“There’s a whole world of difficulty between the ninth and tenth foot in DDR,” said a lunatic–the sweaty one who would become my In The Groove 2 Sherpa. “That’s why we play ‘Groove.“

It’s still fresh in my mind, how fast they were. Their shoes were clean; saved for these moments on the mats. The arrows were ascending like rain drops in reverse, and the music filled the quiet arcade, and the soft reflection of In The Groove 2 could be seen upon the dusty monitor of the DDR machine. It had been maybe thirteen months since I’d set foot inside Johnny-Z’s. Apparently this place has become an icy monastery, where only the hard core dwell.

I remember playing Fourth Mix in front of a cloud of asians while Captain Jack told me exactly what the military step was, and when to do it. I remember seeing the craziest individuals busting out on both dance mats at once. It’s nothing compared to what I saw the other night. The night I discovered my city’s In The Groove community.

I stepped out of my skull and watched it swell as their perfectly calibrated twitches broke reality. I remember thinking, as my eyes began to itch with strain, they’re too fast. How could have these beings been grinding away at this game for so long, to get so good, without some kind of massive powerwell forming above the arcade? They were like bats in an obstacle course, twisting through the darkness on the signal of an echo.

“He made this one,” my Sherpa said to me. “He’s the only one that can get above 90% on it. He’s got it memorized.” Apparently you can fucking make songs in this game.



I kept my eyes on the guy. ITG2 is essentially DDR, but it’s a coked-out super-DDR. And these people craft impossible songs and beat the shit out of their own bodies beyond anything DDR could have allowed for. Most of the songs I saw them tackling couldn’t even be completed by a single human being. Yes, the speed was insane, and they even kept up, but this flimsy, physical husk, this ancient primate vessel we all slog around in, just isn’t good enough. One fellow (the one pictured) managed to complete his own song, the one only he could reach 90% on, and started to shake.

“He’s gunna crash.” They all said to each other. And, “dude, did you crash?” they later asked him. And he would nod silently.

Aftermath.

A spunky girl jumped over to me and outstretched her hand. She was inviting a shake. “I’m Sarah,” she let me know.

“I’m Simon,” I said.

“Do you come here often?”

“The last time I was here–,” she became distracted with one of the sweaty rhythm-gods, then apologized for her mercurial focus and looked into my eyes. “The last time I was here–,” I said again, but it was too late–she was gone.

These people, these night-dwelling, flashdrive-carrying nerd/maniacs were simply existing in a faster world. I could only observe, and be affected by their ways. She tried again, this time with an empathetic smile on her face, but it was time for me to go.