Arcade Lights

by Armand Jayne

John thought he’d made it through with perseverance. The treatment was something that was there to help him transition after the accident. The steps that he counted from his front door to his kitchen, and then back again, sliding the soles of his feet across the linoleum. He was afraid he would kick something, or jam one of his delicate toes. 

So it had to be luck that brought him this far. To the wet streets of Southern Portland. He began venturing further and further out from the house, inspired by the stories he heard at those outpatient support groups. “It gets better with time,” is what they’d all say in one way or another. But with both of his parents gone, and a lack of friends before the accident even occurred, he was pushed to walk those streets alone. 

He’d heard the stories of how your hands become more sensitive, or how you could hear the weather changing before the rain ever fell from the sky, but these were all people living a lifetime of not seeing. Years and years of navigating, and stories upon stories left John alone on his own island. What he missed most about the city was seeing the lights, and he hadn’t heard any stories about what those sounded like. 

Afraid to stub his toe, John walked from his home to the road. Further along the sidewalk, flinching at the sounds of cars speeding past him. He did have his stick, which he used more like a walking cane than assistance for avoiding obstacles in front of him. He’d later drop it through the cracks of a storm drain by accident, only slowly walking a few more blocks before he decided to sit. 

John tried to concentrate. “How many steps have I taken?” he asked himself, as he bundled himself close to his clothes and pushed his back as close to a wall as he could. Lack of balance since the accident made him sick and clumsy. The wall, much like his stick, much like his outpatient group, was a support. “If I just remember the way I came,” he thought to himself, “If I can just remember the way I came.”

John stood up to persevere, to walk back home, to fit the key into the front door handle, and to start sliding his feet again, but something told him it was going to rain soon and his steps taken before wouldn’t sound the same again. He wondered if it was day, or if it was night and the lights were out. He was afraid to become lost, and never to be seen again. 

After days of walking, John never found that front door. He dragged his shoes on concrete instead of linoleum until his feet ached unbearably. Still, he walked along, slowly adjusting to the cars driving by, carefully becoming aware of the size and weight of the vehicles by how much the tire rubber stuck to the streets. He knew it’d start to get dark when traffic died down to a minimum, and his nose would begin to run. On those cold nights, he’d find a place to sit on the side of the road, and listen for the lights through the rain. For a buzz, or for a flash. 

John continued to venture in towards the greater Portland area, as that seemed to be where the cars would drive towards at night. He’d follow their footsteps, to find something that could take him back to what he could remember. The dark night sky, void of stars from the city skyline. Most of the time he used to jokingly complain about the light pollution- that the world they lived in would only be perfect under a blanket of stars. What he would give to get that skyline again, in one way or another. 

Then one night, John heard bells and sirens, synths and whistles. Coins activating levers and jovial conversation between blasters and music. There were balls that hit rubber and alarms that triggered randomly. Keys unlocking vending machines and tickets dispensing. Words and laughter, old and young, nets that snapped and springs that sprung. It was something of an activity- an archive of motion and current, and John could hear it all at once. 

He walked towards the sounds, and they grew in volume and became even more elaborate. Some of the dings and zooms were checkered in shape, while others whirled into a sinking spiral. There were family trees of golden neon, growing and shrinking, and John smiled. Someone had scored on something. The children laughed on their way towards the sounds, then moaned as they walked away, begging for more time. 

When he reached the arcade, John couldn’t do anything more but sit down on the sidewalk, and press his back firmly into the wall of the building. Someone behind him was playing skee ball, or testing their luck at wheel of fortune, or challenging their friends at street fighter.

What luck, he thought.

He felt like sitting there for an eternity, but then the thought crossed his mind. He had to tell the folks at the outpatient group about this story.

They’d never believe him, about how he heard the lights.