To the rhythm of a peppy beat, a player would press and spin these buttons at just the right time to amass points-that is, if the game worked. A neon red coil shot up through its base like a spine, supporting a console of five pastel-lit buttons, each the size of an adult hand. Watching the video from across the country in Brooklyn, I screamed. Said another, vividly, “I don’t think my asshole has ever puckered harder.” “This is the scariest thing I’ve seen on the Internet,” said one. Under the video Arrington uploaded to Twitter, gamers expressed their alarm. His whole body spilled forward, and the arcade cabinet plunged to the ground with a fractious crash. Suddenly, the dolly’s wheels slid off the edge. Scuttling, repositioning, crouching, grunting, Arrington pushed the machine’s weight centimeter by centimeter, second after second. On the concrete 3 feet below lay a thin, blue blanket. Arrington effortfully wheeled the 6-foot-tall cabinet toward the pickup’s hatch. The machine had come a long way-from an arcade in Tokyo to an anonymous warehouse in Osaka and then, after a long wait on a container ship outside Long Beach, California, to Arrington’s warehouse in San Pedro. Between his arms, leaned at a 45-degree angle, was a video game arcade machine its title, MUSECA, could be glimpsed over his shoulder. It was a stupid dream, but it did not deserve to die on a dolly behind a beige warehouse.Īrrington was hunched over the dolly, gold chain dangling over a tight gray tee. Last October, Phil Arrington precariously balanced a dream on the cargo bed of his 2002 Ford Ranger pickup.
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