The Nickel Arcade was first introduced to me when I was ten years old. I don't remember the cake or the name of the birthday boy who invited me, but I can still hear the clicking sound of chasing lights surrounding the building facade, the coolness of my pant pocket overflowing with nickels, and the joy of winning those paper tickets that would proudly be traded in for two hard earned Tootsie Rolls, a candy necklace, and one multi-colored bouncy ball.

 

When Mom picked me up, she didn't need to ask me if I had a good time. It was all over my face—a big, sh!t-eating grin. (For those curious, a sh!t-eating grin is a broad grin expressing uncontrollable delight or self-satisfaction, especially at having got away with something outrageous or improper.) I immediately declared, "When I grow up, I will work at the Nickel Arcade!"

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Fast forward. As a teenager, I wanted to be of service to my community. Without much job experience at the time, the best I could do was volunteer. The running theme through my early twenties was, "Some day, I will be a philanthropist." But for that, one needs a useful skill, some extra amount of money, and/or resources to give. The future was unknown, but it was clear that I needed to increase my personal capital before I could "help" others.

 

Through my twenties and thirties, I searched for what was meaningful and landed on the practical. Despite nudges from Mom and Dad to be a "doctor" or "lawyer," neither was pursued. Dad offered sound advice: "Do what makes you happy, just don't be an artist." Side note: Dad was an artist.

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Forward some more, and here we are. I don't have it completely figured out, but so far, the formula looks to be:  ​

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For the record, Dad, I don't consider myself an artist, but neither would I deny that part of me that wishes to express its artistic side—for which I have you to thank.