The Brotherhood of the Ar-'cave'
All about:
Atch,
video arcade,
Woog and Eli
When Atch was little more than a snivelly thirteen-year-old, a provincial lad from a sleepy little town to the south, his forward-thinking and highly optimistic father sent him off to the big city to get a high-school education. Left to his own wits and devices save for the guidance of his sister barely a year older, Atch took it upon himself to learn the ways and means of the city boys his age. That was when he discovered a mentor in the person of Monsieur Pacman. Also, Sensei Atari, and last but not the least, the highly celebrated brothers, Señors Mario and Luigi.
Atch spent his every spare moment (and often, most of his allowance), with these mentors, honing his skills in the downtown district's video enclaves. And might I deduce, although he may violently deny it, that he logged countless classroom hours there as well.
It was during one of these aforementioned days that Atch emerged, disoriented, from the encompassing dimness of the gaming consoles and beheld the dimness of the late afternoon sky. He had spent the better part of the day ensconced in another world (or worlds) and time had fled from him, fleet of foot. Behind him, an unnamed man approached, and pressing the point of a blade at his back, demanded his valuables. Perhaps this man thought a boy who could afford to play video games the whole day had money to burn. And Atch, this terrified provincial lad of thirteen, ignorant of the dangers of the streets, ran.
He doesn't recall how far he ran before the man, older and slower, thrust the blade into his back, piercing through his knapsack and his shirt, before slicing into his flesh. The feel of the cold blade gave Atch the much-needed spurt of adrenalin, and he pumped his legs almost half a kilometer more before winding down with a stitch in his side. That was when he started to feel the pain and the seeping of blood from the wound.
He crept back to his boarding house, cleaned and doctored himself, not letting his sister know. He carries the scar to this day.
Fast forward to the present.
Once a gamer, always a gamer. Or the mango doesn't fall far from the tree. Whichever way one puts it, the true test of paternity will show itself in the way a child will automatically gravitate towards a father's old habits - all but dead and forgotten - almost as if the child were genetically predisposed to follow a certain behavioral pattern.
Woog mysteriously disappeared after a chicken dinner at the new mall. Nobody really gave much heed because I was feeding the baby the last of the mashed potato, Yaya was gathering a mound of bones for the doggy bag, and Atch was getting ready to go out for a smoke.
"Where's Woog?" He asked.
I waved my hand around vaguely, thinking our four-year-old was somewhere in the store, pestering one of the servers as was his wont. But Atch was having one of his premonitions, and he walked out of the outlet with a frown on his face. He came back ten minutes later looking bemused, leading Woog by the scruff of his neck.
"Guess where I found him...." Atch began.
"Mommy, I went to the ar-cave!" Interrupted his son.
"The ar-cave?" I shot Atch an amused glanced.
"The ar-cave." They both said in unison.
So we packed up and walked across the way, three doors down, and sure enough, a video arcade sat there in all it's dim-lighted glory, looking for all the world like some futuristic cave with flashing lights and bleeping sounds emanating from within.
We pushed our way through a multitude of kids and teenagers while Atch and Woog bought themselves some tokens. Soon they were engaged in some sort of electronic shoot-out:
Woog & his Tatay in a battle versus the evil dead
"I aim with my heart. He who does not aim
with his heart has forgotten the face of his father..."
(from The Gunslinger by Stephen King)
It went on and on while Yaya and I gawked around us in pitiful bewilderment, clearly out of our element, surrounded by a sea of gamers, Eli included:
Starting the baby's training early
He's already got that floaty disoriented "don't-bother-me" look
In the haze of all the zinging, bleeping and flashing lights, I suddenly had a vision of what the future was going to be: the boys will have reached their tweens, and as expected, the house will be empty on a Saturday afternoon. So do I know where my boys are? Yes, of course I do. They're in the video arcade, under the parental supervision of their father - who has taken up his old hobby (don't you know, it's like riding a bicycle) - where they improve their hand-and-eye coordination and work on their lightning reflexes. Meanwhile, the purchase of arcade tokens will take up a large part of the household recreation budget, and so will twice-yearly visits to the optometrist to renew eyeglass subscriptions. At least we won't be worried about bailing them out of juvenile detention facilities.
Finally, it is nearly 9 pm and none of the boys (baby included) show traces of tired. Yaya and I exchange a glance, and I began my quest to urge them homeward. We got home near 10 pm and we had to wake the sleeping baby for his bath. Somehow I have a feeling that this is going to be a weekend event.
Ah well, what goes around, comes around.
Atch spent his every spare moment (and often, most of his allowance), with these mentors, honing his skills in the downtown district's video enclaves. And might I deduce, although he may violently deny it, that he logged countless classroom hours there as well.
It was during one of these aforementioned days that Atch emerged, disoriented, from the encompassing dimness of the gaming consoles and beheld the dimness of the late afternoon sky. He had spent the better part of the day ensconced in another world (or worlds) and time had fled from him, fleet of foot. Behind him, an unnamed man approached, and pressing the point of a blade at his back, demanded his valuables. Perhaps this man thought a boy who could afford to play video games the whole day had money to burn. And Atch, this terrified provincial lad of thirteen, ignorant of the dangers of the streets, ran.
He doesn't recall how far he ran before the man, older and slower, thrust the blade into his back, piercing through his knapsack and his shirt, before slicing into his flesh. The feel of the cold blade gave Atch the much-needed spurt of adrenalin, and he pumped his legs almost half a kilometer more before winding down with a stitch in his side. That was when he started to feel the pain and the seeping of blood from the wound.
He crept back to his boarding house, cleaned and doctored himself, not letting his sister know. He carries the scar to this day.
Fast forward to the present.
Once a gamer, always a gamer. Or the mango doesn't fall far from the tree. Whichever way one puts it, the true test of paternity will show itself in the way a child will automatically gravitate towards a father's old habits - all but dead and forgotten - almost as if the child were genetically predisposed to follow a certain behavioral pattern.
Woog mysteriously disappeared after a chicken dinner at the new mall. Nobody really gave much heed because I was feeding the baby the last of the mashed potato, Yaya was gathering a mound of bones for the doggy bag, and Atch was getting ready to go out for a smoke.
"Where's Woog?" He asked.
I waved my hand around vaguely, thinking our four-year-old was somewhere in the store, pestering one of the servers as was his wont. But Atch was having one of his premonitions, and he walked out of the outlet with a frown on his face. He came back ten minutes later looking bemused, leading Woog by the scruff of his neck.
"Guess where I found him...." Atch began.
"Mommy, I went to the ar-cave!" Interrupted his son.
"The ar-cave?" I shot Atch an amused glanced.
"The ar-cave." They both said in unison.
So we packed up and walked across the way, three doors down, and sure enough, a video arcade sat there in all it's dim-lighted glory, looking for all the world like some futuristic cave with flashing lights and bleeping sounds emanating from within.
We pushed our way through a multitude of kids and teenagers while Atch and Woog bought themselves some tokens. Soon they were engaged in some sort of electronic shoot-out:
Woog & his Tatay in a battle versus the evil dead
"I aim with my heart. He who does not aim with his heart has forgotten the face of his father..."
(from The Gunslinger by Stephen King)
It went on and on while Yaya and I gawked around us in pitiful bewilderment, clearly out of our element, surrounded by a sea of gamers, Eli included:
Starting the baby's training early
He's already got that floaty disoriented "don't-bother-me" lookIn the haze of all the zinging, bleeping and flashing lights, I suddenly had a vision of what the future was going to be: the boys will have reached their tweens, and as expected, the house will be empty on a Saturday afternoon. So do I know where my boys are? Yes, of course I do. They're in the video arcade, under the parental supervision of their father - who has taken up his old hobby (don't you know, it's like riding a bicycle) - where they improve their hand-and-eye coordination and work on their lightning reflexes. Meanwhile, the purchase of arcade tokens will take up a large part of the household recreation budget, and so will twice-yearly visits to the optometrist to renew eyeglass subscriptions. At least we won't be worried about bailing them out of juvenile detention facilities.
Finally, it is nearly 9 pm and none of the boys (baby included) show traces of tired. Yaya and I exchange a glance, and I began my quest to urge them homeward. We got home near 10 pm and we had to wake the sleeping baby for his bath. Somehow I have a feeling that this is going to be a weekend event.
Ah well, what goes around, comes around.
