Snowball

We were all thieves back then— snatching coins from our mom’s purses, running fingers across the soap-crumbed shelf of the laundry room, combing under couch cushions for loose change. Two quarters slapped on the countertop bought one of four flavors, orange, purple, red, or blue, pebbles of ice, marshmallow flowing over the breast. At the faux-marble counter, ass cheeks half-on, half-off the stools that bore bandages of duct tape, we’d swing Jordached legs to the electronic tempo, dip long plastic spoons into what had melted, scraping away at what had not. We stole looks at every cute boy’s ass, the bright handles of Goody combs poking out their pockets while they battled one another to rack up the highest of scores, joystick their initials into the insert coin screen. French fries and cheese steaks filling the air, treats we’d never afford ourselves, our quarters reserved for the bleeps of Donkey Kong. How we’d rush up to push in the coin return over and over, hoping for the hollow clink against plastic after each of their games ended badly—barrels clocking Mario in the head, his body spinning until the ring of would-be death haloed his head and he lay on his back, feet flipped upward, the gorilla madly stomping atop the scaffold. And the princess— her red pixilated hair jutting out into two braids, purple boots all aflutter on the platform as her simple cry for help grew from small to large, her cinched dress swaying as though her hips were some sort of bell clapping without sound. As many times as those boys tried, as many quarters as they pumped into that machine, they never could save her. And while she waited for a man half-her-size to climb to her rescue, we chewed bitemarks into patterns in our empty Styrofoam cups, rolling another coat of Kissing Potion across lips already slick with want, waiting to snatch our turn to play as a man.