To All the Girls I've Played Tron with Before

I spent ten hand cramping hours stripping wall paper yesterday. It hurts to type, but I'm not complaining. I enjoy helping my friends bring their recently purchased hundred year old house into the 21st century. There is at least six layers of paint on everything, lots of fire code issues with the electrical, some front porch sinkage, and a tasteless creative approach to decoration consistent throughout. None of this taints the potential of this beauty in the rough. In two weeks, when the paint goes up and the floors are refinished, it will be an enviable, beautiful home.

I've always enjoyed long drives and I got one yesterday. The two hour long round-trip, to this house, allowed me some time to relax while driving past a considerable portion of my teenage era haunts. A rush of faces sprang into consciousness as I passed this or that landmark: That's where Bonnie lived with her purple shag carpet covered living room wall and that's the drive in movie where we drunkenly got naked. Kris worked at that Dunkin Donuts. I can still feel the sting of the thousand mosquito bites I suffered to spend a few hours kissing her, in that woodsy back yard. One landmark I passed held more memories than all combined: Galaxy World.

For the entire length of my teenage years I frequented this video arcade. Always on the prowl for girls, we'd cruise the black lit, winding path meeting eyes, pointing at parachute clad behinds in approval, and occasionally dropping a quarter into our favorite machines, for some non girl chasing fun. I enjoyed classic games like Qix and Tempest, but Tron was by far my favorite. So much so, that I purchased one a few years back.

Perhaps I'll stop and see if they still had Tron, I thought. Or at least cruise the games looking for any number of classics and drop a few quarters. When I turned the corner, clearing the similarly frequented White Castle, Galaxy World was gone. Not demolished gone, but newly inhabited by a corporate chain bowling alley gone. My eyes lingered on the site in disbelief. Hopeful visions of the previous owners sleeping amongst piles of quarters, from the sale of such a personal landmark, filled my grief stricken skull. I thought about stopping still, but knew my memories would not be satiated.

All my memories are becoming dusty and faded. Change is good, I keep telling myself. But as I consciously try to convince myself of that, I'm reminded of how I cried when my parents painted my room a different, unfamiliar color at the age of five. I think back to the feeling of loss upon finding my favorite blanket cut into dust rags. Now I can add the demise of Galaxy World to that list. We all cherish and find comfort in the familiar, but I'm starting to realize I might have a problem accepting change. While I gladly dismissed all of my high school era haircuts and acid washed jeans, I love the idea of my youth and apply landmark status to every place that holds fond memories. The memories I create today and tomorrow, will end up just as cherished one day, but they haven't gathered as much fondly dispersed, lovingly scattered dust.