Malls and the 1980s went hand-in-hand. Especially during the holidays. For years, Mom and Dad made enough money at various malls to get us through the offseason on the craft show circuit.
Unfortunately for my brother and I, that meant spending little time with our parents from Thanksgiving to Christmas. One year, we stayed with our Uncle Wayne and Aunt Donna in Columbia, Missouri. Another year, we stayed with family friends in Anderson, Missouri. On one occasion, we stayed with our next-door neighbors, Virgil and Karen, while Dad and Mom worked booths at separate malls in Columbia.
Dan and I visited our parents on the weekends and during our break from school, and we alternated working at each mall to help Mom and Dad as much as we could, which wasn’t much.
The shopping paradises were located within walking distance of each other. The old, smaller mall was starting to struggle, but it was hanging on thanks in large part to a small movie theatre and a walkway into the only Walmart in town.
I remember watching “The Golden Child” and “Crocodile Dundee” in the theatre and working as a gopher for Mom, checking on her when she needed to use the bathroom or grab a bite to eat.
The new, plush mall was the preferred gig, of course. It had everything. You could eat 15 different kinds of grub in the food court, look at millions of toys in dozens of stores and, most importantly, spend hours in the noisy, illuminating circus that was an arcade in the 1980s.
When I wasn’t at my parents’ booths, I was in the arcade. Problem was, I was 10. I didn’t have a penny to my name, let alone a quarter to play any video games.
For a few days, I simply watched other people play Super Mario Bros., Wild Gunman, Track & Field, Rush’n Attack, Cabal and countless other classics that became a rite of passage for so many kids during that era.
When I was tired of watching, I finally gathered enough gumption to ask my Dad if I could have a quarter. I figured I had a decent chance considering he kept a giant cup of coins in the booth to make change for customers.
“Video games are a waste of money, but you can have one quarter, and that’s it,” Dad said. “And don’t be gone all day in case I need to go to the bathroom.”
I wasn’t gone long. Unless you were a prodigy, the average game lasted maybe two minutes. Naturally, I stayed for another 15 minutes so that the old man couldn’t say, “I told you so.”
I left several times throughout the day, destined for the bright lights and flurry of activity. Eventually, I started sneaking quarters when Dad looked away. Keep in mind that my father spent more than a decade incarcerated for stealing. It was clear from day one that he would not tolerate his boys becoming thieves, even for small change.
I took quarters out of that change cup to the tune of a few dollars. I was careful not to expose myself by leaving a half-empty cup on his work bench. If nothing else, I picked up some semblance of intelligence from the old man. Or so I thought.
Dad went about the business of selling leather goods for the rest of the show without mention of the missing quarters. I just assumed I’d gotten away with it. But it bothered me for months. Several times after the show, I thought about being honest.
Finally, the following spring, I went to my father and said, “Dad, I have something to tell you.” I took a deep breath and finished, “I was taking quarters out of the change cup during the Christmas show. I’m sorry.”
Dad looked down at me and smiled. “I knew you were, son. And I knew you’d tell me, because you’re a good kid. If you’re telling me now, then I know it’s been eating at you, and I want you to remember that the next time you think about lying. You be a man of your word. Always.”
I found out years later that Dad kept a close count on the change cup, at least the quarters. Just like I realized he was counting the Natty Lights every time he left for a craft show while we were in high school.
And how did Christmas go that year? Same as always. With Mom and Dad gone during most of the holidays, there wasn’t much under out tree when we went to sleep on Christmas Eve. As we usually did as kids, Dan and I woke up to a living room full of gifts, most which we wrapped in Dad’s trademark newspaper print.
We found out 30 years later that he’d driven three hours home in a van with a faulty heater. That happened to be a night when the wind chill was minus-25 degrees.
“That’s the coldest I’ve ever been, driving that old van down the highway with no heat,” Dad said. “But it was worth it. I got home at midnight, we wrapped the presents and I got to see my boys.”
I felt even worse about the quarters when I heard that story. But I’ve never felt bad about the Natty Lights.