Don't Read the Comments

by Eric Smith

  I look around the small studio, which feels so perfectly cozy and nerdy, as Rebekah slings her messenger bag over her shoulder. “Space Trash” is embroidered on the side, with patches of logos from the games Mass Effect and Lunar poorly stitched on. These are new, and look like they’re fit to fall off at any moment. I find myself staring at the bag as she walks over, and she quickly pushes it behind her back, glaring at me playfully.

  “I stitch together videos and data, not fabric,” she says with a smile. “They’ll be fine. Let’s go. Pizza waits for no woman.”

  * * *

  There’s something magical about a Hoboken summer, some indefinable air that draws in people from all over—from Jersey City and the nearby suburbs, from Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn. Washington Ave—the main downtown strip close to Rebekah’s campus—is packed with people browsing the street displays of kitschy boutiques and rummaging through cardboard boxes full of dollar paperbacks outside the used bookstore. The hot pavement and cobblestones are synonymous with the smell of greasy food trucks and the taste of cold brew, and I want to devour it all.

  Rebekah and I have always enjoyed making a game out of trying to identify the city dwellers vs. simple bridge-and-tunnel folk, as the New Yorkers like to call us, but I’m not really in the mood to deal with the crush of tourists today.

  Apparently Rebekah feels the same way. “Long way passing by the water?” she suggests. I agree, and we take a turn down a side street off Washington, the cobblestones on the ground digging gently into the balls of my feet. It’ll steer us away from the bustling shops and crowds, something that my mom frequently laments. She’s always going on about how, a little over a decade ago, the area wasn’t nearly as booming, and you could wander around on a weekend without dodging folks on the sidewalk.

  A handful of what look like college guys are making their way down the same street, and I can see the blue of the Hudson and the dark red and brown bricks of the waterfront just a block or so away. I tense up as the guys walk by, feeling their eyes on me and Rebekah, and she quickly loops an arm through mine.

  “Hey,” she says gently. “It’s alright.”

  “Thanks.” I smile gratefully, leaning my head against hers, even though she’s the one who could really use the support. The attack in the game, all those terrible comments... At least that’s all online. Not out here in the real world. Rebekah’s the one who’s lived through it all in person, and I wonder if I’ll ever be as strong as her.

  My mind wanders back to that photo of my apartment building. Not for the first time, I wonder how the trolls managed to find me. Knowing that they could track me down at any time...it makes every single man who walks by seem like a threat.

  Fortunately, I haven’t heard anything more from the Vox Populi since they blew up my ship. I received a few scathing emails from the usual anonymous trolls after posting the video of the discovery I made with Aaron—the contesting capability of the game—but at least there were no photos this time. The threads on social media haven’t gotten any better, though.

  If I could avoid dudes in real life all summer, that would be fantastic.

  The cool breeze coming off the Hudson is a welcome contrast to the heat reverberating off the cobblestone-and brick-lined streets and sidewalks. I stare across the river toward the island of Manhattan, at the small boats cutting through the water, the drivers and passengers likely carefree and wealthy. Probably the sort of people who try to work “I have a boat” into every conversation. Seeing all that—the New York City skyline, the people of means frolicking in the water below—I feel this awkward urge to pull out my phone and check my bank account balance. What is it about seeing unchecked wealth that makes you so conscious of your own? The rent and utilities have cleared, but the month is barely half over, and I can’t bring myself to deal with thinking about fundraising over the next two weeks.

  I bet Chad down there, floating on his father’s boat, doesn’t have to worry about overdrafts.

  I look down at my smartwatch, at the steps we’ve walked so far, and think about selling it in another ten days or so. It’s a shame this gadget can’t track all the steps I’ve taken back.

  “You pick your classes yet?” Rebekah asks as we get closer to the railing. I lean against it, peering over into the water, the metal hot against my bare arms. You can’t exactly see any of the New York City campuses by looking across the river, but I know they’re there. NYU, Columbia, Fordham, Pace, SUNY... All of them just waiting for the fall semester, when students will once again be milling about. Students who aren’t desperately trying to keep the dreams of their parents alive.

  Actually, scratch that, because that’s definitely happening right now, somewhere, someplace. Parents dreaming that their kids will become lawyers, doctors, teachers, actresses...whatever the case might be. Kinda like Aaron, with his parents and that office he brought up. And those kids are doing it, pushing forward and living dreams for their families, right across the river, in cozy classrooms and giant sprawling lecture halls. Dreams that don’t belong to them, but to other people.

  In that moment, I feel sad for Aaron.

  But chances are, none of them are likely paying for their parents to do any of that. Though in my mom’s defense, it isn’t much. She only has a summer semester left of part-time graduate school, and then she’ll finally have that master’s of library science she’s been working so hard to finish.

  Her dream seemed so much easier to reach when Dad was still around—four grand a semester felt like nothing. But after he left, that part-time job of hers couldn’t quite handle the rent and her tuition and everything else.

  Whenever I try to talk to anyone about this—Rebekah, my handful of Internet friends—they always say the same things. Tell her to apply for student loans. Get a scholarship. Tell her to put it off and pick up a job. Which is why I don’t talk about it anymore. Like any of those things are such immediate, easy tasks. Like my mom deserves to let go of her dream or work herself to death even more or go into crippling debt because of my asshole father. Like it’s easy to get a scholarship or a full student loan when you make just enough to pay for your classes, but not really, because if you pay for those classes, rent and groceries become a fever dream.

  Fuck that. I’ll struggle so she can soar. I can handle it.

  “Div?” Rebekah nudges.

  “Hmm? Oh. Classes. Yeah, not yet,” I reply. “Still got time to register, still have to pay for them. Actually, I was thinking I might take a gap year.”

  Rebekah makes a face, her nose crinkled up in doubt.

  “Okay, a gap semester.”

  She makes an even more intense face.

  “Stop it with the face!” I exclaim. “I know, I know. But my mom just has these two summer classes left, and I just can’t bring myself to leave until things settle down. I really want to give her this summer and some time to find her dream job.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “She deserves it,” I insist. “She’s sacrificed a lot for me. Hudson County will still be there when I’m ready to go.” I look behind me, in the direction of Jersey City, like somehow I’ll be able to see the community college in the town next door from here.

  “I swear, you’re an old soul, Div.” Rebekah bumps her shoulder against mine and points away from the water. “Come on. I’m starving.”

  * * *

  There’s a reason hopping the PATH train into Hoboken is a worthwhile venture, spending time with Rebekah and enjoying the wonderful atmosphere aside. That reason is Quarter Slice Crisis, the ultimate hipster pizza place located not too far from the waterfront downtown. It’s squeezed between a Starbucks and a boutique clothing store, both of which are probably none-too-thrilled with the pizzeria-slash-arcade’s outward appearance, with its poorly painted illustrations of pizza and video game characters on the enormous plate glass window that is almost always dirty.


  Rebekah turns to look at me as someone walks out of the shop, a white paper bag likely filled with food under his arm. “You have quarters?”

  “Do I have quarters?” I scoff. “Please.”

  We walk through the doors of the pizza shop and are immediately blasted by chiptune music screaming from the overhead speakers, the air filled with techno beats. There’s always something like this playing in Quarter Slice Crisis, but when I hear vocals singing over the 8-bit beeps and bloops, I turn and look at Rebekah, raising my eyebrows in a silent question. It sounds like an odd mix of Fall Out Boy meets the music of Sonic the Hedgehog, and I can’t figure out what exactly I’m hearing.

  “I Fight Dragons,” Rebekah supplies. “Pop punk band, with chiptunes and video game sounds.”

  I close my eyes and tilt my head up. “This is everything I ever wanted,” I say with a contented smile.

  We laugh and keep walking in, up toward the register and pizzas displayed on the countertop. Quarter Slice Crisis is one of those places that pays more attention to atmosphere than substance—or in this case, sustenance, as the pies are usually as basic as they come. Cheese. Pepperoni. There’s a different type of pizza today, though, labeled with a little Post-it that reads NEW! in big neon letters. I squint at the pie in question, trying to identify the topping.

  “Mushroom,” the guy behind the counter says. He looks up at me, blinking slowly, incredibly mellow. There’s a little red in the whites of his eyes, and I’m convinced he has to be stoned. “Our new vegan option.”

  I give Rebekah a look, and she shakes her head. Because yes, mushrooms magically make a pizza vegan.

  “Just a slice of cheese for me, please,” I say, indicating the pizzas on the countertop. “And a large Dr. Pepper.” I glance at Rebekah. “Actually, make that two orders.”

  “What if I wanted to try the vegan pizza?” Rebekah challenges.

  “You hate mushrooms,” I say dryly. “What? I know you.”

  She smiles. Because I do.

  The guy behind the counter slides our slices onto paper plates without warming them up and hands us some cups. He glances at the slices. “They just came out,” he mumbles, heading for the back kitchen. “Should be hot enough.”

  I grab our plates—which should be warm from this supposedly just-out-of-the-oven pizza, but are definitely cold—and we make our way over to the real reason we’re here.

  The arcade machines.

  I know all about the bar arcades here in Hoboken, back home in Jersey City, over in New York. I hear one opened in Philadelphia a few years ago. I know they’re spreading all over the place. Quarter Slice Crisis is the answer to that for those of us who are a little too young for sipping whiskey, and way too old to be going to Chuck E. Cheese’s. Well, I know there are plenty of people from my senior class who drink, but not me. And I’d rather not go through all the trouble to get a fake ID when I can just game in a place like this, or at home.

  I idly wonder if Aaron is the sort who drinks.

  While those other places might frequently be packed with drunk adults and screaming children, the only people in QSC today, on a Thursday afternoon, two hours after the lunch rush, are me, Rebekah, and the probably high guy making subpar pizza behind the counter. It was almost always just us and the arcade games, this time of day, this time of year.

  Which is perfect. As much as I wanted to come here, I also wanted to avoid seeing anyone in person. Especially anyone from the gaming world.

  “There you are,” I say, placing my plate of pizza down in between the first-and second-player spots of our favorite game, right above where I’ll soon be depositing massive quantities of quarters. I run my hand affectionately over the black steel frame of the arcade machine and pull the light gun out of the holster in front of my screen. Whatever bright orange luster the faux pistol used to have has been long since replaced by a dull melon color, the shade of a traffic cone that’s spent too much time outside in the rain.

  Rebekah steps up next to me and pulls out the light pink gun.

  “I fucking hate this color,” she grumbles, aiming it at her screen.

  Time Crisis 4.

  I drop a few quarters into the machine, listening to the perfect sound of them clinking against the bottom of the bin inside, likely against change I put in there last week, because hardly anyone plays this thing anymore. I know this, because right before the game starts, the high scores flash by, and I see D1V pop up from the top to the bottom, almost nonstop, with a few BEKs here and there, followed by one ASS right at the end. Rebekah claims it wasn’t her who put that high score in, but I’m not convinced. No one in this town is better than us at this game.

  The intro begins playing, and I wince.

  Oof, this game.

  The plot is awful, the voice acting is terrible, even the music is completely over-the-top. It’s a trademark of any Time Crisis game—utterly cheesy and campy as hell.

  I love it so much.

  The action comes hard and fast, and Rebekah and I are quickly hopping up and down, pressing on the arcade machine’s physical pedals by our feet to make our characters hide behind rocks, under cars, around trees...whatever nearby prebuilt obstacle is available to shield us from the barrage of bullets, missiles, grenades, and all the other nonsense the villains throw at us. There are knives and swords sometimes, as ninjas occasionally appear for no reason. People shoot bazookas near one another, because why not. Some characters even throw dynamite now and again, because this is clearly the Wild West.

  It’s so ridiculous. Yet here I am. Time and time again.

  The door to the pizza place chimes, and I glance over quickly, spotting the same dudes we saw walking down the street on our way here. A bloom of panic bursts in my chest, and I push myself to focus on the game. It’s just a coincidence. There’s no way they followed us.

  Right?

  Right.

  We’re about to clear the fourth chapter of the game, already several dollars’ worth of quarters in, when Rebekah takes a missile straight in the face. The Continue? prompt pops up on screen, the announcer loud and blaring through the speakers. It’s almost louder than the rest of the game, and I feel like they must do that on purpose.

  “Shit, shit,” she growls as the countdown chimes away. The great thing about games like this is that they give you a hell of a lot of time to get more quarters. This isn’t a ten-second countdown like playing a fighting game at home, à la Street Fighter V or something. There’s a whole minute to kill. Gives you time to find your quarters or steal some from your partner-in-gaming.

  I dig through my pockets and come up a few short, and Rebekah is tapped out. “I’ll hit the change machine—” I start.

  “Don’t worry, I got you,” a voice says behind me.

  My heart hammers, and I turn around to spot one of the guys from earlier. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt from Rebekah’s college. When he smiles, a dimple appears on his right cheek, and his green eyes light up.

  I don’t trust him.

  He pulls some change out of his massive hoodie pockets and plinks a few quarters into Rebekah’s side.

  “No, you don’t have—” she protests.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says, his smile widening.

  “READY!” shouts the announcer in the game.

  “Walt!” one of the guys from his clique calls from across the pizzeria. “Come on, we’re gonna do X-Men.”

  I look over my shoulder and see his friends waving him over, three of them huddled around the X-Men: Children of the Atom game, a massive arcade machine where four people can play the side-scrolling beat ’em up at once. It’s older than I am, and not really my first choice, but people seem to love that cabinet, no matter what arcade I’m in.

  “Let me know if you need help with that level,” Walt says with a wink before hurrying to join his friends.

 
I roll my eyes and turn back to the screen. Rebekah smashes the start button and pulls her gun up, staring down the plastic barrel.

  “Need help. Fucking men,” she grumbles as the game resumes, the momentarily flashed-out screen on her side coming back to life from the missile that got her. I glance over at her quickly and see her eye twitching a little. She’s breathing heavily, too, and not in the anxious-because-of-a-video-game-boss-battle sort of way.

  “So how’s...you know, the sessions and all that?” I ask, ducking behind a cement barrier as a helicopter hovers onto our screen and starts firing at us.

  “Really?” Rebekah asks, shooting madly. “Now? You want to ask about that stuff now?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” I shrug, firing again, then quickly looking behind me to the college bros hammering away on the old X-Men cabinet. “It’s just, those guys here, and—”

  “No, no,” Rebekah says as she holds her pink gun out to reload. “I get it. It’s going...fine. Not the best, but fine.”

  Last semester, on the way back to her dorm one night, Rebekah was assaulted in an elevator on campus. And as if that wasn’t enough, the assholes who attacked her recorded the whole thing, and it quickly leaked. The video went viral, and the guys denied what happened, despite the footage, which only fueled the fire of the story going absolutely everywhere.