The Terror #wattys2017 #TNTHorrorContest

The Arcade

        There was a point of delineation, a defined moment in time when I can say it began. It was a night like many others, Me and Steve hanging at the arcade and on this night our pal Dale Patterson was in charge of the joint. We were the only ones there and it was getting near closing time when Dale said, "I got turned on to this hit of acid do you guys want to share it with me?" There it was, the life changing event that would lead to my becoming. It was neither good nor bad, right or wrong, here or there or up or down. It simply was and I was ready.

        I don't know about Steve but that was the first time anyone had ever asked me that question.  I was barely sixteen at the time and to that point all I had really done was smoke a little pot,. grown my hair, took a few Bennies and learned a few ropes about the streets.  We were sidewalk commandos, full of testosterone and just waiting for the next thing. I of course had heard of acid, LSD, Lysergic acid diethyl amide, the birth defect inducing , mind scrambling drug for insaniacs.  My parents said the reason they moved me from San Pedro to Norwalk was because the junior high school had a bad rep due to a girl running down the halls on LSD skinning her arms with a razor blade and screaming at the top of her lungs. So when Dale asked if I wanted to split a hit with him I said, I said to myself.

         "Why not!"

        It was window pane, a tiny little rectangle of what looked like transparent mahogany colored plastic about the size and diameter of a pencil eraser. He carefully took a razor blade and separated it into three equal pieces and slid one in my direction on the counter.  "Have you ever dropped before?" asked Dale.                                                                                                                                   "Nope, heard a lot of scary things though."                                                                                                         "Don't sweat it, it's only a third. Perfect for a first timer." He laughed.

        Dale was older than us, I'm going to guess nineteen or maybe twenty, Steve was my age and had lived in this town his whole life.  It seemed Steve was on board and with Dale it looked like some experienced adult supervision was available so I followed Dale's lead, licked my finger tip, touched it to the mystery on the counter and put it on my tongue. It was then closing time so the lights went off, rickety old doors locked and chained and we all piled into Dale's flat black 1956 Mercury four door with a blown muffler and lowered center of gravity.  

        Dale was a tall, lanky, nearly skinny white boy with sandy blond hair and icy blue eyes.  He had a half ass greasy pompadour, a clingy white T shirt, a couple black and gray tattoos on his forearms, greasy Levi's and always smoked Kool's.  He was a sight to behold behind the small "putter" steering wheel and that Kool hanging from his bottom lip.  He fired up the eight track tape deck with, "The Guess Who," and we were off, leaving a wake of coolness down Foothill Blvd. behind us.

We pulled into the gas station on the corner of Foothill and Pinewood, across from the donut shop blasting "American Woman, get away from meee," and a guy we all knew named Gerald came out in a greasy Pendleton and unlocked the pump. "how much?" was all he said. 

"two bucks" said Dale as he got out and cleaned the windshield of his dilapidated lowrider. Me and Steve saw a kat we knew, Greg Manninen , at the donut shop and swaggered over to see if "got any?" He turned us on to a joint but didn't want to come with us because he was meeting a guy about some speed. That was Greg's favorite thing, after weed of course.

So back to the Merc and we sparked up that pinner and made our way up Pinewood and off to destiny. I loved cruising the dimly lit back streets with no destination in particular. The weed was good and the acid was coming on. What could possibly go wrong?