Hazard Pay:

The Unofficial Factory Floor Guide for Minors

Chapter 1

HR TIP #1:

HR TIP #1: Don’t Outshine the Master. If your boss claims that hooking up the latest gadget: requires a warlock’s blessing, a secret decoder ring, and a three-month apprenticeship in a cave full of mystical roaches?—nod politely, and agree wholeheartedly with a resonant YES SIR! Only a reckless idiot (or maybe a stubborn six-year-old with more Kool-Aid coursing through his veins than should be legally possible) would dare reveal that they got it done with two screws, a butter knife and more determination than sense. Sometimes, feigning ignorance is the best way of keeping the peace (and safeguarding your precious allowance).

The Morning Begging Ritual

It was a Saturday morning, late summer, 1978—and the very first thing I did (before brushing my teeth, before worrying about roaches or breakfast) was barrel into my parents’ room. I was six years old, short enough to be mistaken for a lanky flamingo, but I had the enthusiasm of an entire marching band. My dad blinked at me through half-shut eyes, and I proceeded to do what I’d been doing for weeks: beg.

“Dad! Please! You promised! You said we’d get an Atari 2600 TODAY!”

At first, he groaned like someone who’d lost a bet with the universe. My mom stirred on her side of the bed, possibly wondering if she could vanish into the blankets. But I was undeterred. I reminded him of our big plan: we’d go to the Toys ‘R’ Us in Bell Gardens and buy the Holy Grail of early gaming. He’d promised.

Dad pressed his fingertips against his forehead, then squinted at the alarm clock—well, at least the parts of it not obscured by the jittery conga line of roaches who’d decided to make themselves at home between the digital display and its glowing red lens. It was too early for negotiations, but I refused to budge.

Finally, he sat up, mustered a defeated nod, and mumbled, “Alright, we’ll go.” Triumphant, I wiggled elegantly from the room. The day of destiny had dawned.

The Drive to Bell Gardens

After an impatient hour—during which I’m sure I pestered everyone within earshot about how I’d play Missile Command till my eyes crusted over—Dad and I piled into the family car. The sky glowed with that early summer haze that promised an almost scorching midday. Suburban lawns rolled by, each meticulously mowed or occupied by a random dog sniffing at mailboxes. Sometimes I’d catch a whiff of fresh grass or the faint, mysterious smell of someone’s barbecue. As we drove along, I imagined these neighbors plotting secret projects in their garages. I KNEW! that all adults were up to something, maybe building hidden roads under LA or practicing alien contact protocols embedded in TV static (hey, I was six; paranoia kept life interesting).

Bell Gardens wasn’t far, but for me, it felt like an epic road trip. I pressed my face to the window, watching the world blur by. I pictured the toy store as a palace of neon treasures. The radio crackled with some AM station playing late-’70s tunes. Dad occasionally murmured about traffic lights. I just daydreamed about the moment I’d cradle that Atari box in my arms.

Finally, we pulled into the Toys ‘R’ Us parking lot. My heart whimpered with anticipation. I half-expected confetti cannons to erupt as we trudged inside, but we got the typical retail bustle instead. Rows of plastic wonders, children squealing, parents looking half-asleep. I navigated the aisles with single-minded zeal—stuffed animals, board games, rainbow Slinkies—none of it existed for me. My target was the Atari 2600. My father muttered about the price, but I clutched that console box like it was the only oxygen source in a vacuum. He gave a resigned shrug, paid at the register, and that was that. The entire store could’ve crumbled around me, and I’d still have marched out, beaming at my new treasure.

Home Sweet Home

The drive back felt significantly shorter, maybe because I was delirious with excitement. By the time we reached our house—a place perched at the confused intersection of two oddly angled streets—the sun hung high, painting everything in bright gold. We pulled into the driveway. Dad hoisted the Atari box from the trunk and flung it unceremoniously onto the living room floor as if depositing old groceries.

At this point, I should describe our humble abode: white walls in a perpetual state of partial cleaning, a kitchen streaked with suspicious stains (brown lines that looked like either roach hieroglyphics or someone’s attempt at avant-garde art), and a brown carpet that could’ve hidden an entire roach metropolis. If roaches had passports, they’d list this carpet as their capital. Meanwhile, Our house was a place of architectural confusion and cockroach hospitality. It sat at the end of two streets that decided logic was overrated, creating a strangely angled yard. A palm tree loomed suspiciously behind the place, like a lanky neighbor who’d popped by uninvited.

Dad (after dropping the box), exhaled, and mentioned something about a “missing adapter” that apparently needed to arrive by mail. Because, naturally, advanced technology in 1978 traveled at the speed of some mythical stagecoach, right? I gawked. Did the greatest gaming console known to humankind really hinge on an adapter stuck in postal limbo? Dad, possibly hoping to escape further questions, disappeared into another room.

I was left alone with a warm TV set that smelled of ancient dust, the door wide open to a squeaky screen door, and the faint hum of neighbors’ radios drifting by. The living room’s decor boasted a giant wooden console TV, its 19-inch screen embedded in enough timber to build a small log cabin, plus a couple of mustard-colored sofas that could blind an unwary guest. Roaches presumably scuttled under the couch, practicing their synchronized scuttling routine.

The Defiant Hookup

“Don’t hook it up, it’ll blow out the TV,” Dad had warned in passing. Uhh-Doooiiieee, and if I crossed my eyes while gurgling and blowing raspberries, like a two year old, maybe Chewbacca would appear and help me organize my Hot Wheels alphabetically. The TV had two screws on the back, presumably for an antenna connection. I though to myself, I’m six, I’m not an idiot. If hooking up the Atari required magical incantations, I was ready to recite them. Or! I could just use a butter knife.

I knelt behind the TV, my nose inches from the dusty wood. Two little screws, begging me to prove Dad wrong. My pulse thumped with excitement (the butter knife slipped). I twisted them a bit (a drop of sweat rolled down the back of my neck), I attached the Atari switch-box, pressed the console’s power button, and—presto—the screen flickered to life.

Missile Command emerged in all its pixilated glory. I half-expected the living room lights to flicker dramatically and fizzle out, but nothing exploded. The TV—far from blowing up—purred contentedly. I felt like a hero, a rebel that spat in the face of postal delays, at that precise moment, I felt as if I’d just discovered how to turn ketchup into diamonds using nothing more than a spork. While, Ricky Ricardo and Fred Mertz might have possessed a secret superpower for torching home appliances, I single-handedly upgraded our humble living room into a pixilated paradise—no sputtering laugh track required.

My Pixilated Pilgrimage

I hopped onto the couch, joystick gripped in my sweaty palm. Missile Command offered me a realm of blocky cities and incoming bombs. The sound effects were primitive beeps and blips that nonetheless transformed me into a mini war strategist. Hours dissolved under the glow of the tube. It was midday, but the curtains were partly drawn, giving the room a cozy darkness—perfect for launching pixelated missiles.

As my thumb tapped the joystick’s fire button repeatedly, I barely noticed if roaches scurried by, probably rolling their eyes at me. Nor did I register how the house’s open door let in a slight breeze or the random squeak of the screen. My entire existence shrank down to this new electronic haven, where I defended neon squares with the intensity of a child convinced the fate of the universe was in his sticky (push-pop stained) hands.

Eventually, Mom popped in, possibly to ensure I was still alive. She suggested I take a break and eat something real. She whipped up scrambled eggs and weenies—my personal brand of culinary paradise. Of course, I drowned them in Heinz ketchup, because if civilization collapsed, I’d at least want that tangy red sauce in my survival kit.

Plate in lap, I devoured the meal, imagining that ketchup might double as rocket fuel for my on-screen artillery. Meanwhile, in a little black and white TV in that sat in a stool (by the dinning room table), Bewitched flickered in the background. Samantha might’ve been turning a nosy neighbor into a flee-bitten kangaroo or some-other thing just as whimsical. At exactly 7:28 pm, the show ended, leaving the TV to shift to station identification screen or maybe a commercial. None of that mattered. I was enthralled by my next gaming session.

A Ketchup-Fueled Daydream

After my high-fructose corn syrup infused meal, I let my mind wander. If hooking up the console was that easy, what else could I do? Maybe the roaches under the rug could be taught to dance if I bribed them with gourmet ketchup packets. Perhaps the palm tree outside could do some stand-up about its lonely existence. My imagination soared! If I harnessed the energy of a thousand roaches? Maybe! I’d invent a warp drive powered by leftover WEENIES!!! The possibilities were endless.

Heinz ketchup, the nectar of the condiment gods. If the world ended and we were left with only crusty ketchup packets from McDonald’s, I’d create a five-star ketchup eatery, holding fancy tastings and swirling those packets like a sommelier swirls Cabernet.

As I played, I started imagining a grand ceremony in my honor. Neighborhood kids would line up outside, holding Atari cartridges above their heads like offerings. “HE WHO CONQUERED THE TV SCREWS!” they’d chant. I’d dole out pearls of wisdom like “ALWAYS TRUST YOUR KETCHUP!” and “A MISSING ADAPTER IS JUST AN INVITATION TO GREATNESS!” Perhaps I’d knight a few of them with my joystick, bestowing titles like “Duke of Donkey Kong” or “Countess of Centipede.”