Seven arcade tickets will get me a plate full of fresh asparagus. Seventeen equals asparagus sautéed in a pan. Twenty-seven will get it grilled. Wood smoke.
I play a game that starts with a power tripping traffic cop making an idiot speech. It costs three tokens. If I listen to his full speech, I’ll get six tickets. I get five tickets if I graze him with my car and then avoid arrest. I only get two tickets if I rev my car’s engine and run him down. My friend says the game will turn his body into red and gold fireworks as my car smashes him into the pavement.
I am so tired of games trying to teach me about life. I have known since I was five I should obey rules. I pushed over a plastic kitchenette made for children, let the fake food scatter everywhere, and screamed, “Gorilla Madness.” My teacher made me sit in a corner. She didn’t let me play until I admitted that I had not been bitten by a gorilla on the way to school and infected with its need to knock over kitchens and draw on walls in blue crayons.
I keep playing and let the lecture pour robotic out the speakers. This is me being an adult.
Seven hundred and seventy-five tickets will get me a whole asparagus field. I can walk it every spring. Pull the vegetables from the ground as the April rain beats down and eat them raw. My teeth full of green.