'90s Island: a Novella by Marty Beckerman

Author:Marty Beckerman [Beckerman, Marty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2013-05-18T04:00:00+00:00

It was like a parallel universe, a better universe that should’ve existed all along. (A parallel universe where The Matrix didn’t have any sequels.) Evangeline meets us for a showing of Tarantino’s greatest. The non-digital picture feels warmer and more robust, like the visual equivalent of vinyl records.

Speaking of Toy Story, a recreated K·B Toys warehouses our generation’s favorite childhood playthings. While Evangeline rediscovers her love for Tamagotchis and Virtual Pets, Zack and I blast each other with Nerf weaponry and Super Soakers. (My single-canister Super Soaker 50—the original yellow, orange and green one—is no match for his backpack-style Super Soaker 300Z.) We get our hands gooey with Gak, Floam and Sticky Hands. We decapitate Crash Test Dummies. We save the earth with Captain Planet and the Planeteers. We were too old for Beanie Babies, Tickle Me Elmo and Furby, but younger ’90s Island citizens play with those sentimental trinkets just like we’re playing with ours.

And here’s the thing: We’re not doing it ironically like hipsters whose every action is a premeditated fashion statement. We’re genuinely using our imaginations; we’re remembering the thrill of playtime. Do kids today even have imaginations? Or just iPads and Galaxy tablets?

It’s not like we grew up without electronics. The ’90s Island arcade houses all the coin-operated greats: Virtua Fighter, Killer Instinct, Cruis’n USA, Time Crisis, Area 51, The Simpsons: The Arcade Game and Mortal Kombat, which Mom wouldn’t let us play because of the excessive “FINISH HIM!” violence.

Are the graphics as impressive as those of modern video games? No...but the simplicity is part of the fun. You don’t feel overwhelmed by immersive worlds; you just go from the left side of the screen to the right, and maybe punch somebody in the face.

My Street Fighter II skills are rusty; despite constant hadoukens and shoryukens, Zack destroys me with Guile’s sonic booms and flash kicks. Evangeline ekes out a victory against him with Chun-Li’s ability to bounce off the sides of the screen. (I remember masturbating to Chun-Li’s 16-bit panties after pausing the SNES version. Not my proudest adolescent moment.)

A girl our age playing skee-ball wears a Barack Obama “HOPE” button pinned to her Old Navy Tech Vest.

“What the fuck is this?” Zack jabs the “O” with his index finger. “We have fucking bylaws here. Find a Clinton-Gore button. Or a Nader one...for his ’96 run, not 2000.”

“Sorry, Mister H-H-Hind,” the girl stammers. “Won’t happen again.”

His nod communicates: better not happen again.

“That was kinda harsh,” I say. “People need time to adjust.”

“We adjusted time,” Zack says. “It wasn’t a half-measure.”

We leave the arcade and pass by the sports arena; it contains replicas of the American Gladiators set and the booby-trapped Aggro Crag mountain from Nickelodeon Guts. (No luck drafting Jordan, Pippen, Barkley or Johnson into our basketball league, but Rodman’s down.)

My favorite attraction of all is the amphitheater, which hosts daily and nightly concerts. We’ve already managed to book Everclear, Smash Mouth, Sugar Ray, Eve 6, Third Eye Blind, Harvey Danger, Semisonic, Ace of Base,

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