Sometimes I wonder why our hobby is so difficult?
I mean, there are the things you expect to be tough--moving the games
and finding places to store them--and then there are the things that you
learn are tough, fixing games and finding that right game or part.
But why is it often so hard to buy a game, even when the owner wants to
sell?
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I've been looking for an "Atari Force: Liberator" game for several
years, I've not even seen one since 1983 or so.
Of course as I say this, I realize that Pete will probably reply that
he's got a half-dozen in a basement somewhere that I am welcome to have,
including two that I worked right next to for three weeks--this is
actually possible tonight, as my lack-of-sleep (lack of time to sleep)
over the last four days has reached the point that I am now experiencing
significant memory parity errors.
Anyway, after searching all around and running a standard query on ebay
for years, last night I found a Liberator here in Salt Lake! She's been
advertising it for a month.
I write the woman, and after I get to work this morning she replies to
say that the game is still available, and she'll be there with it until
8:00PM.
I was out sick basically all last week, so I'm really behind at work. I
was planning to run out there at 2:00PM, but by the time I looked up it
was 6:00PM and I was dead-tired. But I did not want to miss the chance
to get it.
So out I go to Redwood Road and 2xxx-something South, driving my
mini-Blazer. Little street of combined light industrial and residential
areas. I'm trying to find the house (some don't have numbers) and I
think I've gone too far, so as I start to turn around in front of a
flunky little auto shop, my car starts going bumpity bumpity bump on the
right-front tire.
I get out, and it's not flat. It must be the road.
I drive down the street some more. Bumpity bumpity bump.
I turn around and drive down the other side of the street again.
Bumpity bumpity bump.
Hmmm. The first time I drove down this part of the street, this was NOT
happening.
I get out, and realize I've driven over a very large automobile battery
cable clamp, the sort one uses to replace an damaged cable end. There's
like an inch-long #10 setscrew that burrows down into the battery cable
to make the mechanical and electrical connection.
But in this case, the screw was sticking all the way out and has
burrowed down into my tire like a 20th century caltrop.
I try to remove it, but can't pull it out easily. I then realize that
once I do pull it out, the tire will probably deflate to the hub and
I'll be in an even worse situation. I need to change it.
So here I am. It's winter, in the dark at 7:00PM, on an unlighted wet
muddy sidestreet in what is not exactly the safest part of town and I
have a flat tire while I am about to pick up an arcade game.
Oh, and the only coat I have is my good one.
So I decide to find the house first, to let the seller know that I'm
around and will be with her in a moment, but I need to change my tire
first (I'd rather jack up an empty truck than a full one, plus the tools
and jack are in the back of the Blazer where the game would block them).
I find what must be the house. As I walk up, I see an Atari Liberator
is sitting in the auto shop (I don't know the name of the shop; I'll
call it "Flunkie's").
So I walk over to Flunkie's to explain the situation. I see Liberator
is working, a bit more torn up on the control panel then advertised but
in overall good shape. They tell me it works great.
Any Liberator is a good one, as far as I care. They even push the start
button and I see the game is functional.
I tell them what happened, and explain I'm going to change the tire
first. There's like five people at the garage (I think it's a
grandfather, father, and two adult grandsons. I don't know if the woman
is a daughter or an inlaw, but she's certainly related).
They did not look dangerous. But they did not look very compotent, either.
Anyway, three of them come out to look at the tire, and mention that
they have supplies to fix the tire--though none of them offers to help
change it. Which is okay with me, as Liberator is jammed in the garage
like a sardine surrounded with large metal crap (the entire garage is
full of rusty chunks of metal, transmissions, wheels, etc) and I don't
mind one bit if they extract it while I work on the tire. I have no
intention of moving their rear axle.
So I get out my flashlight (_now_ the batteries decide to die...) and
work to get the car jacked up and the old tire pulled off. My "good"
jeans now have 1/4 inch of black Forever Dirt in the knees.
I go back to the truck and struggle to lower the spare tire in the
dark--I can't seem to get it down far enough and the jack handle keeps
falling out of the crank socket.
It takes me forever. Now I can't get the spare off of the little
cable-thing that holds it under the truck. I have to lie down in my
white (what other color would I have been wearing today?) shirt--one of
my favorite shirts--and untangle the cable. I absorb much black water.
I get the spare off and pause to breathe for a minute with both the bad
tire and the spare propped up against my rear bumper.
Now, the entire crew of Flunkie's arrives with the Liberator, dragged
across the gravel-and-dirt driveway (they DID have a hand truck, I'll
give them that). They also had to remove several vehicles from the
driveway to make extraction possible. The front yard of the home is
full of nonfunctional vehicles.
Woman: "They can probably patch that tire. They've got the stuff"
(Grandson #2 had already suggested that they could fix the tire when he
came out earlier. I explained that I would let the tire shop fix it, as
it was under the road hazard warranty).
Me: "I'll let the tire shop fix it. That's why I have the road hazard
warranty."
Now it's time for The Auto Expert Commentary.
Grandson #2 starts pointing out the cable clamp to the remaining family
members, and is impressed just how stuck it is in the tire.
Grandson #1: "Where did you pick that up?"
Me: "Right there." (pointing to middle of the road).
I wonder how far away they think I could have picked it up, since
driving around with a 1x1x2" chunk of lead sticking in the bottom of the
front tire makes driving rather challenging.
The whole family (except Son, who disappeared after inspecting my tire
never to be seen again) is now standing around me in a semicircle,
blocking the little light leaking from their garage, and chain-smoking.
I have fairly significant asthma, and I can't stand smoking for that
reason...plus smoking caused the cancer that killed my grandmother when
I was a teenager. In fact, I disappointed a _very_ friendly (though
rather intoxicated) lady at a party last Saturday night when I explained
that her smoking made a relationship or even a "single night interlude"
impossible for me.
If one considers How Long It Has Been since I've indulged in that sort
of activity (multiplied by how long she sat on my thigh squeezing it
between her legs) you can imagine how much I must hate cigarette smoke.
Grandson #1: "We can patch that tire. We've got a patch kit here"
Me: "I'll let the tire shop fix it. That's why I have the road hazard
warranty."
(I was starting to have moments of Deja Vu)
Grandson #2: "Where did you pick it up?????"
Me: "Right there." (pointing to middle of the road again).
Grandfather: "It must be that nasty old lady across the street. She is
a real bitch about people parking in front of her house. I wouldn't be
surprised if she threw it out there just so you would run over it".
I decide to put the bad tire back under the car, and sort of go into
_Ignore_Mode_, while Grandfather keeps complaining about the evils of
Nasty-Old-Lady-Across-The-Street.
It's now 7:30PM, I'm cold, wet, and even more tired. I think the
chances of an elderly woman tossing an industrial battery cable clamp
into the middle of the road as a deliberate act of sabotage are fairly
low, while the odds of Flunkie's Garage losing it out there are pretty high.
I'm struggling to get the bad tire on the little cable-hanger-thing so I
can crank it up under the truck. I remember that last time I changed a
tire, it was so difficult to get the "fancy" rim from the bad tire on
that cable hanger that I just put the tire in the back of the Blazer.
But the Liberator has to go there, so I've got to get the tire under the
truck.
I squat down in the mud and Grandson #2 kneels down next to me so as to
give me the maximum effect of his cigarette. Ahh....LSMFT. The woman
drops her spent one on the road and lights another.
I start cranking up the bad tire.
Grandfather: "You want a jack? We've got a floor jack?"
Me: "The car is already jacked up. I've already pulled this tire off
(pointing to the tire laying on the ground with the chunk of metal
sticking out of the tread)".
Grandson #2: "You're turning it the wrong way now! It's going up!"
Me: "I want it to go up. This is the bad tire. The other tire is the
good tire."
Grandson #2: "We can probably patch it"
This is now the fourth time they have offered, and the second time
Grandson #2 has offered. I suspect the patch job would not be free, and
from the conditions of their workshop I am afraid they would lose my rim
and quite possibly the tire if it sat still for more than six minutes.
Me: "I'll take it to the tire shop. It's under warranty".
I start to crank up the tire. My poor skill is showing as I struggle
with it. Grandson #2 jumps under the truck to help lift the tire (which
I did appreciate), but it caused me significant worry about the car
falling off of of the jack (which is sitting on the wet muddy cracked
asphalt) and crushing him. From the angle, it should not happen (in
fact, if it fell off of the jack it would probably tilt up in the back),
but it made me uncomfortable from a safety standpoint.
Grandfather: "It will be a lot easier to jack it up with a floor jack.
A lot faster. I've got a floor jack."
Me: "It's already jacked up. It is sitting on the jack now."
Now I know almost nothing about cars percentage-wise. But I think it
would be obvious to anyone that if I am changing a car tire and already
have two tires on the ground, one of which is the bad tire (and they've
all commented on it) that the car must be already on a jack. It just
stands to reason.
Grandfather: "Well, okay. But I think you would find it easier to jack
up in you used a floor jack".
Frankly, a floor jack would probably be safer, but any floor jack from
that place would probably lose its hydraulics while under my car. And I
have zero desire to lower the car onto its brake disc and then jack it
back up again.
I finish cranking the tire back up, and go to put the spare on the car.
Suddenly, at the prospect of helping me, the crowd all disappears back
into the garage.
Holding the dimming 3-cell mag light under my arm, I manage to get the
spare onto the car and the lug nuts tightened. I lower the car off of
the jack. Three family members reappear to watch me try to fold up the
jack and fit it into the side panel on the back of the blazer.
If Grandfather had reappeared at this point with his suggestion that the
floor jack would be easier, I probably would have screamed and driven
off without the Liberator.
Getting the jack re-stowed is a pain under normal circumstances (it fits
into the little compartment over the wheel well like a puzzle), and
worse with an audience blowing smoke at me. I get it back in.
Grandfather reappears.
Grandfather: "The game works great. All the coin things work. You can
probably make a bunch of money. Everyone loves that game"
Me: "It was sort of a flop for Atari. That's why I want it; I'm a
collector and nobody else wants this game."
Grandson #?: "It's probably worth a bunch of money. It works fine"
Other Grandson: "We thought the kids would like it but they don't like
it because it has that ball" (referring to the trakball).
Grandfather: "The game works great!"
I pay Woman. I back up the truck so they can load the game (they did
load it for me, which was nice).
Me: "You'll have to load it on the side, or it won't fit. I've done
this a lot"
Grandfather: "Do you want it on the back or on the side?"
Me: "You'll have to load it on the side, or it won't fit. I've moved
about 30 games in this truck". Actually, probably more like 60 moves.
Grandfather: "I don't think the tailgate will go up".
Me: "It won't. I'll strap it to the tailgate hooks with ratchet straps
and tie the glass down".
Woman: "That will be a cold ride!"
Grandfather: (motioning to game) "That's a tall one. I don't think the
tailgate will go up".
Me: "It won't. I'll tie it in with ratchet straps".
They load the game. I pull from the inside while they push from the
outside. I yell stop just as it touches the front seats.
Grandson #2: "You want us to push any more?"
Me: "That's it"
Grandfather: "We're almost in far enough to close the tailgate"
(The game is about 4" sticking out)
Me: "That's it. It hits the back of the seats and the console. It's
fine. I do this all the time"
Grandson #1: "If you move that other seat up, we can push it up all the
way".
Me: "No, it hits the center console. It's fine. Really. I've done
this a lot."
They leave. I take several gulps of fresh air. I tie the load in and
secure the back glass. I notice that they managed to tear off a piece
of the T-molding while moving it out to the car. No biggie. It hangs
loose from the side.
I realize that the tire iron is still on the ground and I can't reach
the compartment, so I open the front passenger-side door so I can put it
on the floormat. My favorite coat falls out onto the street in the mud.
I get back into the car and drive off.
I made it!
It probably cost me too much money and was a nightmare, but I've got my
Liberator.
For now, I decide to leave it at Pete's Warehouse. I drive down. Some
jerk has his car parked blocking the loading ramp, but that's okay.
I've got my Liberator. I can adapt.
I get my handtruck and go to unload the game.
The front right corner is missing. It was there in the garage. I know,
because that's the side I examined. Somehow when they unloaded the game
from the garage just an hour earlier, they broke off the corner...that's
probably when they tore off the T-molding.
Sigh. I unload the game, wheel it through the snow and up the ramp into
the warehouse.
Hooray!
I wheel it into one of the "antechambers" for storage until I can get
down to work on it. As I ease the game into position, suddenly my
handtruck lurches to the left and the Liberator starts to tip over,
falling right into Pete's cocktail Defender.
I knew that when it lands, that heavy Atari cabinet would reduce the
Defender to slabs of particle board.
At the very least, it would certainly shattered the glass and the
monitor. Not to mention doing great damage to the Liberator.
I threw all my weight into the side of the game and pushed it back onto
the base.
I looked, and there's like a 3" drop into a small round floor drain
right there in the center of the room. I had never noticed it. But
it's the perfect Burmese Tiger Trap for a handtruck wheel.
I manage to get the game over to a wall outlet and plug it in. It comes
right up, just like it was at their shop. Minor miracle, considering I
ignored Chris' Arcade Rule #3:
"Always open a game you've just moved before you plug it in, in
particular if you just bought it. There is a loose quarter SOMEWHERE in
every arcade cabinet, even if you think you already removed every last
one. There's one more that will have fallen out from that crack between
the baseplate and the side panel, and it is even now sitting wedged
behind the PCB ready to blow the whole thing when you turn it on".
No keys.
I don't have the bloody keys. I was going to ask about them, but I
forgot with all the tire-hassle.
It's not on freeplay.
I'm not going back down there. I'll need respiratory therapy. And I'll
probably get arrested for indecent assault with a floor jack.
Fine. I noticed the lock was missing from the back. I remove the
screws, open the back and give myself a couple credits.
I go to play Liberator for the first time in 24 years. I know it's a
pretty cruddy game, but (1) it's rare, (2) it's Atari, (3) it's the only
released game in the planned "Atari Force" sequence. For those of you
who don't remember, "Atari Force" was a comic book series put out by DC
Comics that was inserted in select Atari 2600 cartridge boxes (to get
all the issues, you have to buy the games). In my Atari collection
(somewhere) I have several sheets of the original hand-drawn comic book
master artwork for the series. I never did like comic books, but I do
love Atari.
Of course, the Crash Of 1983 put an end to Atari Force.
I press start. The game begins.
It's totally unplayable. I've used what I thought were the worlds
cruddiest trakballs. And we all know that any game we buy (in
particular the 3" and larger trakballs) will need a rebuild kit. But
this one must have chunks of gravel glued to the rollers. I can't even
move to the right, the ball won't mechanically roll more than 2mm.
I now realize that there is someone who lies more than an operator: the
fine staff of Flunkie's Garage.
How many times did Grandfather assure me of the games perfect function?
Of course, I would have bought it anyway. Unless it was on fire or
converted to Kung Fu Commando Warriors, it was coming home with me.
But what a jerk, to continue to discuss how perfect it was when the
thing was totally unusable. After years of dealing with operators, I
figure any transaction that does not have me considering the application
of KY jelly to be a successful one, so I'm still pretty happy.
I'll order new rollers. And after a week or two to let it offgas (I was
getting a nicotine contact high just trying to play the game), I'll
clean it up, reattach the AR-II board that's now hanging free from the
harness, and replace the trackball rollers and bearings.
Oh. And I'll remove that loose quarter from the bottom of the cabinet.
The one in the pile of woodshavings, spiderwebs and those two washers.
You know the one.
-Chris
