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Number three:
There's a videogame store somewhere in Indiana that I'd name if I wanted to be killed. This store is run by a Korean-American man who despises children. He has a sign on the door that says
NO CHILDREN UNDER 15 ADMITTED WITHOUT PARENT.
He once tried to make it say
NO CHILDREN UNDER 15 ADMITTED,
and he got in some trouble because of it. So now he lets the children in when they're with their parents. All the while, he tells the employees and older customers that he wishes he could make the age limit eighteen. Some people are audacious enough to tell him he's not running a porn shop. He doesn't give them discounts on used Saturn games. If you want stuff for cheap, you have to respect this guy's space, and views.
It was a hot day in late July when my friend and I went to this store on the lookout for something neither of us could name. We found a copy of Kirby's Dream Course for Super Nintendo for only five dollars. We couldn't pick it up just yet, because some young married couple were buying a Nintendo 64 and some used games for their five-year-old son. The Korean guy had to paused his match of FIFA 2002 and put down his giant soft drink cup to help them.
My friend and I helped ourselves to scoping out some wallscrolls. It was then that a big-screen TV in the back caught my eye.
"Um," I asked this Korean guy, all politely, "can I play some Super Mario Sunshine?"
The little kid being bought a present was digging through a plastic bargain bin of used strategy guides.
The shop owner looked at me with something of a smile on his child-despising face.
"Go ahead."
I always knew better than to play a game in his store without asking permission. I found the Gamecube controller on top of the television, picked it up, and . . .
It was a half an hour later when my friend asked me when I was ready to go. I was just mastering the hover nozzle. I had four shines. I was tearing the game up.
(Weeks later, I'd own the game, and become frustrated at the camera, at Yoshi's misunderuse, at the game's structure . . .)
The Korean guy asked us if we'd found everything we wanted. He asked this without looking up from the big-screen TV he had somehow wedged behind the front counter. His team -- Korea -- was beating Japan. There I was, in a Japan jersey.
"You gonna get Kirby, dude?" my friend asked me.
I was really, truly grinning. Here, I'd thought Super Mario 64 couldn't be topped, or even imitated well. And here I was, yearning to feel the Gamecube's analog stick beneath my thumb as I hover-cleaned up cartoon sludge. I looked forward to it with an evolved joy, a joy that was once the joy of one kid saying to another: "You can pick up vegetables in Super Mario Bros. 2 -- and Toad is the fastest."
My experiences with Super Mario Sunshine would put an entirely new spin on my take on some upcoming rehashes of other old games.
To wit:
"Dude, Rygar is so crazy."
"Dude, Contra: Shattered Soldier is so hard."
"Dude, Shinobi is so insane."
Too bad none of these games were as good all-around as Super Mario Sunshine. Still, they were all appreciated.
I bought my copy of Kirby's Dream Course, a game that has sadly yet to receive a sequel. Though the price tag said five dollars, it only came to $3.14. I didn't play it for three weeks.
That day, the day I first played Super Mario Sunshine, and realized I can still gleefully look forward to videogames -- that was really something. And for something to really be something in a place where children are loathed: that's really something, too.
[next: number two: growing to hate is as good as cash]
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