1984

You sought her out in every town, at the edges of each rust-belt city whose smokestacks loomed against the darkening sky. You looked for her everywhere, from the VFW in Toledo to the Lion’s Den outside of Gary to that one decked out in blue neon, Omaha maybe. Grand Island? Hard telling, given how many towns, how many cities, how many times your mom pitched your stuff, her stuff, and whatever stuff you were stealing from the motel into a paper bag and thumbed a semi, a battered pickup, a mid-size sedan driven by a family man, even a yellow Porsche, once, in a snowstorm, believe it or not, near St. Louis, Misery. That was what you heard, anyway, and it seemed to suit: Your mom bartering to get you in on the deal, secure you some butt-space in the car, even with a guy so rich he could buy more than one woman for life, didn’t really need your mom—your mom, her cheeks aflame, snowflakes in her hair, giving hot debate regarding the exact price of the ride to the next stopping-over place, near or far, Rolla or Springfield or Kansas City or Evansville, while your liberated fingers, gloveless and red, ached from the cold and the residual effects of latching onto the joystick, cornering and head-faking those damned ghosts.

Once the bargain was struck and the Goodyears were singing or sliding or rumbling over miles of highway, there in the roomy leather interior or smashed against a door without a handle or up in the bunk covered with a green sateen spread, you closed your eyes. You put your fingers in your ears, conjured the opening music, the first maze. You moved her through with ease, elbowing ghosts from your path. You dreamt up patterns that might get her free.

 THE MONSTER PEN

But here she is again in The Wagon Wheel. The Rusty Nail. The Dusty Dagger. The Hard Hammer. The Broke Saddle. The Mad Hatter. The Mine Shaft. The Man Hole. The Stagger Inn. Devil’s Den. Final Score. Rattlesnake Lounge. The Snake Pit. Blue Butterfly. Hillbilly Heaven. Le Bar. Pietown. Tigertown. Tasseltown. Elbow Room. The Cougar Club. Tomcat’s. Alley Cats. Fat Cat’s. Rosie’s. Shelby’s. Larry’s Lounge. Sam’s Swimming Pool. Hobnobber Ray’s. Elmer’s.

They stand at the bar. You can feel the buzz—they’re anxious to play the floor.

You walk through the haze of smoke, your eyes peeled for the yellow cabinet. In the pictures painted on it carnival-style, the ghosts have thick mustaches, five o’clock shadow. Some shake their fists at her. One raises his eyebrows in appreciation. She runs from him, but she’s looking back at him, too, fluttering her long lashes. The ghosts have sheets that cover their bodies. Meanwhile, she’s all lipstick and legs, hairbow and heels. Outside of that, she’s naked.

You never notice that she’s naked. I see it right away. In fact, it’s all I see. But you are young. You will always be young. Of course, you are me. Or, you were me until I drew a line in time and stepped over it, became someone else. I can only tell these stories when I imagine we are not the same person, when I disregard the fact that the line I drew is scraggly, smudged, half-erased. And most of the time, I’ve got one foot on either side.

ACT I – THEY MEET

The first time you played you were six. It’s one of the few early memories located in a precise place, an exact year: ‘81. You sit under the edge of the bar in a VFW hall in Livingston, Michigan.

Wait right there, your mom says, and nods at the bartender so he’ll watch you, which he doesn’t. She leaves, and you curl yourself into a ball, knees to chin, eyes closed.

Hey, a voice says, and you know it’s talking to you, but you don’t respond.

Hey!

When you open your eyes, the man is bent down, holding out a quarter. You love the jukeboxes in these places, their sad songs, but you tighten your arms around your body.

Go on, he said. It don’t bite.

You reach out for it.

He pulls it back. Laughs.

Your eyes smart. You aren’t used to it yet, the way they tease.

Seriously, he says, pointing at a machine that is not the jukebox. I’ll show you how, he says.

He leads you over, drops the quarter in.

That’s her, he says, The hungry gal herself. In a second, she’s gonna start to move, he explains.

He puts your hand on the joystick.

Wherever you go, she’s gonna follow. She’s gonna eat the candy.

You push to the left, then down. She swallows bite after bite. And it’s true: you’re in charge. You feel this down to the soles of your feet. You come to believe in your power so quickly.

You haven’t yet brushed up against your first ghost.

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