Pac-Addict

I’m not proud of the story I am about to tell. But I am also not about to apologize for indulging in the only thing where I can find a little damn peace.

Hi. My name is Bridget and I am a Pac-Addict.

I got fired today. It was my second (part time) job of the two I have been working. It’s also only the second job in my life that I’ve been fired from. (The first one was when I was 19 and showing up to work dope sick all the time). I won’t bore you with the details of getting fired from Job #2; they aren’t nearly as interesting as my first firing. Let’s just say I was put in a position of being faced with what was “right” according to my employer vs. what was good for my livelihood. I chose survival. Sue me.

Whatever. Anyway, I am feeling pretty burned out lately, so when I go into Job #2 and find out that I am no longer employed, I burst into tears immediately. This is just too much.

Most people would go straight to the bar. Well, actually, I do go straight to the bar. But after I go straight to the bar to watch some Red Sox, eat some chowdah, meat pie and down a pint (more on this bar later), I do what I always do when I’m feeling sorry for myself: I use. I grab a dollar and skulk down the alley to the Laundromat. I guiltily cash in the dollar; I ready my iPod with the extended version of DJ Shadow’s “Organ Donor,” put in the quarter and hit the button for 1-player. The instant that famous little jingle tickles my eardrums, the bliss begins to permeate my very being. I press play on my iPod and enjoy my fix.



My Dealer

My appetite for Ms. Pac-Man is insatiable. The addiction began seven years ago in Austin, Texas at the music showcase South by Southwest. A friend of mine introduced me to the beauty of the Pac. He was amazing to watch; smooth and calm, his joystick motions completely relaxed, devoid of the usual spastic jerkiness that accompanies most users.

I watched him play. After a while, I asked him to let me in to the elite circle. For one reason or another, he let me in. I was hooked.

My addiction progressed rather slowly for a year or two. I would only use when it was there—the local pizzeria, bar, billiard hall or bowling alley—I never went out actively seeking it. And I never knew the exact locations of everywhere it could be found.

All of that changed following a long winter in Newport, Rhode Island. That was the year my addiction really spiraled out of control. I was living two houses away from a local late night pizza place. In the corner they had a Ms. Pac-Man machine. But not just any ordinary Ms. Pac-Man. It was the sit down Ms. Pac-Man. I was married and drinking too much. I would sit in the corner chasing my sorrows away, eating wings, drinking Heinekens and sadly devouring Pinky, Blinky, Inky and Sue for hours. It was the fattest I’ve ever been.

I knew things were really starting to spiral out of control and my life had become completely unmanageable when I found myself using my laundry quarters for Ms. Pac-Man. My husband would be furious with me. I was out of my mind.

The madness had to stop and for the past few years I worked on getting better. I stayed far away from the video-crack that so consumed me, only using occasionally when the opportunity was there. But now, just like that, I’m back—fully addicted to the Pac. Itching for that fix every day.

It was exactly one week ago today that I discovered there was a Ms. Pac-Man at the Laundromat less than half a block away and completely fell off the wagon. I didn’t even have my laundry in the washing machine before I played three games.


The Local Quarter Exchange

My addiction is at its peak. I play every day now. At least once. Sometimes two, three times per day. And despite the blister on my middle finger and the damp laundry, I don’t even care that I'm hooked again. Because as of today—coming in at 111,190—I hold the high score. So now I can stop… right?

Wrong.

I’m just another lousy Pac-Head. Now the quest for more begins. More points. More fruits. Now the only person I have to beat every time I step foot in front of that game—is myself. And that is a dangerous game to play because I have a much higher need to out-do myself, than to out-do other people.

As I stand in front of the machine, striving to break my own record and achieve an ever-greater high I realize--there are some games you play…that you can never win.

Come to think of it, I have an hour before I have to leave for work….