Video game manuals

I grew up very poor in an impoverished neighborhood. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say we lived in the projects, but as Dave Chappelle said, “It had all the familiar symptoms of the projects.” To keep us sheltered from that lifestyle, my mother would do anything to keep us indoors. Which was alright by my brother and I because we were easy targets when it came to “friendly” neighborhood rousting. But how do you keep kids indoors when you’re dirt poor? You can only make so many cardboard box forts. Fortunately for my mother, we loved to read. We’d read anything we could get our hands on, from old copies of Jet to the nutritional values on cereal boxes.

One day, my mother brought home a box. It was tattered, and looked like it was held together by will alone. We looked at it quizzically. It wasn’t big or stable enough to play in, so it didn’t hold our interest for more than a second.

“Look in it, dummies!” my mother balked.

We peered inside hesitantly. What could possibly be inside this box that would be more entertaining than a box fort? The answer, we discovered as my brother bravely plunged an arm inside, was a small multi-colored pamphlet. No bigger than a greeting card, the front cover was adorned with a man. A man in blue spandex wearing what appeared to be his underwear on the outside of his pants? The man brandished a gun at an assailant, as a scientist and another tragically dressed combatant looked on. They had to be engaged in a vicious death match. My brother and I squealed in delight! It appeared to be “going down,” and we were just in time to bear witness. Mega Man II ran across the top of the cover like a marquee inviting; no, enticing us to delve further.

“What is it!?” my brother asked in a fervor.

“I dunno. There are a bunch of them and they were free at ‘The Swap’.” The box was filled with these little pamphlets emblazoned with scenes of epic struggles, daring rescues and gallant heroes. “I figured y’all might like to read ‘em, instead of reading them cereal boxes.” My mother was right. These mini-ventures were sure to be more interesting than the nutritional value of “Fruity-Os” (O% of the daily suggested vitamin intake). I reached into the box and grabbed a handful of them. My brother and I dashed over to the couch and began to tear open “Mega Man II” ravenously. Almost salivating, we turned to the front page and read aloud.

“In the year 200X…” We were enraptured! 200X!? What year could that possibly be!? We read on, “…a super robot named Mega Man was created. Dr. Light created Mega Man to stop the evil desires of Dr. Wily. However, after his defeat, Dr. Wily created eight of his own robots to counter Mega Man. As the robotic blue bomber, Mega Man, the player must battle through 14 levels and defeat eight robot masters before tackling the nefarious Dr. Wily.”

…And that was it. We turned the page to discover instructions on how to play a video game. My mom had gotten us a box full of instruction manuals for Nintendo games. Each one filled with the barest of story content. This was my first (and wouldn’t be the last) experience with a cock-tease. My brother and I were crest-fallen. We wanted to be regaled with tales of daring-do. Instead we learned the myriad uses of the “A” button.

These books served a much greater purpose in the long run. Practically, we taught ourselves to read well beyond our grade level by stuttering and mumbling our way through them. They also helped fuel our already overactive imagination. Who needed Nintendo of America to tell us about Mega Man when we could just tell the story ourselves. We’d glean whatever story and character information we could from the manuals, set them aside and begin acting out the sweeping narratives hinted at on the cover. The books led to a grand opus of struggle and triumph between some of the greatest heroes in the early Nintendo canon. Super Joe swung in to save Little Mac from Dr. Wiley and Bowser. Samus blasted his way through waves of egg-plants to win the heart of Princess Zelda (Hey, don’t blame us! We didn’t know the secret Metroid ending!). Mike Jones and Mario were pitted against Master Higgens and Luigi in battles to the death. My brother and I were the progenitors of Super Smash Bros.

Now, I get a game and pop it into the console. I don’t need to imagine the adventures because I have the means to play out these virtual works of fiction. No thought of even glancing at the instructions, the manual is tossed to the wayside. And as I type this, I’m overwhelmed by an emotion that almost feels like guilt. Like an old friend who I’ve outgrown in my years away, I can’t help but be struck by a sadness that I’ll never be able to have the same relationship I once had. These manuals provided me so much in my formative years; a reading tutor, hours of entertainment, an escape. How could I be so callous to them now?

Excuse me. I have some reading to catch up on.