Treasure Hunting

I picked up a few more Atari cartridges for the shelf in my office last weekend.

None of them were especially rare, and none of them set me back thirty-two dollars like Miner 2049er did a few weeks ago. They were simply a few more pieces of a project that’s slowly coming together. As I was adding them to the shelf, though, I realized something.

The games weren’t really the reason I bought them.

I’ve always enjoyed the hunt just as much as the thing I was hunting for.

Looking back, I think I’ve been doing some version of this my entire life.

One of my favorite things as a kid was sitting on the floor with the Sears Wish Book. I’d spend hours flipping through the pages, discovering toys, video games, and gadgets I didn’t even know existed. Long before Christmas arrived, I’d already built an entire world in my head around the things I hoped might end up under the tree. Half the fun wasn’t making a list, it was discovering something that made me stop and think, “Whoa… I didn’t know that existed.”

Then there were the toy stores.

Everyone remembers Toys “R” Us, and I certainly do, but I probably have just as many memories of Children’s Palace. Walking into either one felt like stepping into another world. Every aisle promised something different, and even if I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, I was always hoping to stumble across something that would become my next obsession. Before the internet, that’s how discovery worked. You didn’t search for things. You found them because you happened to turn down the right aisle.

As I got older, the hunt simply changed locations.

We had three comic book stores nearby, and each one had its own personality. One was absolutely packed with comics, collectibles, games, and just about everything else you could imagine. It was almost difficult to walk through, but somehow that only made it more interesting. It’s still around today, and I’m happy to see it’s doing just as well as ever.

Another shop was in our local outlet mall. It was bright, spacious, and organized, and if someone asked me where MY comic shop was growing up, that’s the one I’d point to. I spent countless hours there flipping through the new releases and seeing what had come in that week.

The third shop was unlike anything else.

It was tucked away in the basement of a church.

Most of the store was made up of quarter bins and dollar bins, and I could spend what felt like hours digging through them. I loved that you never really knew what you’d find. Some trips I’d leave with a stack of comics I hadn’t planned on buying at all. Other times I’d leave empty handed and still feel like I’d had a great afternoon.

Even as a kid, I thought the place was hilarious. Downstairs, people would be gathered around folding tables playing Dungeons & Dragons while, through the floor above us, you could hear the church service in progress. Somehow it all worked.

Summer weekends weren’t much different.

My dad had a few classic cars back when they were still affordable enough for regular people to own, so we spent a lot of weekends at car shows. Every car show seemed to come with a swap meet, and after we’d looked at the cars, my brother and I would disappear with a friend or two to explore the rows of vendors. We weren’t looking for anything specific. We just wanted to see what treasures we could find.

Once a year we’d also make a trip to a massive flea market that felt like it went on forever. There was no way to see the whole thing in a single day, which somehow made it even better. At twelve or thirteen years old, being turned loose in a place like that felt like an adventure. Every aisle held another possibility.

And don’t even get me started on yard sales.

To this day, I can’t drive past a handwritten cardboard sign with an arrow pointing down a neighborhood street without wondering if there’s something interesting waiting at the end of it.

When I think about it now, I realize the Atari shelf isn’t really about Atari. It’s just the latest excuse to keep exploring.

I’ve realized I’m not really a collector. I’m an explorer who occasionally brings a few treasures home.

These days the comic shops have been joined by retro game stores and flea markets. Instead of digging through quarter bins, I’m looking through rows of cartridges with faded labels, hoping one of them is something I haven’t seen before. More often than not, I leave without buying anything, and honestly, that’s perfectly fine.

The hunt has always been the fun part.

When I look at the Atari shelf in my office, I don’t just see cartridges. I see flea markets with Sherri, afternoons wandering retro game stores, and all the little stops we’ve made along the way. Every game reminds me where I found it, who I was with, or what made me decide to bring it home.

Maybe that’s why I don’t feel any urgency to finish the collection.

Once every empty space on the shelf is filled, I’ll probably just find another reason to wander through a flea market on a Saturday morning.

After all, that’s what I’ve really been doing ever since I was a kid.

The things I’m searching for have changed.

The feeling never has.