Manny Ruiz, 53, earns his living fixing vintage arcade and pinball machines out of his converted South Austin garage, a job he fell into after he quit his corporate IT job two weeks after his 2015 divorce. His biggest flaw, one he’ll admit to only after three Shiner Bocks, is that he’s avoided all casual romantic connections for eight years straight, convinced any neighborhood entanglement will end in awkward weekly run-ins and leftover resentment he doesn’t have the energy to unpack. He showed up to the annual block party fundraiser solely to grab a free grilled sausage and slip back home before anyone could corner him into volunteering for anything.
He’s leaning against the gnarled oak at the end of his driveway, napkin tucked into the collar of his faded Megadeth tee, when she approaches. She’s the new neighbor two doors down, moved in three weeks prior, he’s only seen her hauling paint cans and walking her senior beagle at 6 a.m. before now. She stops close enough that he can smell coconut shampoo and the faint vanilla of the snickerdoodle crumbs dusting her lip, her cutoff denim shorts frayed at the hem, white paint flecked across her forearms. She asks him if he knows anything about arcade cabinets, says her nephew spilled a root beer on the 1981 Pac-Man she just bought for her guest room, and it’s been fritzing out ever since. He almost says no, already mentally running through the list of Galaga circuit boards he needs to solder before his client picks the machine up Saturday, until she holds up a six pack of limited-edition Shiner Hexenschaum, the stuff he’s been scouring specialty beer shops for three months to find. He caves.
The walk to her house is 90 seconds long, the air thick with the smell of grilled onions and the distant crunch of the neighborhood cover band bungling the opening riff to ZZ Top’s “La Grange.” Her screen door creaks when she pushes it open, the living room smelling like lemon polish and dog, her beagle curled up on the knit throw draped over her couch, lifting his head once to eye Manny before flopping back down. He kneels to yank the back panel off the Pac-Man cabinet, and she kneels next to him to hold the flashlight, her shoulder brushing his every time she shifts to get a better angle, their knees knocking together when she leans in to point at a frayed, soda-sticky wire near the power supply. He tries not to notice she’s not wearing a bra under her faded 1978 Willie Nelson tour shirt, keeps his eyes fixed on the soldering iron in his hand, even when her arm brushes his bicep as she passes him a paper towel to wipe soda residue off the circuit board.
She tells him she bought the cabinet because her dad used to bring her to the local arcade every Saturday after soccer practice when she was a kid, and Pac-Man was the only game she could ever beat him at. Manny finds himself telling her he got into arcade repair working on machines with his own dad, who ran a penny arcade in San Antonio until he passed in 2012. He doesn’t tell people that, hasn’t mentioned his dad to anyone outside his cousin in four years, but it slips out easy, like he’s talking to someone he’s known for decades instead of a stranger he met 15 minutes prior. He feels a sharp, unnamable twist of disgust at himself for letting his guard down that fast, for even entertaining the idea that this could be anything more than a quick favor for beer, but when she laughs at his dumb joke about 80s arcade hardware being more reliable than any modern smart fridge, the sound warm and rough around the edges, the twist melts away before he can hold onto it.
He finishes soldering the wire 20 minutes later, plugs the cabinet in, and the iconic bright jingle of the Pac-Man startup screen blares through the tiny speakers. She cheers so loud the beagle lifts his head again, grabbing Manny’s forearm to squeeze it in excitement, their faces suddenly six inches apart, her eyes bright, the crumbs still dusting her lower lip. She holds eye contact for three beats too long, no awkward laugh, no quick pull away, and Manny doesn’t move either. She challenges him to a round, says the loser buys the winner dinner at the new birria taco spot down the highway. He wins by 230 points, and she pretends to pout, swatting his shoulder playfully, her hand lingering on his bicep for two full seconds before she pulls it away.
