Level 256

Imagine…

It’s July 1982. You open the laundromat door, fully expecting a cool wave of air to sweep over you and dry the sweat you’ve built up on the walk here. Instead, you’re met with stale, barely lukewarm air thick with cigarette smoke and fabric softener. The dryers tumble as their patrons wait for the familiar buzz announcing the load is done. While waiting, some sit in the hard metal chairs, reading magazines and newspapers; others fold and pile clothes into neat little stacks. To your left is the door that leads to the video game arcade. You push it open and step down into your favorite place in the world.

As your eyes adjust to the dark game room, the familiar electronic dings and beeps fill your ears, and you notice that most of the usual Saturday afternoon crowd is here today. The one older guy with the long hair is at his favorite pinball machine, cigarette dangling from his lips as he rams the machine with his hip, probably to remind it who’s boss. The Galaga kid is, as usual, completely locked into his game, and a couple of girls stand nearby, pretending to play Frogger, but obviously more interested in the Galaga guy. Bob, the game room attendant, is making his rounds, dumping ashtrays into a metal pail—he sees you and gives you a quick nod.

Your eyes drift around the room, the walls crammed with glowing screens that project a multicolored glow into the dim room. Donkey Kong. Frogger. Defender.

And then you see it–the machine you walked all this way in the heat to play.

Pac-Man.

A younger kid is walking away from it, so you hurry over before someone else claims it.

As you reach into your pocket for a quarter, you notice that the top spot on the high score screen still shows your initials.

Good.

You slide the coin into the coin slot.

Clink, clink, clunk.

The machine has accepted your money, and the screen flashes: 1 credit. You press the start button.

GAME ON…

If anyone’s going to beat this game, it’s going to be you.

Before you know it, two hours—or maybe three—have passed. Your wrist is starting to hurt a little, so you roll it around between levels, and occasionally you shift your weight back and forth, so your legs don’t get too numb. Your joystick hand is sticky with sweat, and you wish you’d thought to hit the soda machine when you got here. But it’s too late now—you’re in too deep, and you’ve come too far—things like thirst will have to wait.

At some point, you notice a hand quietly place a quarter on the edge of the machine. The kid doesn’t say anything. He just stands there waiting. You glance at the level number (217) in the corner of the screen and almost laugh out loud: This kid has no idea how long he’ll be standing there. After all, you made it to 254 the last two times you were here.

It only feels like a few minutes have passed when you realize something has changed. The arcade has gone quiet. Well, not completely quiet, but much quieter. The pinball bells have gone silent. The Galaga explosions are gone. The only sound left in the room now is the electronic siren and the steady waka-waka-waka coming from your machine.

In your peripheral vision, you notice bodies gathering around you. Someone is standing close enough that you can feel their breath on the back of your neck.

You’re now on level 255.

It seems like everyone in the arcade has stopped their games to watch yours, but you don’t dare take your eyes off the screen to confirm.

Your grip tightens on the joystick as you complete the level. You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants and flex your fingers while the next round loads. You have one life left, and the pressure is insane.

The screen loads, and your hand is instinctively already in motion before your brain can catch up.

Pac-Man turns left. The maze looks normal.

But the right side of the screen is…wrong. Letters. Numbers. Random shapes.

It’s as if the machine had alphabet soup for lunch and has regurgitated it. It’s total gibberish: the pellets aren’t visible, and the paths have disappeared. You break into a sweat.

What is wrong with the machine?

How will you get past this level?

“Bob! Bob!” you yell. “BOB!”

A few seconds later, you hear Bob’s voice on your right. He leans in for a closer look at the machine.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That.”

“What do you mean?”

As your last guy gets killed by Blinky and the machine announces the death, Bob says, “That’s the kill screen, man.”

You slowly turn and look at Bob. “The what?”

“Yeah, nobody can get past level 256. That’s why they call it the kill screen. It’s a glitch in the programming.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me. You knew about this, and you’ve watched me playing for months and never thought to say anything?”

Bob shrugs. “Not my fault the game is defective,” he mumbles as he heads toward the other side of the room.

The crowd disperses, and the kid who’d been waiting patiently grabs his quarter from the ledge and heads toward the machines on the other side—maybe those won’t screw a kid over like Pac-Man does.

You turn back and stare at the machine that betrayed you. The ghosts wander aimlessly through the broken maze, unaware that their journey has come to an end. Still in shock, you shake your head and walk toward the door.

At the door, you stop and look back to give a silent, bittersweet goodbye. A guy has just walked up and is about to drop in his quarter. For a moment, you consider warning him that the machine will just waste his time and break his heart, but then decide against it. Some things people just have to learn for themselves.

You step outside into the afternoon heat and reach into your pocket, your fingers closing around the stack of quarters you never used. And you remember—you made it to level 256. Not many people ever get that far.

Funny thing about arcade games—sometimes you pour everything you’ve got into one machine, convinced the next level is the one where it all pays off.
But sometimes the machine is defective.

Sometimes—no matter how good you are—there is no level past the one you’re stuck on.

And when you finally realize that, the smartest thing you can do is walk away while you still have quarters. Save them for another time. And a better machine.

Besides, you’re suddenly starving, dinner is soon, and you just remembered that Mom is making spaghetti tonight.

 

If you’re curious about the kill screen, click here for a YouTube video