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Ralphio Wreckson II considered himself to be a bottomless well of mistakes. Some might argue that his disposition was the problem. Plenty of the people waltzing in and out of his life had at some point given him a lecture on the positive effects of an attitude adjustment. He was too pessimistic, too hot-headed, too aggressive. He was too rowdy. Too messy. Too selfish. Too much. Ralphio, ‘Ralph’ to most, absolutely hated how much he was- had always been. It felt to him like the only thing everyone could agree on was that if he was something, he was a lot of that something. The foster parents and orphanage caretakers could never handle how much of a problem he’d been. They couldn’t manage his tantrums as a child, his mood swings as a teen, and they certainly couldn’t direct him anywhere positive at the start of his adult life. No one had ever swooped in to guide him along the right path. There was no Sean Miguire to grip him into a warm embrace and tell him this wasn’t his fault. He didn’t ask to be the bastard child of an alcoholic deadbeat, or kicked around California through his childhood; those were just the cards he was dealt. Although if Ralph was honest, failing out of High School probably didn’t help grab him a better hand in the poker game of life. The people around him never seemed to think much of his intelligence anyway. He was built like a linebacker and showed more interest in property damage than much else. Ralph was never one to crack open a book when he could instead crack open a beer swiped from his foster parents’ fridge. The boy had a penchant for nursing a cold one and tossing bricks at the side of a local drug-den. He’d even managed to bring the house down eventually- but that had involved an incident with a “borrowed” pickup. In another life, maybe he’d have made a pretty good demolitions expert. Maybe. But Ralph was a lot of things right now. Currently, he was a lot big, a lot grumpy, and a lot exhausted with his life. The muted slap of a mop on the arcade’s carpeted floor gave him an instant of respite from the endless beeping and sirens of the game cabinets surrounding him. 8-bit jingles and tapping buttons and shrieking children rattled through the air incessantly. Ralph often wondered how Mr. Litwak met this atmosphere with grinning enthusiasm on a daily basis. The man was well into his late 50s, yet his zest for life remained. His Family Fun Center had been around for decades and was in no danger of closing. He’d welcomed almost three generations into his establishment of laughs and merriment. Mr. Litwak remembered his diligent customers, kept track of who had what records in what games, and always encouraged the kids to at least try the myriad of games he kept in hopes there’d be a favorite for everyone who walked through his doors. He’d mused on more than one occasion that if he could, he’d free up all the games. No quarters needed. The old-timer just wanted to see happy children. It was admirable to Ralph. He owed Mr. Litwak a lot for this job. Which was hard to believe considering Ralph was presently mopping vomit off a vibrant blue carpet. He’d no doubt have to grab the carpet cleaner, but he found it helped to get the excess off before it crusted. Perhaps he was much too familiar with how this system worked. Ralph was just glad it wasn’t another birthday party incident. He didn’t think he’d have the strength to scrub another mess of regurgitated cake frosting off the arcade cabinets. He’d always hated chocolate. Dropping the mop back into its bucket, he rolled the cart in front of the stain to keep the kids away while he grabbed the carpet cleaner. On the way to the supply closet, a comet of mint green darted in front of him, catching him off balance. He toppled forward, but reoriented himself before he fell. Ralph jerked his head in the direction of the energetic brat. “Hey kid! No running!” He bellowed after them. The child payed him no mind, hopping into the unoccupied seat of a candy-themed racing game. Ralph rolled his eyes and set to his work, vaguely noticing a group of three stalking toward the mint-dressed kid. Stupid brats. No, that wasn’t right-- Ralph didn’t hate kids per-se. He just didn’t like them all that much. They were too loud and excitable. Too wild. Too overwhelming. Too much everything Ralph had never been allowed to be. Ugh. Kids. He’d much prefer a job free of them. Some days, becoming a nameless cog in the basement of some manufacturing plant seemed more desirable than constantly chasing after these impish youngsters. But as an ex-convict, beggars can’t be choosers. Ralph’s head throbbed more and more as he lurked back to the vomit-stained area of carpet. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe deep like the old prison therapist had instructed. He counted to ten, then resumed his work. The moment of mindfulness seemed to help a little. Until he plugged in the carpet cleaner and a surge of electricity sprang from the outlet. The gaming cabinets along the south wall flashed off for a brief second, startling the players out of their concentrated trances. Surprise morphed into angered yelling before Ralph could even process what had happened. Mr. Litwak appeared in an instant.“Oh, I’m sorry children! Stay where you are so I can refund your quarters!” Litwak went about calming the disheartened group. He cooed and empathized with lost scores, apologizing for the damage. When he reached the candy racing game, Ralph saw him drop fifty cents into the palms of three hands. None of which belonged to the kid in the mint-green hoodie. His brow furrowed and he looked around. Just catching sight of the kid bursting through the double doors of the arcade. In hindsight, he probably should have said something about the $1.50 Litwak gave away. Eh. Ralph reasoned the old man could handle the loss. At closing, Litwak mentioned calling an electrician to take a look at the “electric circuit things” along the south wall of the arcade. Ralph nodded numbly as he tossed empty paper cups and used plates into the garbage. They parted soon after that, Litwak to go home and rest while Ralph hit the bar. Tapper’s happy hour was just about to start.