Hayner Beach is known widely among the east coast as one of, if not a beach in New England. Its boardwalk is sparse, mostly t-shirt shops, fried dough stands, and a smoothie bar called Glitterbugs, that somehow stays open despite averaging a total of five customers a summer. The beach is decorated with scattered plots of marram grass and sand reeds, and when the tide is in, it looks like a sunken meadow; low tide makes it Arizona after a squall. People swim, but you’ll find more sunbathing or taking photos on those bundles of grass. It does look like you’re standing on a tiny island. Hayner’s real contribution to tourism and traumatic parking is on the boardwalk. A red crowstep building with colorful mismatched block windows and an entrance roof decorated with thick white plastic tassels off the sides. Sitting on that low roof are big light up letters advertising, Imagine Arcade in every color of the rainbow but green; those went out a while ago and the owners don’t seem too invested in replacing them yet.
To the common tourist, Imagine is a family fun land, a place to drain your wallet on vintage cabinets and fickle ticket wheels. The locals on the other hand see this place just a “little” differently. There’s a magic to this seacoast arcade, the air itself thickens upon entry. You’d think that’d be from the faulty air conditioning and everybody’s collective body heat, but if you really stop to open your eyes, that heat is generated by the locals. Over the decades, whether Imagine wanted it or not, a culture was formed around particular games, becoming pastimes held with a sincere competitive nature. Tournaments have been held, legends were born from skee ball and dance machines. Dreams crushed at the cost of four measly quarters. To the locals of Hayner, walking into Imagine Arcade is Valhalla, a haven for warriors to express the true bliss of their chosen games in never ending competition; and to fourteen-year-old Riley Gatlin, his game of choice is air hockey.
He sits quietly on the row of benches inside the corner of the arcade known as The Wind Field, where thin pucks ricochet with furious intent. His soft gray eyes sheepishly dart back in forth, watching a match between a six-foot two brick wall of a man against a young girl, no more than Riley’s age. His eyes tighten on the scoreboard, five the man, six the girl. Match point.
“Proud little punk,” the man growls, slapping the puck down with his beefy claw hand.
“Maybe put your quarter on the table now.” The girl asked, tucking her loose bangs back into her blue brim skull cap.
With that, the man’s collar length beard straightens in a flash, even turns white for half a second. His shoulders tense, bulging muscles against his rolled up sleeves as he leans over to grasp his custom tungsten colored striker. The Wall’s teeth grit, revealing a canine tooth longer than the rest in his mouth. While Skull Cap revels in her opponent’s tension, Riley looks on with concern, leg restlessly bouncing, quarters singing in the pocket of his cargo shorts. The unspoken rule of Imagine air hockey players dictates that if a single player sits parallel to an active game, you’re next to play the winner.
When he first sat down, it was just simple clicks and clacks, but as the Wall’s eyelid twitches, Riley feels the competitive heat radiating off the man rising from six feet away. His face burns a hot pink, with only the wind from the table keeping it from turning beet red. Despite his malice, the Wall taps the puck at a speed similar to a feather on the moon. Skull Cap’s eyebrow raises at the snail’s pace.
Is he just being petty? She thought. A fatal mistake on her part. From her north periphery, the Wall’s striker barrels down his half of the rink, free hand clenching the table like a vice grip. Skull Cap reacts with rotation, swinging her arm like one handing a steering wheel on a surprise turn. Before taking control though, her right ear rings from the click of a ricochet that couldn’t have happened yet; a clack follows before the puck vanishes into the goal.
“She never had the chance to make contact,” Riley shutters under his gasp, the rattle in his pocket ceasing. He saw what the girl couldn’t, an instant replay going frame by frame in his anxious brain. A swift flick of the Wall’s backhand, the battering ram tactic was nothing more than misdirection. He slightly adjusted the puck by only a few centimeters, just grazing Skull Cap’s wrist. Tied at six, match point.
“Yeah, ye- YEA-HA!” The Wall howls like a dizzy wolf before hacking up a lung. His head nearly curls into his knees perfectly while gripping the back of his neck to keep steady. “One minute.”
“It’s been thirty seconds,” Skull Cap replies grinning, seeing her opponent crumbling before her eyes. She lays the puck on the table as it delicately levitates in anticipation.
“I SAID A MINUTE,” The Wall roars through hard coughing, the back of his neck restacking its folds as he snaps his back straight again. “YOU SMUG JACKANAPES!”
Skull Cap’s eye twitches rapidly, her heat of competition heightens despite her advantage, it matches her beefy bald enemy’s rage. Riley could feel his hairline begin dripping, saw the young girl unzip her hoodie for air, loosens her cap’s hold over her bangs. He turns attention to the Wall, and stares at his pit stains.
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No bigger than a point ago, Riley thought, slowly piecing the puzzle of this goliath’s strategy. That girl was confused when he got six points, but he collapsed right after. She was smiling, focused on razzing the guy instead of-
"I don't even know what that is," With a shout calling for victory, Skull Cap delivers a mighty right hook from striker to puck. “BUT EAT IT YOU BLACK LUNGED BLOWHARD!”
She sends the puck rocketing diagonally up left, cracking against the side so hard, a tourist walking into the Wind Field takes cover, confusing the tap for bang. Players at adjacent tables pause for the outcome.
Riley quickly rips his eyes from the puck and spots a confident grin from Wall. With the sound of a sinking puck, the score changes to seven and six. Opposite players give a variety of acknowledgements, ranging from golf claps to rip roaring cheers. Skull Cap finally raises her head and sees that seven wasn't hers to celebrate.
“Black lung you said?” The Wall cackles, walking up to the girl. “Never smoked a day in my life!”
He laughs like a maniac, almost flaunting his healthy lungs at the sucker. He reaches out, fingers curling in and out of his empty palm, waiting for his prize. Skull Cap’s face resembles a strawberry, her freckles turning black over her boiling blood. Clearly the girl’s just wishing to leave the scene with whatever dignity was left for her on the stale carpet flooring. She forces her hand deep in her pocket and smacks a quarter into the Wall’s iron grip. With nothing left to say, the girl storms off as Riley watches from his bench. She stops at a dance machine, immediately unloading her frustrations to a friend waiting for their turn.
You’d assume beating teenagers out of their money would be considered low or warrant judgment, but there are two types of games in the Wind Field, Friendly and Stakes. Friendly is as advertised, free of consequence and financial responsibility, often used for practice, conversation, venting after the grueling nine to five.
“Eyes up,” says the Wall, now standing over the boy. Riley’s eyes snap forward, face to face with a wooden barrel for a gut. “She’s not your problem.”
Their eyes meet, Riley nearly pulling something looking up that high. The Wall’s face, shrouded by shadows formed facing away from the ceiling lights.
“You ready?”
Riley’s skin vibrates, lips tightening the more he tries to respond. A quick nod is all he can muster as he stands a foot and a half below his opponent.
"Friendly or Stakes?" The man asks, turning towards the table.
If agreed to a Stake match, the players must decide on appropriate wagers for their bout. Often than not, people just put their quarters on the line as an opportunity to make playing money or stockpile for grudge matches. There have been moments in this arcade's history where the bets have been more dire. In 1998, two men wagered their cars, and on that day a man had lost his brand-new Mercedes to a middle school math teacher.
But back to now, Riley anxiously sprints to his end of the table, hand already rummaging through his pocket. He’s already displayed weakness and the game hasn’t even been picked yet. The kid may appear as meek and neurotic, and he certainly is, but he’s no stranger to the game. Aura is everything in competition, the face you wear cannot be faked, but molded by confidence. One mistake and that confidence will not only dwindle but be fed to the superior athlete; the game is theirs before the puck is even placed.
Riley rummages his pocket, fingers perspiring, slipping every quarter from a grip. The Wall’s eyebrow raises, boredly waiting for this kid to make a stupid decision. His hand smacks the table walls, trapping the coin he was struggling with, but as he raised his hand, two coins lay underneath!
“Oh, dear God,” Riley shutters. “I pulled out the two stuck together.”
“You got it,” The Wall with a cheering bluster. “Let’s go!”
The two walk to the coin slots, equally dividing the one dollar to play. Riley sticks his thumb nails between his quarters and splits the sugary residue gluing them together.
“These better not be your only coins.” The Wall peers over the kid as he inserts the coins. “Debt’s a bummer to collect.”
“I have more,” Riley grumbled, digging deep to form the most intimidating face to lock eyes with. It was enough to scare children and leave everyone else concerned for his stomach health. Similar to that of an anxious pug. “I get the puck first, right?”
He punches the coins into their slots, releasing countless zephyring spires from near microscopic geysers. The two return to their ends, as the free air wafts The Wall’s aura, almost submerging the rink into a fog of his arrogance. Riley places the plastic disc onto the wind floor. It lazily drifts to the right as the boy digs through his navy-blue drawstring bag. He pulls back his dark auburn hair, securing a black sweat band embroidered with a white target. Placing next to the floating puck is Riley’s custom striker, a simple red one with his last name printed on the paddle’s ridge.
“Starting,” He exhales, and with a flex of the wrist, the puck is erased from The Wall’s eyes. A clack catches his right ear, he pulls his paddle back, only to realize he’s responding to the sound, not the speed and force to make it. The disc was already behind his striker. He scored on himself. The hulking man’s teeth grit in shock, down below he saw the puck emerge from his slot. The table’s air collects the steam rippling from Riley’s trembling person.
“T-that’s one for me,” Riley exclaims with one cheek bit and a drop of sweat already escaping his headband. “I got a wrist flick move too. I’m sorry this won’t be an easy win for you.”
The Wall’s pupils dilate, his forehead wrinkles to the bold, anxious declaration of skill. Their competitive auras fix at a neutral point as they clash like violent waves against a resilient ship. As stated before, Riley Gatlin may appear as meek and neurotic, he certainly is, but he is no stranger to the game of air hockey.