The American arcade, in its heyday, provided a reliable and enjoyable haunt to young gamers such as myself. Just as the moviegoer will come to develop a favorite theatre, and the foodie has a favorite restaurant, so too could the gamer establish a rapport with "his" arcade. It might not have been the best arcade in the world, but to the regular patron, it was comforting and familiar; a part of one's daily routine that could always elicit a smile and provide a good time.

To some folks, their stomping grounds have the privilege of being the best in the business, but this is rarely the case. Every once in a while, the film buff will treat himself to the "nice" theatre across town -- the one with IMAX and real-cheese nachos. On a truly special occasion, a diner will forgo the smiling faces at his usual eatery, and treat himself to a $50 steak. In an age when arcades were plentiful, this kind of variety was equally prevalent. Prices, game selection, and personality varied from business to business, and most gamers often had the chance to mix up their routines a little... and, every once in a while, they'd get to go to one particular arcade -- that really, really great arcade -- where five or ten dollars could buy you the time of your life. Today's look back at the disappearing American arcade focuses on one such location: my own personal "destination" arcade, a special place I only got to visit once a year -- which, to a young gamer, made it that much more exciting.

The Arcade: Starky's Deli, Beverly Center Mall, Los Angeles, CA

The winter holidays are always fantastic when you're a kid. Regardless of your religious leanings, you're typically guaranteed at least a week's vacation from school, you probably will get to see some of your cool relatives who will dote on you, and if you're an American child, chances are, there are going to be presents involved. For a number of revelers, the holidays are also a time to conduct annual family traditions, be they religious, commercial, social, or otherwise. While some families take Jesus' birthday or the Maccabees' victory as an excuse to head over the river and through the woods, for my clan, late December has always meant a trip to Los Angeles, and a number of yearly rituals in The Shallowest Place on Earth.

Most of these traditions were of a personal nature, of course -- visits with seldom-seen relatives, meals at favorite restaurants, and post-holiday cheer which lasted long into the night. Still, in my younger days, my primary concern was the winter vacation that my brother and I were entitled to, and the various ways in which my parents intended to keep us entertained. A visit to Universal Studios was a frequent choice, due to its geographical convenience and family-friendly atmosphere, and a day at the movies usually fell into the schedule somewhere. If it was an especially fortunate year, we might even be treated to a day at Disneyland, where we might frolic and cavort with underqualified amphibian motorists. As such, with our favorite theme parks and restaurants waiting in the wings, it may seem strange that each year, I grew equally excited about our impending trip to the Beverly Center Mall in West L.A.

The Beverly Center is an eight-story behemoth, a massive monument to commerce in a city that thrives on shopping. Great glass escalators ferry its visitors up the side of the building, carrying eager patrons from the parking garage to three floors' worth of stores, selling any and all manner of chic, trendy holiday gifts. It was there, in a place of honor on the very top floor of the mall, that my parents would take me to Starky's Deli -- the greasiest, sketchiest, most unwholesome diner you had ever laid eyes on.

The air was thick with the stench of a million used cigarettes. The food arrived swimming in oils and fluorescent sauces. The booths were lined with vinyl cushions which looked like they'd once been a completely different color, but years of absorbing dropped scraps of fatty, grade-D corned beef had turned them into a horror show of ergonomically unsound misery. Even as a kid, I couldn't wait for a meal to end at Starky's -- though it wasn't because my young mind had any concept of food poisoning. No, when we visited Starky's, I could barely stay in my seat long enough for a sandwich, because as far as I was concerned, the arcade contained within that filthy restaurant was the best arcade in the world.

Behind the restaurant portion of the establishment, Starky's contained the kind of arcade that used to give parents nightmares. The stereotypical image of the video arcade, caricaturized in movies like Tron and Wargames, came to life in Starky's: A bare minimum of lighting shone through the haze of grease and smoke, leaving the arcade mostly lit by the flickering, glowing machines. Countless games, from ancient vector classics to modern sprite-based marvels, lined the room in a labyrinth of colorful splendor. Each machine did its best to drown out its neighbors in a cacophony of chiptunes, explosions, synthesized voices, and more blips and beeps than the average mind could handle.

It was a scene right out of my young gamer fantasies -- at an age where the average arcade cabinet was more than twice my height (I needed a stool to play anything), I found myself utterly and completely immersed, surrounded on all sides by exciting and rare games. The dozens of machines were arranged in such a way that I could actually get lost in them, exploring the available choices until my brother caught up to me. It was his job to keep track of me, after all, and I'm amazed he was able to handle the job -- not that my brother was an inadequate guardian, but he may as well have been telling me not to spoil my appetite at a candy factory.

Absence, it is said, makes the heart grow fonder, and when the heart knows what it wants, this proverb can apply to almost anything. Looking back at the many games I enjoyed at Starky's, none of them were terribly revolutionary. They were good games, to be certain; Starky's was home to such classics as 720°, Ninja Gaiden, APB, Food Fight, Mappy, Roadblasters, S.T.U.N. Runner, and countless others whose names I can't even begin to recall. While all of the above are fantastic games, none of them stand out as all-time favorites, or genre-defining masterpieces (except maybe 720, which is awesome). At the time, though, they were among the greatest, most incredible games in all of creation, simply because I couldn't play them anywhere else. Starky's was a once-a-year treat for my brother and me, and with its unrivalled selection, many of its titles were games I would also only get to see once each holiday season. Starky's was, therefore, an exciting and special place for me, a rare and wonderful destination worthy of just as much anticipation as Disneyland.

My parents confessed to me, in later years, something I had long suspected: Our annual visit to Starky's was a treat for them, as well. Once we had all survived the terrifying "lunch" that the deli inflicted upon us, my folks were free to roam the Beverly Center, conducting their last-minute Christmas shopping and enjoying a few hours away from us kids. For a measly batch of quarters, they were able to purchase an afternoon of babysitting, leaving me in my brother's capable hands while they visited all the boutiques, bookstores, and shops which would have bored our young minds to tears.

I had deduced my parents' ulterior motive long before they explained it, several Christmases later, but never once did I harbor an ounce of resentment. Whatever their true reasons had been, to me, it meant an entire afternoon in the best arcade ever, happily playing away at those incredible games that I couldn't play anywhere else. Even today, if you were to offer me the choice between shoe shopping and a filthy, smoky arcade, I'd opt for the latter -- and I wouldn't trade the grand times I got to experience each Christmas for all the Botox in Beverly Hills.

The Persistent Memory: Studying at the Feet of the Master

Early in my gaming career, my enthusiasm for video games far outweighed my actual abilities. It would be many years before I could start competing for high scores and head-to-head wins, establishing myself as a respectable player in any capacity. Instead, as I wrote in the last chapter of our story, my first forays were spent in the role of a spectator, closely observing the technique and methodology of my personal gaming guru: my older brother.

Studying his apparent mastery of the games, I came to appreciate a number of titles that I might never have otherwise had the courage to attempt. Arcade games, after all, rarely included tutorials, and even those that offered instructions were frequently vague and confusing. There are a number of gaming conventions and tropes that we all take for granted, but that's only thanks to years of experience; we were all newbies once, and these concepts were foreign. Today, if you tried to explain to me, "the purple cars are invincible," or "you have to skate into the park before the bees kill you," or "don't shoot the food," I'd simply smile and reply, "Of course! Do you think I'm an idiot?" Once upon a time, though, we all had to learn these things from somebody, and for me, that was my brother, who was only too eager to demonstrate the keys to gaming survival to his young student.

My elder sibling and I did not always get along, growing up together. It's not difficult to understand why our parents might need a break from us; though we've forged many wonderful memories each holiday season, there are plenty of other instances my family is happy to gloss over and forget. Arguments, squabbling, fights, destroyed possessions, bodily injury -- if I could buy an afternoon break from all that for $10 in quarters, you'd better believe I'd pay it. For this reason, our annual visit to Starky's meant a great deal to me, not only for the games, but for the knowledge that my entire afternoon was going to be spent enjoying my brother's company, rather than fearing it.

Arcade gaming, to those who engaged in it, provided common ground and mutual enjoyment to gamers of all stripes, veterans and newbies alike. To the grizzled pros, the arcade was a chance to shine: a friendly, competitive arena where worthy foes were ever-present, and fame and glory was just a quarter away -- when you drew an actual crowd thanks to your awesome skills, it provided a rush of triumph, with an immediacy and satisfaction that no online leaderboard can match.

To the fledgling wanna-bes, an arcade was a never-ending carnival of delights, a circus of amazing feats, where every machine was an exciting new sight to behold, and every denizen a knowledgeable expert who could help induct you into their ranks. In a culture where technique and secrets had to be passed by hand, the social compact between master and student was a privilege for both parties, and if you happened to know the expert beforehand, the bonds of friendship would only grow stronger.

My brother was my expert, my teacher -- and it was there, in the terrible din and indoor smog of Starky's Deli, where I could be with him at his best. The American video arcade allowed the two of us to bond over our common hobby in a way our home consoles and PC never did: No fights over the controller, no arguments over what to play, nothing to sully that once-a-year gaming extravaganza that I loved so much. I'm a gamer today thanks to the influence of my older brother, and that influence was never stronger than when I stood behind him, eyes full of wonder, watching him run suspects off the road in APB. In those moments, my brother was the coolest person I knew, and it made me cool to be hanging out with him.

The Unforgettable Discovery: Gauntlet II

Eventually, though, I would have to leave the nest and fly -- my own awesome skills could only progress so far, after all, through hands-off observation. One of the first arcade games I actually attempted, as such, was Atari's Gauntlet, the classic four-player action title. In retrospect, it's easy to understand why Gauntlet was one of the first games where I could join my brother in digital derring-do: As one of the earliest co-op games of my generation, it allowed me to fight alongside my brother, following his lead and lending my aid in our battle against endless hordes of ghosts, grunts, and death himself. I doubt my brother minded, either -- having another player along meant longer survival times and another body to soak up damage, and he'd also be able to tell my mother that, yes, of course he had let me spend some of the quarters.

Gauntlet, as we all know, remained a classic franchise. Over time, it was ported to dozens of home consoles and given many sequels and/or spiritual successors. At the time, though, its simple slash-and-shoot gameplay, cooperate-to-survive brutality, and wonderfully quotable voice synthesizer was all we needed.

In addition, Gauntlet was one of the first arcade games to introduce the concept of character classes, allowing players to pick from four distinct archetypes -- each with their own dungeon-crawling advantages and weaknesses. Later games would bring character selection much closer to the forefront of gamer culture, but in Gauntlet's cooperatively oriented endeavors, there was a distinct role to be played by each character, and having more players to balance out the various character flaws was always an advantage. My brother and I had a system: While he played the nimble Elf, darting past monsters, snatching up keys, and shooting anything that moved, I played backup as the slow, vulnerable Wizard, picking off baddies from a distance with my fireballs -- and, of course, any time things were looking bad, I could empty the screen with my unstoppable magic.

It was nice to have a niche, but as time went by, I secretly yearned to break the mold. My sibling had taught me well, after all, and I wanted to emulate his clearly incredible skills. To do that, I knew, I couldn't always play the Wizard: If I was going to play the game like my brother, I needed to play as his character; I needed to play as the Elf. That could never happen, of course; any time we played Gauntlet together, my brother would always claim the Elf as his own, dropping his quarter into the green slot before there was room for debate. It was a good thing I enjoyed our firmly established roles, because they didn't seem likely to change.

I'm sure you all know what came next.

One year, I leapt out of the booth in Starky's after our "meal," and dashed into the arcade, grinning cheerfully at the familiar sights. APB -- still blaring. Joust -- still flapping away. 720 -- still skating and/or dying. NARC -- still advising me not to use drugs. Gauntlet -- wait, what had happened to Gauntlet? Where once, the mighty four-player titan had stood, a new challenge had appeared, bearing a new logo and awesome new music, and looking even mightier. It was simply entitled Gauntlet II, and unlike so many of the sequels which would appear in later years, it was superior to the original in nearly every way.

As we rapidly discovered, Gauntlet II threw a number of diabolical new twists at long-time players: Invisible walls, acid pools, bouncing shots, the monster-attracting "It" condition, and more. If Gauntlet had been a cruel, quarter-hungry beast, its successor was a nightmarish currency vampire, ready to empty one's wallet twice as fast. None of that mattered, however, thanks to one simple addition: Unfettered character selection. Unlike its predecessor, any player could choose any class, allowing for any manner of combinations and duplications. Players could go into the game with two Wizards and a Valkyrie, or three Warriors and an Elf, or even four Elves. For the first time, it didn't matter what my brother chose, because I knew exactly what I wanted to play.

Getting to be the Elf in Gauntlet was a milestone for me. For the first time, my years of hero worship had been realized, and I was ready to stand on my own feet -- now, without the ability to call "dibs" on the Elf, my brother couldn't stop me from tasting that fleet-footed glory for myself. I had reached the moment of getting to play the game just like my older brother, and in that wonderful, triumphant moment, I was just as cool as the gamer who had been my mentor.

I died amazingly quickly, and went back to being the Wizard, but at least I'd had my taste.

Epilogue

The Beverly Center Mall, today, claims to be "Southern California's premier trendsetting marketplace," so you tell me if you think it still contains a filthy, sub-par deli and a dark, smoky arcade. As my brother and I grew from excitable youngsters into sullen-but-mature teenagers, there became less of a need for my parents to buy time away from us during family vacations, making Starky's less of a priority. One year, we skipped out on the Beverly Center, and a while later, there was a two-year gap -- and after that, when we finally did decide to return to Beverly Hills for a little last-minute shopping, Starky's Deli had simply disappeared.

Like so many of its bretheren, great and small, Starky's became a casualty of our own shifting priorities. While I never stopped gaming at any point in my life, the rise of the home console and my changing social landscape simply drove me to spend less time in arcades. The arcades had always been there for me, and I assumed they always would be. I wasn't thinking of the bigger picture -- with all of my friends similarly abandoning the flickering dens of our youth, the social hubs of our favorite hobby couldn't sustain themselves. Starky's, my annual holiday haunt, undoubtedly saw more losses than the measly $10/year my family was spending there, and one day, while I wasn't paying attention, it just went away.

My family's holiday traditions have changed in more ways than one, and so has the family itself. My brother and I have (arguably) grown up and gone our separate ways. We still play games, the both of us, and we still enjoy long arguments over the old favorites and the new contenders. On occasion, we still get the chance to throw down on our consoles, and somewhere over the years, I even got good enough to beat him at a number of games. I never will forget, though, the valuable lessons I learned under his watchful eye, and the dedicated monuments to social gaming which made it possible. For that, Starky's Deli, you will be fondly remembered.

You can read part three of Jesse Henning's retrospective "The American Arcade" right here -- or go back to part one via this link.

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• Retrospective: The American Arcade (Part One)
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