Atari Boy- short story

[FalconPunch]

Cade Johnson


Atari Boy

The boy awoke on his bed shivering that November morning. His mother had thrown a shoe up the stairs, striking his bedroom door with a loud clunk- his alarm clock. It was a cold Thursday morning like any other, except that today was his twelfth birthday. The boy pulled on the same dirty shirt from the day before. It had the fewest holes in it. He shuffled through his bedroom door and dodged a second alarm clock. He normally wouldn’t have left his room until he had to, preferring to play his video games before school. They took his mind off things, but not this morning. Today, he had to beat his sister to it. It wasn’t her turn, but she tended to cheat.

The household's water heater was on its last legs, and he and his two younger half-sisters had to alternate bathing days. He arrived at the bathroom door and tried his luck, finding the door locked. He didn’t hear the shower, but heard the toilet flush. The sound gave the boy hope, but then his seven year old half-sister scampered out wearing a towel. She had cheated him again. He watched her run to get dressed, leaving the lukewarm water behind for the only gas furnace in the entire house. It was in the living room, but she always got dressed in front of it. He didn't dare brave the freezing water, but stared longingly at the dripping faucet for a long moment. He attempted to flatten his greasy hair in the mirror, and his eyes began to sting. His lip trembled and he bit it softly, steadying his emotions. The boy checked the time and walked to his mother's bedroom, giving the door a soft knock.

"Waddayoowan?" She was drunk from the night before, and didn’t appear to have fallen asleep yet. She’d apparently thrown a shoe at his door, gotten another beer, and went back to lie in bed.

"Ride th' bus, Bobby. What th’hell d'I pay taxes f’r?" The buses had already left for the morning. She never woke him up early enough to catch one. It had been snowing steadily all month. He inquired how his little sisters were getting to their school, and his mother rudely explained that their biological father had called. He’d had the girls excused from school for his court-allowed visitation. He was taking them to the mall and a movie. At the mention of shopping, the boy hoped silently that she'd remember his birthday, but didn't hold his breath. He would have liked to have nice clothes like the other children at his school, or maybe a new game system. He would never ask. He told his mother he would take the bus.

"Shut th' damn door, Bobby." The boy resolved to walk to school again, but decided to borrow the coat. The older of his younger sisters had a pink coat, purchased at a garage sale by her biological father. It was much too big for her. It was perhaps designed for a thirteen or fourteen year old girl, but it was warm enough.

The boy arrived at the school steps a half-hour later. Everything was in shades of grey and dirty snow covered the grounds. The girl he liked was standing to one side of the large, cracked concrete steps. She was talking with a small group of her friends, and looked up as he approached the steps. Feeling the warm butterflies rise up inside him, he managed a small smile for her. She stopped mid-sentence seeing this, and giggled, wrinkling her brow in contempt. The girls began whispering fervently together, glancing at him and then giggling loudly. He felt foolish and confused, and stood with his mouth slightly agape. He glanced down at his pink coat and felt tears begin to warm his face, then ran for the front doors to spare himself further embarrassment.

The boy made immediately for the restroom and ripped off the pink jacket in disgust. He crammed it into the trash can, revealing the dirty flannel shirt underneath. He put his hands on the sink to steady himself, as his knees were shaky. The poor boy he saw in the mirror was very familiar, with tear streaks intersecting on the dirty canvas of his face.

His privacy was dashed by the clunking of the door behind him. Bret Smithson shuffled up to the boy as he turned to face him. The boy watched the big thirteen year old's face transform slowly from a scowl to a mean grin, and then the laughter started. Bret's blonde bangs fell in front of his eyes as he began to laugh, his chubby belly shaking with his breaths.

"What a frickin' girl! You know this is the boys' room, right sissy? You better not bawl too hard or your damned face will melt!" Bret pantomimed a crying wicked witch being reduced to a puddle, then resumed laughing. Bret had always gleaned joy from the boy’s troubles, and he felt his tears boiling off above the flame of rage growing inside him. He gave Bret a hard shove, barely moving the hulking child. Bret gave him a one-handed push in return which lay him out on the bathroom floor, his backpack falling at the bully's feet. The laughter resumed as Bret picked up the tattered and patched bag and began to rifle through it.

"What'd your whore-mom pack us for lunch, dirty?" Bret stopped rummaging when his hand came to rest on a plastic game cartridge. He produced it and turned the label to face him.

"Yars’ Revenge?" He practically spat out the name of the ancient video game, voice full of scorn. Bret dropped the Atari game to the tile floor with a clack, and delivered an echoing stomp with his heel. The boy's flow of tears had resumed, and now he reeled with horror at the death of his friend. Bret lifted his foot to reveal the shattered plastic body, dead beneath the sole of his Nike.

"Does your mom do her Christmas shopping at Goodwill, Dirty?" The boy checked his horrified look and stood back up. He wiped his tears, playing it off as if it meant nothing. He faithlessly asserted that his mother was getting him the newest console for his birthday. He'd be playing it by dinner time. The bully scoffed.

"I've seen that dump you call a house. No way your alcoholic mother will ever afford one of those consoles. Mom says your mom is trash, and I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. Later, Dirty." Bret shook his head and rolled his eyes, then made his way out of the bathroom.

The boy sat in class thinking, all day, about the irreplaceable treasure that now inhabited the restroom garbage can. He didn't pay attention to the lectures- he was grieving. He'd lost a real friend forever. As the bell rang and the students began to file out of the classroom, the teacher came to the boy's desk.

"I need a word, Robert," she said shortly, then turned and walked back to her desk. He gathered his things and placed them into his tattered backpack, then approached Ms. Curt sheepishly. He was frightened. The teacher recited the dress code with a flat and routine voice, then leaned forward. She stared the shaking boy up and down a moment, then spoke.
"There have been complaints of your smell as well, Robert." The boy quickly explained to Ms. Curt about the water and cold temperature in his home, noting the growing look of impatience on her face.

"Enough of your nonsense!" She cut the ashamed child off.

"Do you honestly believe this place pays me anywhere near an adequate wage? You don't see me or my children coming to school in shredded shirts, smelling of gym socks. You aren't an animal, Robert. Until you can wash yourself, please ask your mother not to bother bringing you to class. I’m sending a note home with you. I don't get paid enough to put up with a ripened trash bin sitting in my class day after day. No more excuses!"

If the teacher's harsh words had accomplished anything, it was causing the boy to miss his bus home. He made his way down the concrete steps and began the long walk home, crying silently and shivering in the cold. As he walked, he began to wish he hadn't discarded the stupid pink jacket. He walked on a while more, his wet face freezing cold and his socks soaked through. The boy heard the groan of a diesel engine and looked up to see the last of the school buses turn the corner ahead of him, making its way back to the school garage. He was a short fifteen minutes from home.

Up and down the street, parents' cars had long-since docked with ice-covered driveways and unloaded their precious cargo. His tears had frozen now. The boy trudged on down the gutter of the snow-paved street, sniffling and watching the slush meet his feet with each muted step. The neighborhood was still, and the snowfall deafeningly quiet. The only sound to be heard was the pat of his ratty Converse sneakers in the icy soup, and the cooling "tick, tick, tick" of the now-sleeping car engines.

An eternity later, the boy stepped out of the wet gutter and his soaked canvas shoes made contact with the familiar bricks of his walkway. He kicked the picket gate open as he entered the yard, and made his way to the door. He noticed his mother's old Buick was not in the driveway. The boy closed the front door and exhaled deeply, taking off his old wool cap to wipe the muddy ice from beneath his eyes. He was pleased to finally be alone and in the warmth of the sixty degree house. He'd soon escape into a world of eight-bit videogame wonderment, and all would be right with the world.

The boy journeyed, dragging his feet, to the tiny half-bathroom just past the kitchen in the back of the house. The bathroom was barely accessible due to permanent occupancy by an ancient dryer and a broken washing machine. He squeezed past, having just enough room between the toilet and machines to wiggle out of his wet socks and jeans. He put his clothes in the dryer and donned his pajama pants and a pair of his mother's wool socks. He squeezed back out, and began to make his way toward his soul-lifting Atari Video Computer System. He paused. Something yellow caught his eye. Turning, he noticed a hastily scrawled note from his mother under a box of macaroni and cheese on the kitchen counter.

"Bobby-
bingo night
heres dinner
happy birthday by the way
check your bedroom
-mom"

He allowed the tiniest hint of a smile to flash briefly on his lips, and his eyes lit up with hope. The boy dropped the note and ran for his bedroom. With the speed and force of a football star, the shrimp of a twelve year old burst through his bedroom door and scrambled past the obstacle course of dirty clothing, old food containers, and the recycled car seat he used as a gaming chair. He practically skidded to a halt when his eyes met the poorly-wrapped gift sitting on his bare mattress. His bad day melted like the snow as the warmth of happiness, emanating from blushing cheeks, spread throughout his cold body.

Ever so slowly, he lifted the weighty package from his bed. He turned it over in his hands a few times, delaying gratification. It was about the size and weight of a VCR. He hoped against hope, and tore the paper away. He was sure his heart had stopped as his gaze fell upon his very own Xbox 360 game system, and a second note from the most caring and perfect mother a boy could have.

"-Bobby
found it at the pawn shop
its the old model but
take care of it
-mom"

He pulled his Atari from the television and put it in his closet for the first time since he received it on his sixth birthday. It took the boy a few minutes to decipher the colored plugs on the futuristic console, but soon he was plugged in and every tear shed that day was forgotten- just as he’d done a thousand days before. He gently took up the controller, like a friend's hand in his own, and talked away his problems with each button he pressed. He was lost to the world for the rest of the night. He was happy.

The boy awoke late for school the next morning to his mother and little sister having a screaming fight. It was muddled but it sounded like it was over his sister's missing coat. He had stayed up late with his new friend, and would barely have time to make it to school. Soon it would be the weekend and he could be happy for a while longer. He again pulled on the same dirty shirt as the day before, then left his room to attempt to find some breakfast. He found his mother and oldest little sister in the kitchen.

"Guhd-dammit! Guhd-dammit, Rachel!" His mother was furious. She'd been out drinking again. Even since he was five or six, the boy had come to recognize her altered speech and the bad moods that came with it.

"I kin barely 'fford to feed this fam-ly, and you kids'ust fuggin lose or destroy ev'thing I try t'do for you!"

"Mommy! Bobby took it! I didn't lose it mommy it was him!" Her furious gaze fell upon him.

Now back in his bedroom, the boy sat staring at his shoes from atop his mattress. He listened as his mother's Buick clanked out of the driveway to take his half-sisters to school, but didn't bother to move his gaze to the window. She had been angry, and he figured he'd deserved it. He turned his ankles from left to right, absently studying each dirt spot and hole on his shoes through cloudy eyes. He was lonely. As he stared down, a clear drop hit the toe of his right shoe. He sniffled and wiped his eye. Another drop of liquid fell, this one leaving a red spot on his left shoe.

The boy wiped his bloodied nose on his shirt, and stood up from the bed. He moved across the room and sat in his make-shift game chair, and stared a long while at the empty spot on his television stand where the new Xbox had spent its only night with him. His mother planned to sell it and buy his sister a new jacket.

Bobby finally let the tears come in their entirety, and watched his pathetic reflection for a long moment in the screen of the darkened television. He felt as though he had no tears left to give. He wiped away more blood, then wiped the last of his tears with his sleeve and made for the closet. The boy took down a large paper bag from the closet shelf, then rummaged about by the television for a few moments. He turned on the television and inserted a cartridge. The boy sat down and took the hand of a dear old friend. He was lost to the world for the rest of the afternoon. Bobby was happy.

[Mike41793]

I thought it was kinda sad but I enjoyed it. I still have an N64 that uses the old cartridges, the story reminded me of it.