Free Nowhere but Up by Pattie Mallette, with A. J. Gregory Page A

you could put in a quarter, play a game, and get your money back to keep playing. We played game after game. We shot hoops. We blasted tunes on the jukebox. We played pool and Ping-Pong. And then we got bored.
    I started investigating the place and noticed a booth in the corner that was locked. There had to be some money in there, or at least some snacks. As we huddled around the lock, trying to shake the thing open, we heard an indistinct noise on the other side of the building. We froze. Someone was there. Once we heard a door open and slam shut at an entrance other than where we had come in, we knew we had to get out of there. Fast. With our adrenaline pumping and nervous laughter, we booked it out of the building the same way we came in.
    Because we found the place before opening day, we proudly hailed it as “ours.” That seal of ownership was the only reason we ever came back. It was a Christian place, after all. There were Bible verses all over the walls and a cheesy sign that said, “No Drinking. No Smoking. No Swearing.”
    Right.
    When the Bunker opened to the public, we were there every weekend. It gave us something to do and a place to go. We weren’t totally innocent, though. We almost always brought beer in with us and hid it in back of the toilet tank to keep it cold. I got drunk at the Bunker more times than I’d like to admit. I even used to deal drugs there.
    When I didn’t feel like playing a video game or shooting pool, I’d hang out with John, the director of the center. I’ll never forget the mullet hairstyle he wore for a long time, all business in the front and party in the back. It’s still a running joke how during this time and for years afterward he looked like he was stuck in the 1980s. I’d always tell him, “Hey, John, the eighties called. They want their hair back.” Despite his questionable choice of hairstyle, I found him so easy to talk to, and we had countless debates about life. He was caring and sincere, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find an ulterior motive behind his goodness.
    There was only one thing about him that bothered me. He talked about God. A lot. No matter what we talked about, he would always find a way to reroute the conversation back to God. It was annoying. But I let him ramble on and on about religious stuff because he was nice. And the truth was, I really liked him.
    Even though John was kind to Jeremy, my friends, and me, he wasn’t oblivious to what we were doing. If he caught us with beer or drugs, he kicked us out of the center immediately, although of course he always let us back in the next weekend.
    John was the first person who gave me a chance. Who didn’t dismiss me because I was young, stupid, or a troublemaker. John would also play matchmaker, pulling me toward a God who would forever change the course of my life.

    One weekend in May of 1992, my friends and I celebrated May Two-Four (Victoria Day), a Canadian holiday celebrating Queen Victoria’s birthday that for most partiers is a drunk-fest weekend. I partied hard. Jeremy and I had broken up a week earlier, right after I found out he had slept with one of my friends. The getaway was my escape—a chance to go camping, hang out with my friends, let loose, and leave my relationship drama at home.
    I was wasted the entire weekend and ended up sleeping with a guy I was acquainted with. I wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl. The stupid decision I made in my drunken stupor came from purely selfish reasons. I didn’t have any feelings for him; I was just rebounding from my breakup with Jeremy and used the fooling around as an opportunity to get back at him. An eye for an eye, right?
    A few days later, Jeremy called, and we performed the same old song and dance routine. He apologized for cheating on me and begged me to take him back. He was saying all the right things, all the things he knew could turn me into a deep pile of mush. “Baby, I love you.” “Please come back to