I only ever met one kind of prophet in my life.
The older kid at the arcade that could beat the game in a handful of quarters.
He took us to the promised land of closing scenes and end credits.
I met him again today.
He’s bald and fat and has four girls in their teens.
They just kept playing on their phone as he asked what topping they wanted on their pizza.
I wanted to tell those kids that games, like those on their phones, filled a store-sized room at the mall.
That their father could dodge bullets, high kick thugs, out run cops, fight off aliens, save the princess and come back to life before his mom came to pick him up.
All the kids and teens in that room stood behind their dad, holding their breath and cursing in between.
The Indiana Joystick of flipping burgers.
But every now and then he’d get a day off from the hamburger stand, and fulfill his obligation to show us the way.
He exited the pizza shop with his girls and pulled a parking ticket from under his windshield wiper.
Not enough time on the parking meter.
He ran out of quarters.
Marc Alexander Valle ©2019