Dead Pixels

The first thing Ruby could sense was the man’s breath. The scent of a clove cigarette—with Caesar salad dressing. He stood behind her, breathing heavily, as though he had walked a long distance at an anxious pace.

It was approaching that magical time of evening in the mall. Ruby watched the orange crush sunset give way to cobalt through the glass-paneled windows above. It was full night in this cathedral of commerce. At quarter ‘til eight, she could start packing up the kiosk and prepare to go home.

But Ruby wasn’t quite there yet. There was still one more customer to attend to.

She figured the man had stopped at the food court on the way to the kiosk—and maybe that explained the smell of spices. But when she saw the harried, demonic look on his face, she knew right away: this guy wasn’t the food court type. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten anything in months.

He wore a shabby old suit and hat. His sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones gave the whole face a skeletal appearance. The fish belly pallor of the skin completed the undead look.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I wonder if you can help me.”

Ruby ran the Pixel Paradise retro video game kiosk in the Galleria. Even though she hated video games, working the kiosk wasn’t such a bad gig. She certainly made more an hour than the baristas and pretzel pushers. The mall was usually bustling with a steady hum of shoppers between Belk and the Saks 5th Avenue outlet. But despite the traffic, the kiosk was quiet, with only a few shoppers stopping by each day.

Dickie, Ruby’s boss, did most of his retro game trades in the main storefront in Augusta. The kiosk was just a place to offload additional stock and nab some “easy kale,” as he liked to call it—mostly from the Christmas addicts, nostalgia-seekers, and prospectors with more money than good sense.

But this customer, the one with the fiendish expression, was something new. No easy kale here.

“Sure,” Ruby said. “How can I help you?”

“I received word that your establishment has come into possession of a very rare item. I came all the way from New York to your store in Augusta, Georgia. And they said you received the item here. You must help me. It’s a game cartridge for the Atari 2600.”

Ruby knew the one. A black cartridge with a handwritten white label. She initially thought it was a joke that such a nondescript item could be worth five figures.

But over the years, she learned to never underestimate the collectors market. With the right motivation, and enough money, a collector would do almost anything for the perfect item.

The market was rife with fakes—reproduction carts, or “repros,” as they were called. Artificially aged plastic and meticulously printed labels. Dickie had taught Ruby how to spot them, but soon she became even better than him, able to identify a repro almost effortlessly. And so Dickie came to defer to her, trusted her more than the testimony of his own eyes.

The black Atari cartridge with the sloppy white label was real. No doubt about it.

“I’m afraid it’s sold,” Ruby said.

“Are you quite certain? It’s a black cartridge with a white label and handwritten title: Hall of Hades. Very rare. You couldn’t miss it.”

“Yes,” Ruby said. “As soon as my boss announced it on our newsletter, we received a bid from a private collector.”

“I must have a name, please. It’s gravely important.”

“I can’t do that. It’s a private collector. Even I don’t know who it is.” That was a lie. She had a name. But, at Dickie’s insistence, Ruby didn’t share business details with anyone. Dickie trusted her completely.

“My boss is on a plane right now to deliver the package and accept a cashier’s check.”

“The city, please?”

“No. I can’t divulge that.”

Ruby liked saying no—it gave her a sense of control in a market where negotiation was expected.

“So you’re saying there’s no information you will provide?” the man said.

“I’m afraid so. Sorry.”

The man looked as though he might start crying. He balled a fist and brought it to his mouth, as if to stifle an intense outburst of emotion. “You don’t understand. This cartridge contains a terrible curse. It has caused the ruin of so many unwitting gamers and collectors. It caused the collapse of the publisher that brought it to market. In a mad rush to divest all stock, they clumsily scribbled the title on the remaining cartridges by hand, to save on printing costs. That label is a testament of its authenticity and also to the ruination that piece of plastic-encased silicon has caused.”

The man’s florid turns of phrase sent goosebumps across Ruby’s flesh. He was clearly demented, or perhaps a committed prankster. She still had nothing to offer, no valuable information to satisfy him. And she was growing irritated by his insistence.

She looked at her watch. Any moment now. Soon. Soon, she could leave.

“I regret the inconvenience,” Ruby said. “But the mall will be closing soon.”

She watched the man’s face crumble further into a spasm of remorse. She wanted to bid him goodnight and send him on his way. But she couldn’t help it, her curiosity got the better of her.

“What did you mean by a curse?” Ruby asked. “Like, the game is haunted?”