Elias Voss is 57, a vintage arcade repair technician who’s run his one-man shop out of a converted garage in outer Portland for 28 years. His flaw, the one he’ll admit to after three beers and no prying questions, is that he’s spent the last 8 years building a wall thick enough to keep out anyone who might ask for a favor, or a second date, or even a spare minute of his time. After his wife left for Florida to be near her grandkids from her first marriage, he decided casual connection was more trouble than it was worth, especially at the VFW Friday fish fry, where half the regulars saw him get stood up by a blind date two years back and still rib him about it.
He slides into his usual corner booth at 6:17 PM sharp, work boots still dusted with solder and arcade cabinet sawdust, flannel sleeves rolled up to show the faded Army tattoo on his forearm. The cod is crispy, the hushpuppies still steaming, the jukebox spitting out old George Strait tracks loud enough to drown out the group of retired Marines arguing about football at the next table. He’s halfway through his first bite when a shadow falls over his booth, and he tenses up before he even looks up, already bracing for the inevitable request to fix a grandkid’s broken Pac-Man for free.
Maren’s the new part-time line cook, hired three weeks prior after the old one broke his hip falling off a ladder. She’s got a smudge of fryer grease on her left cheek, a tattoo of a pinball flipper curled around her right wrist, and her dark hair tied back with a faded Galaga bandana that matches the t-shirt he wears under his flannel most days. She sets a ramekin of extra tartar sauce down on the table, her elbow brushing his shoulder when she leans in, the scent of fried corn and citrus hand soap wrapping around him for half a second before she pulls back. Her eyes hold his for three beats longer than polite, crinkling at the corners when she nods at his plate. “Figured you’d want extra. All the regulars say you complain about the sauce being too runny every week.”
He blinks, taken off guard. He’d grumbled that to the bartender once, two weeks prior, thought no one was listening. He mumbles a thanks, picks at a hushpuppy, waits for the ask. She doesn’t make it right away, just leans against the booth edge, hip almost pressing to his knee, and jokes that the fryer’s so old it’s probably older than both of them, half the time she has to kick it to get it to heat up. He snorts before he can stop himself, says he’s fixed appliances older than the VFW hall itself, it’s all about knowing where to kick.
That’s when she bites her lip, pulls a crumpled photo out of her apron pocket, slides it across the table. It’s a beat up 1981 Donkey Kong cabinet, sitting in what looks like a basement rec room. “My 12 year old saved up six months of allowance to buy it from a neighbor. The screen glitches every time you get to the second level. I watched every YouTube tutorial I could find, messed with the circuit board for three hours last weekend, and still can’t figure it out. I’ll pay your full hourly rate, no haggling, plus a month of free fish fry, whatever sides you want, if you’ll come take a look at it.”
He hesitates, his internal alarm blaring. The VFW has an unwritten rule, the kind no one says out loud but everyone follows: you don’t fraternize with the staff, don’t make their shifts harder than they already are, and half the guys in the room are already glancing over, snickering into their beer mugs. He can feel his ears heat up, half embarrassed, half annoyed that he’s even considering saying yes. He’s spent 8 years avoiding this exact kind of situation, the kind that leads to small talk, then dinner, then awkward goodbyes when one of you decides it’s not worth the hassle.
He reaches for the photo, and his fingers brush hers. He can feel the callus on her index finger, from slamming the fryer basket shut a hundred times a shift, and she flinches a little but doesn’t pull away, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckle for half a second before she lets go. The jukebox switches to a slower Strait track, the hum of the beer cooler fades for a beat, and he realizes he hasn’t felt a touch that wasn’t a handshake or a pat on the back in almost two years.
He nods, before he can talk himself out of it. “I’m free Sunday at 2. Bring the kid if he wants, I’ll show him how to test the circuit boards, no extra charge.”
Her face lights up, so bright he has to look away for a second, like staring directly into a low-watt porch light. She tugs a pen out of her apron pocket, scribbles her address on the back of a napkin, slides it across to him, and draws a tiny doodle of a Donkey Kong barrel next to the street number. “I’ll have hushpuppies waiting. Extra crispy, just how you like them.”
He finishes his meal, pays his tab, slips out the door before any of the guys can corner him to give him grief. The October air is cold enough to make his nose run, the streetlights just turning on as he climbs into his beat up work van, the repair shop decal on the side peeling at the edges. He pulls the napkin out of his flannel pocket, stares at her messy handwriting, the little lopsided barrel scrawled in blue ink.
He turns the key in the ignition, the van sputtering to life, and realizes he hasn’t looked forward to a Sunday in almost a decade.
