It was shortly after arriving in Los Angeles that I became a Latchkey kid. A news report, prior to adopting this lifestyle, showed me that the child's parents were away at work satisfying their selfish desire for material goods at the cost of the mental health of their uncared for child. An irreparable rift in their souls, caused by their desire for material wealth and their disregard for their child, was created. Driving these parents to drink, gamble, whore, and eventually cook drugs in the plastic spoons bought for their child's recently expired pudding cups. For me, that wasn't exactly the case.
My parent's divorce was not particular heated or bloody but definitely draining on their parents' coffers. It was that preexisting condition, coupled with my father marrying a woman in very similar circumstances that cast me in this role. I would bear the key, coming home to an empty, balmy apartment every afternoon. Cranking on the cold conditioned air and laying about in boredom.
In quick fashion I tired of this routine and often in my travels home, when dodging the random violent encounters, I would stop along the way in various shops and witness what each had to bear. Mind you, my path home crossed one major thoroughfare leaving me with very little to investigate. One place in particular was a liquor store that contained within its dark belly, a single infernal machine that brought kids from the Junior High to gather 'round.
In my youth in Virginia, I was quite the arcade junky. Shocking, I know. It was a trusted fact that when given $10 I could be left securely within the comforting glow of the cathode-ray tubes of the Nautilus arcade for a number of hours exceeding four and still have in my possession sizable grip of quarters (equaling that of a load of laundry, circa 1987). I was no wizard, it was more a finely honed skill at game selection like that of an elderly, false-toothed gambler that gets "a feeling" from a particular one-arm bandit. I could feel out the game that was willing to pay out. I could beat Double Dragon on 75 cents thanks to power of quite a few well placed elbows.
But Street Fighter 2's controls, fast paced play and furious player vs. player fights eluded me. I had attempted various times to gather the necessary skills to compete in early builds of the game. But I could never, ever approach the level of skill that quite a few players brought to the stick. One kid in particular became one of my closest friends during my years at Robert Fulton Jr. High, High School, and the US Army.
Arthur Aldegur was a God at the controls - unstoppable against nearly every opponent that stood before him. His command of the joystick and six fat buttons made him a master with any character. We huddled around close, resigning ourselves to losing the precious quarter that we had so confidently placed upon the console.
The eventual interaction between the two of us that lead us to become friends is not something that I can properly recall. It was definitely not my ability to compete but probably more my humor and our mutual enjoyment of games.