A Story I wrote about what a 10yr old me enjoyed
The Laundromat and the Black Tiger
(by Michael “Skwirl” Moon)
Every Saturday morning in the late ’70s and early ’80s was almost exactly the same. You’d wake up around 6:45, pour a bowl of cereal, and park yourself in front of the TV for the sacred ritual of Saturday morning cartoons. Where you lived didn’t matter much—cable or not, everyone got the same lineup.
It was the golden age: Looney Tunes, Popeye, The Real Ghostbusters, Super Friends, Captain Caveman, Fat Albert—and a dozen more that rotated through the years. Later came the after-school heroes: G.I. Joe, Transformers, M.A.S.K. But that’s another story.
Saturday mornings belonged to the almighty cartoons and the kids who worshiped them, cereal boxes at their side and toys scattered across the carpet. By 10:30 or 11:00, the cartoons faded out, and it was time to head outside and do what kids did in the ’80s—live.
If we didn’t have a scheme or game planned, we’d be collecting soda bottles for deposits. My best friend Aaron and I would scour our houses for strays, then roam the neighborhood knocking on doors, asking if anyone had a few bottles to spare. It was surprising how fast a couple of kids could collect a few dollars’ worth.
We’d load our haul into an old cart and make our way to Alliance Market, a hole-in-the-wall store at the corner of Alliance Road and Spear Avenue. It wasn’t much—three double-sided aisles and a butcher counter in the back—but it was our destination.
We lived about a mile away, in the Pacific Manor neighborhood, just inland from the beach. Between us and the shoreline stretched dairy farms, hay fields, and grazing cattle. Nothing glamorous, just the backdrop of a small-town childhood. A trail behind Pacific Union Elementary cut across one of the farms, and it saved us the long way around—a secret passage to treasure.
Each 16-ounce bottle was worth a nickel, and a liter fetched a dime. For a couple of nine- and ten-year-olds, that was a solid wage.
The guy behind the counter—I think his name was Eric—always knew why we were there. He’d haul out a battered old wire cart that probably came from the Safeway across town, and we’d dump our bottles in for him to count. Eric never shorted us, though I’m sure Aaron would’ve caught him if he tried—he was a whiz with numbers.
When he asked if we wanted to “cash out or shop,” we always answered the same:
“Shop.”
We’d head straight to the back, past the butcher’s counter, to the cooler with the drinks and lunch meat. Our holy grail was the New York Seltzer—fifty cents a bottle. I always grabbed raspberry. Aaron switched it up, but usually went for root beer.
Then came the candy aisle. Candy bars on the second shelf, penny and nickel treasures down below: Jolly Ranchers (never the Fire ones!), Tootsie Rolls, Lemonheads in their little white boxes. We’d pile up our loot—Jolly Ranchers of every flavor, a box of Lemonheads, maybe Boston Baked Beans—and bring them to Eric, who’d ring us up and hand over the leftover deposit money.
Usually, we left with our arms full of sugar and a crisp five-dollar bill in our pockets. Heaven.
Outside, we’d drink our seltzers, unwrap a few candies, and decide what to do next. If time was short, we’d save our cash for the pharmacy later in the week. But if we had time… we headed down Alliance Road another mile to a small laundromat.
Now, this wasn’t just any laundromat. Sure, it had the usual rows of washers and dryers humming away, but the real magic was in the back room. About the size of a bedroom, it glowed with the lights and sounds of three arcade machines.
Pac-Man was always there, cheerful and familiar. Afterburner stood beside it—usually broken, joystick abused by too many overzealous pilots. But in the far corner stood our machine: a black cabinet adorned with gothic art—an armored warrior wielding a spiked ball weapon from his arm, skeletons chasing behind him, the bold title across the top in a jagged font: BLACK TIGER.
Its soundtrack was a siren song, pulling us in like sailors to a mermaid’s call. The game’s world was dark and beautiful, full of hidden treasures and pixelated monsters.
We’d flip a coin to see who went first. One would play, the other acting as wingman—calling out enemies, traps, and secrets. “Watch the ooze! Wall to the right! Hidden key!” Hours would vanish in that glowing cave of beeps and light.
I can’t even guess how many quarters we spent there—probably half my weekly allowance—but every coin was worth it. We never did a single load of laundry, but we must’ve cycled through a thousand lives on that machine. When we finally ran out time or quarters we would head home and talk about whatever was important. Always knowing that we would head back the next time we had money and the time to play that wonderful box of electronic entertainment.
Years later, after I’d moved away, I came back to visit. I stopped by that laundromat just to see if Black Tiger was still there. The sign was faded, the machines older. I walked inside and asked about the arcade. The man at the counter said the back room had been walled off and turned into storage.
For a long moment, I just stood there. Part of me wished I hadn’t come back—because seeing it gone felt like losing a little piece of my childhood.
I still play Black Tiger today—on my computer, on handhelds, wherever I can find it. And every time I hear that opening theme, I’m right back there in that laundromat corner, with Aaron by my side, raspberry seltzer in hand, chasing skeletons through pixelated caves.
Maybe someday, I’ll own a real Black Tiger cabinet.
Goals, right?
