It’s dark in Big Red’s place. The blinds are drawn tight and the lamp has a thick orange shade that gives just enough light to make out the edges of the furniture and the markings on the Nintendo controller.
Not that Keith needs light to know which buttons to push to make Lawrence Taylor chase Dan Marino on the pixelated television atop the makeshift counter. He’s got that memorized. Muscle memory. Even if Big Red lights another pin joint Keith won’t forget. He’s dialed in. The kind of focus that worried his grandma back in Huntersville when she would try to pull him out of the mall arcade. Back then it was Ten Yard Fight, but his parents got him a Nintendo for Christmas two years ago, but he sold it for dope three months later.
But Big Red has Tecmo Bowl. And Keith has Lawrence Taylor, LT for short, and you can’t block him. You can only hope to contain him.
“Damn, motherfucker, why don’t you pick the Jets or some shit next time,” Big Red says when Keith, um, LT that is, plants Dan Marino on the analog green turf once again. “That’s it. You can’t come in my house and pick the Giants. Ever. Or the 49ers for that matter.”
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