Can you find the way to the end of this modern maze?
The first thing I really remember was a sudden chill creeping up my spine as the bus came to a stop in the middle of nowhere, and we were herded out by an annoyed driver who looked like he couldn't wait to put his vehicle in reserve and undo the whole trip.
My unlikely companions and I scrambled towards the loading area just to the side of the rust bucket that had taken us to that point and basically fought for our miserable luggage, sentient rats looking for the right item to sink their claws in... I was never so happy to have been given an obnoxiously bright, neon yellow duffel bag to go with my backpack, because finding anything else at two AM in the middle of a moonless winter night wasn't going to be easy. Regardless, there was no time for contemplation or pondering as the driver then raised his arm in a sort of one-fingered Roman salute and pointed to something in the near distance: an island of cheap lights that emerged from the fog like a wicked apparition, surrounded by deep sea of darkness: a terminal so small that it couldn't even fit or service our double-decker and that looked abandoned -- this was quite the shock because, you see, we had all left from the largest, busiest, fanciest terminal in the whole province --if not country--, a juggernaut made out of mortar and brick that resembled more a mall for giant busses than a simple station. The contrast was both jarring and telling as we made our way towards the light with the kind of resigned walking reserved for the gallows.
Actually getting inside that scrappy building, that man-made mirage didn't do much to ease my stomach (by that point in the middle of a full-blown revolution), as the first thing I saw upon entering was a row of TVs playing the news for an invisible audience, a couple of vending machines that looked like they hadn't been restocked since the nineties; and a bored employee ignoring it all, eyes glued to a yellowed, dog-eared magazine printed before I was even born and clearly on its hundredth read through.
I gathered all the courage that my 12-year-old self could muster and asked the half-dead man on the other side of the glass for directions, whereupon he handed me a crumpled map and sent me on my way, not caring one bit if I knew how to actually get there or that it was so late at night that not even cops were doing their rounds. I took that as both a challenge and an insult as I shouldered my bags and exited the place for the final time, casting a longing glance at the vending machines that had looked so awful and uninviting just a few moments earlier... there is nothing like a sugar rush to help you get your bearings, but I just didn't trust myself not to throw up in the middle of the grassy area surrounding that accursed building as my footsteps echoed into eternity as the only sounds present, for no man nor beast was willing to follow me down my selected path towards a goal pointed like an ink stain on a cheap piece of paper printed by some tourism agency that probably didn't know where that was, either.
No horror movie EVER starts like this... Right?
The silence of my journey didn't last long, though, for I soon came across a deserted playground just off the road, a ghastly spectacle that was made all the scarier because of a vicious wind that was rampaging through the swing sets and making them play a demonic song, a high-pitched groan delivered as the chains holding the whole thing together screamed in agony against frames in desperate need of oiling. It was as if nature herself was hellbent on signalling my entering into a slasher film of sorts.
I tried my best to push those thoughts aside as quickly as possible as my body began sounding a different (and very real) kind of alarm: my lungs were getting overworked quite a bit with each step I took into the unknown, not only because the cold was very intense at that time of year (and it was unheard-of weather for me) but also because the altitude was rising, silently, underfoot. By the time I was out of the boonies and into the suburbs, my body was already exhausted, and my steps became very unsure with every little hill and slight elevation I pushed them towards, sliding as if my shoes had been replaced by cheap rollerblades on the edge of breaking apart... the only comforting thing to know was the fact that I seemed to be steering clear of the many hills whose giant sillouthes projected themselves, menacingly, against the empty sky.
As expected, I got lost while trying to find my way around a sleeping neighborhood near city limits and ended up overshooting my planned route entirely, finding myself in the middle of the surrounding farmland, a breathtaking spectacle in which beautiful colonial farmhouses pooled light from their lower windows into the fields below, outlining the many shapes of a myriad of domestic animals either grazing silently or dreaming profoundly as if in a warning: "Creatures of the day shouldn't be up at this hour, boy!"
Thankfully, my map came to the rescue when I was able to find a nameplate bolted to a rock just to the side of a dirt road and the inscription matched something in there, so I just had to turn around and undo my last fifteen minutes of blind walking as the surrounding city began to wake up in time for the pre-dawn rituals that make this kind of living into the most relaxing thing ever for those born to both endure it and enjoy it.
Breakfast of champions.
About an hour later, my breathless and sweaty self managed to locate the building I had been aiming for since the very moment I had stepped out of the bus, an elegant one-story residence growing on the shadow of a large hill and the impressive castle crowning it, giving me the distinct impression of a mushroom springing up from the roots of an ancient tree.
But because I was 12 (and proud of it, too), I didn't even announce my presence for a solid fifteen minutes after reaching the very doorstep, even though I was exhausted, out-of-breath and freezing -- I just didn't know what was the correct approach there! Should I knock and make everyone jump out of their beds, thinking that a burglar had come to collect his underserved loot? Should I ring the bell instead, even though that would cause a ruckus? And... weren't they expecting me? I seriously didn't know what to do! First impressions (I had been taught until the very words were drilled into my brain) were everything, and I wasn't about to blow them after conquering many of my fears during that cursed night!
Thankfully, I didn't have to choose any option because the door eventually opened on its own and my dad stepped out to greet me on the freezing air, his breath still sporting its signature smell of cheap cigarettes and instant coffee, his body clad on an old t-shirt and gym pants that made him look both older and fatter than I remembered him... this was the first time I was seeing the guy in nearly two years, and it shocked me into silence until he gave me an awkward (yet affectionate) hug and led me inside, whereupon he offered to cook me some sausages he had in storage and to lead me to my room, outlining all the fun he had planned for the next week or so. But, as always, the universe had other plans.
No sooner I had sat in front of a steaming plate of Vienna sausages that a set of remarkably eager and small footsteps sounded just beyond the hall. I remember wanting to ask my dad why he hadn't told me that he had gotten a dog when a blur of movement made me jerk my head away from his face and back into
the aforementioned hallway, where a tiny figure came stumbling near me and gave me a sweet, shy, and surprisingly strong hug, which I was too startled to return until I could get my best "what the hell, man?" face wiped off my features.
Probably the biggest "well-meaning relative" trap ever.
I had many questions that needed answering as the "hamster wheels" inside my skull seemed to be trying for an Olympic record, but before any question of my own could be delivered, my dad introduced me to Stefi, my two-year-old sister.
My Sister.
My. Sister.
What?
I was an older brother? When did that happen? Why hadn't he told me? I was both shocked and enraged by these developments, the sausages long forgotten as something dark and bitter was shocked awake inside of me... but this tiny thing just smiled at me with the cutest eyes I had ever seen, brushed brown curls out of her forehead and started talking a mile a minute, drowning my every protest before they could even reach my lips.
And just like that, a huge gap had been bridged for the second time in as many decades.
But this girl proved herself my little sister immediately by stumbling to the TV and handing me the controllers of the family's "PolyStation" (an NES clone made to look like the PS1) and then began to giggle uncontrollably as she asked me to play "Aro" ("Mario") with her, just like I had pestered my older sister to when I was around her age.
This unexpected role reversal from my own childhood filled me with the kind of warm feelings that no amount of coffee or candy could replicate as she cheered my every tap of the button and gave me a lot of unintelligible advise as I cruised through the first world, a map I hadn't seen since the untimely death of my own Famicom many years before she was even the outline of an idea. And when I managed to hit the flagpole near the top? Her cheering was so intense that they had to actually calm her down. I was in paradise and I didn't even know how I had gotten there.
But having a two-year-old up and fully awake at three in the morning was surefire recipe for disaster, so I purposefully killed myself a few worlds later and then quietly turned the whole console off, but not before promising that we would return to "kick Bowser's butt" many times over, until she finally believed me. Still, she proved herself my blood for the second time that night by grabbing a piece of paper and insisting on another activity before agreeing to lie down for a few hours: she had wanted me to trace coins with a pencil, and we did just that for the next half-an-hour as her giggles filled the air and every bit of loose change on my pocket was put to the pencil until its very tip broke off, and we had to call it quits, much to the adults' relief.
I can still hear her little happy dances whenever I "accomplished" this...
We played a ton of Super Mario Bros that very week, making it our "nighttime ritual" whenever the cold grew fangs and forced us back inside, always making it a little farther as the "rust" of a seven-year-long absence from Mushroom Kingdom began to dissolve. I even took enormous pleasure on teaching her how to handle my beloved Luigi (the character I always played as when gaming with my older sister), watching with huge amounts of both love and relief as she didn't seem to mind dying to the first Goombas and Koopa-Troopas (which we called "owls" and "turtles") time and again.
But just because she could take it all like a champ, didn't mean I would, too -- I remember her sheer delight whenever I would get properly angry when dying to the same pair of Hammer Bros ("monos cortinidiños") and Bullet Bills (I don't think we nicknamed these) over and over starting on the eighth world, the same one my older sister always died on when we played as toddlers. I guess some things never change.
It's funny because I remember doing a ton of things with Stefi during that week, activities ranging from taking her fishing with dad and I to playing with her dolls, but the only thing she seems to really remember are those manic Super Mario Bros sessions (and the fact that she had launched into a proper tantrum when she had wanted to play Duck Hunt next and the cheap "Zapper" broke, the trigger snapping clean off during the first round).
I have always thought of videogames as bonding tools, but that was actually the first time I was old enough to properly appreciate that magic in motion: my "secret" sister and I should have been resentful strangers even at those tender ages, it should have been the most awkward thing ever and doom the week to fail... but we couldn't even think about the implications of hugging and playing with someone we didn't know even existed until we literally run into one another because we were too busy enjoying some sacred common ground -- how could we be mad at one another or question anything when that happy music (the true anthem of childhood) and those bright graphics filled our every silence and gave us something to do? It made the transition from strangers to siblings to friends almost imperceptible as Stefi began watching me play from afar while holding her milk bottle on day one and then spent every other day starting from the third on my lap, trying to tap the buttons (and giggling uncontrollably while doing so), as I steered poor Mario away from danger... and I'm sure she was just trying to get me to die so she could take over as the second part of this dynamic duo.
We still play with these characters just... A little differently.
Siblings indeed.
I chose to title this article "Somebody's Hero" not because my (alleged) skills in the art of videogames had made me a god in Stefi's eyes, but because the hero role was actually shared between the two of us -- even getting to travel to see my dad in his new home had required me to partially collapse the bridge with my mom, and I was stressing the whole way over (you know it's bad when you actually watch the whole movie in those tiny, incredibly blurry screens). But Stefi's presence, her constant chatter, the fact that she was always hovering like a spunky shadow fused to my own eased me into whatever this was with every word we exchanged and every laugh we shared, even as we both seemed to know that this was the end of an illusion built around us and shattered by the very situation we had been shielded from without our knowledge or consent.
Yes, my baby sister was my hero. And I like to think that I was hers, too.
Too bad neither of us could be Peach's hero, though XD
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