LEFT NO QUARTER

Past the Hot Dog on a Stick,
down the escalator at MetroCenter,
the Pac-Man cabinet stood unused.
Boys huddled in front of Street Fighter,
eyes on the champ,
quarters lined up on the bezel.
Winner stayed standing;
losers walked
to the back of the line.

Girls played skeeball
so they could take something home,
scrunchies on their wrists,
drinking Orange Julius,
laughing at how serious the boys were.

His mom gave him one dollar.
He bought fifteen Jolly Ranchers,
one quarter left.
He’d stay at that cabinet
’til the lights turned off.

He liked rich kids the most.
Their moms filled their pockets.
George ate quarters,
his mouth heavy with metal
ever since his mom got dental.

He camped at the cabinet.
The challengers wore Stüssy shirts
the same way they wore
looks of embarrassment
sixty seconds later.
George didn’t care
where their mom shopped.

He was named after his grandpa,
who flew Thunderbolts over Europe.
They called him Ace at the VFW.
George’s left hand, confident on the joystick,
right hand strafed across six buttons.
He would down fighters
one at a time.

A good player
might last to round three.
George made them pay.
He gave no quarter,
knew when they’d throw the fireball,
where the flying kick would land.
He saw the uppercut
before they pressed the button.

One at a time,
he made the other boys
feed the machine.
Quarters pressed against the bezel,
the same way
aces stenciled kill marks
on the sides of Thunderbolts.

Raised in Phoenix after his family left western Pennsylvania during the steel collapse, Fred DeMeo began writing poems as a child. His work has appeared in Appalachian Journal, Uppagus, Main Street Rag, and Canyon Voices. He now lives in Pittsburgh and writes about urban landscapes, working-class life, pop culture, and usually bicycles.