeing and piercing and inking myself, and to him, I’m the little girl who loved clowns.

I’m pretty sure I was scared of clowns.

“I know if we put our heads together, we can figure out what game it was.  And then we can find it,” said my dad.

 “Well, dad, sure, especially because I’m right, it’s Dig Dug.  There are hundreds of them out there, people collect them, arcades and pizza parlors still have them – “

“Oh, I know they’re still around.  But I’ll bet you we can find this one.  The exact same one you played.”

And that struck me speechless.

But hell if I was going to blink.  I grit my teeth and shot back, “You’re on.”

“Great!  This should be easy.  You’re a journalist, I’m a journalist.  You know games, I know investigation.  Between the two of us, we can track down this machine.  In fact, maybe it’s still there.”

Again, I wasn’t going to blink.   “Fine.  What are we betting?”

And he told me what we’re betting on and – well, I’m not going to tell you what what it is.  At least not until he loses.  I’ll just say this: one of us is going to look mighty foolish by the end of the month.  And it isn’t gonna be me.

“This’ll be easy dad.  We’ll be done by Memorial Day at the latest.  Just don’t cheat or slow me down.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.  Now get working,” he said, and we hung up.

So that’s the bet.  It is the stupidest thing in the world.  We’re going to find this console that was in Sacramento in the late ‘80s.  Somehow, after all those years, nobody will have broken it or thrown it in the trash heap or set it on fire.  And I will play that damn thing in front of him, this month.

Now, here’s the thing: you guys, you readers, are my pals.  And a lot of you know a lot about gaming.  So I’m going to have to ask you for some help along the way. Post your thoughts here, or e-mail me at snarl.pixel.vixen at gmail.com. And in return, I’ll keep you in the loop on how we’re doing.  Plus thank you profusely.  

And let’s start with an easy question.  I’m right, aren’t I?  Doesn’t this sound like Dig Dug?  Why the hell did my dad think there was a clown?

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