Surviving the Claw Machines at Starbeary Arcade: A Stroke Survivor’s Nostalgic Adventure
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Stepping into the arcade, I’m hit with a whiff of artificial cherry, a nostalgic slap of plastic toys, and a shrill mix of bubblegum pop music on repeat. I feel like I have been transported back to my 14-year-old self. My heart does a flutter at the sight of row upon row of those claw machines with every bizarre prize imaginable. Think squishy marshmallow pigs, glittering, creepy-eyed unicorns, screaming rubber chickens, and one particularly fuzzy bear that looks like it has been dragged backward through the factory. It’s a whimsical, almost surreal experience.
A Claw Machine Adventure in Sanchung, Taipei
I grab a trolley—not just any trolley—the most unwieldy, ridiculously oversized metal cart made to carry one stuffed toy at a time. A one-armed grabber like myself must manage this colossal vehicle with my half-baked right side. It’s like pushing a semi up a mountain with a hand tied behind your back. The wheels groan under its weight, just like my soul. I take a deep breath, steel myself for the carnage, and feel the weight of the trolley and the struggle it represents.
First stop: pink unicorn claw machine. Inside, a rainbow of creatures stare back at me with their dead eyes as if to say, “Do you really think you have a chance?” But without a second thought, I exchange $1000 NTD for a bucket of coins, feeling like some gallant warrior, and man the joystick. The claw jerks down with less grace than a sumo wrestler mid-fall, grazing the fur of a hideous purple critter before retreating empty-handed. The rejection stings—oh, it’s personal now.
Trials and Laughs with Claw Machines
On to the chicken machine! Here lies an army of rubber chickens with beaks agape, calling out to me in a manner that feels like a spiritual connection. I summon the courage, insert another coin, and manage to grab one by the neck, but my excitement implodes as it slips free, like a lover who “just wants to be friends.” I’m doubled over in laughter and disbelief, convincing myself this is all building my character—or whatever people say when losing. The absurdity of the situation is not lost on me, and I find myself laughing at the cosmic joke of it all.
I’ve come to understand the difference between “want” and “need.” Life taught me this the hard way, over and over. These days, I don’t really want things—at least, not the things most people do. My minimalist self revels in simplicity, in the idea that less is more.
The Unlikely Triumph
After thirty minutes, I’ve amassed zero prizes, but I have acquired multiple thumb cramps and a profound sense of existential doubt. Moving over to the last machine, I eye a plush dinosaur lounging with a smirk. This guy knows I’m nearly out of coins and energy, and he’s teasing me, really just saying, “You’re not getting me.” But I square my shoulders, firm my wobbly grip, and lower the claw in one flat, pure act of desperate hope. The claw clamps, and the dinosaur lifts…and stays. In that one moment, I feel my triumph.
We stroll past a Cold Stone machine, a fantasy of pastel-colored ice creams and chubby scoops just out of reach. Next up is the 曠世奇派 machine. And then, finally, there it is—the croissant machine, a tower of pillowy pastries precariously stacked. I insert a coin as if in some sort of trance, and the claw glides down, grips the croissant, and with that miraculous little jolt, the pastry falls right into the prize slot. Victory! I clasp it close, delighted.
Leaving with Victory and a Plush Croissant
I tuck the croissant under my arm, half my appetite already sated with this soft, aromatic prize. And with every step, the buttery smell stays near, eddying around me like a little piece of Paris out of reach but impossibly, wonderfully real.
As I leave Starbeary, trophy in hand and soul slightly lighter, I’m already thinking about when I might return. There’s nothing quite like feeling both defeated and victorious at the same time—ugly doll in one hand, dignity in the other.
