I have a memory of going to the state fair as a little child. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old at the time. My family and I were standing in line for something — snow cones, I think. The lines were disorganized, and we were standing shoulder to shoulder with all the other sweaty people at the fair, waiting for our turn to order food. The summer heat continued to rise, and soon so many people had crowded around us that I couldn’t see anything but people.

That day I remember wishing that we were the only people at the fair; how great it would be if everyone crowded around us simply vanished. There would be no lines for food, no one to make sure the kids were “this tall” to ride the rides. I could add every single flavor to my snow cone, and make the biggest cotton candy on a stick ever.

That dream of being alone in public places stuck with me. When my mom used to take me grocery shopping, I wondered what the grocery store was like at night with the lights turned out. Each time we went to the mall, I used to fantasize about hiding in the bathroom and waiting until everyone had gone home to come out. I don’t exactly know why the idea was so appealing to me. I didn’t want to steal or vandalize anything. I just wanted to be the only person there.

I got my first real taste of this as a teen, working in fast food. At most of the pizza places I worked at, I ended up with a set of keys. At some of those places I was the first one to arrive, and at others, the last one to leave. And while they were nowhere near the size of a mall, each time I unlocked the front door of those restaurants and stepped inside, I was met with uneasy silence that was a little scary and a little exciting. Until I was able to turn on the lights — and the light switches were always as far from the front door as possible for some reason — walking through the darkness gave me the feeling in the pit of my stomach that I wasn’t supposed to be there, like the feeling you get when exploring a mostly-built house. And the complete lack of sound was perhaps the most unnerving part. There was no sound from the arcade games, no blowing exhaust fans over the oven. Even the buzzing neon signs were silent. The complete lack of sound added to the feeling that you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.

My friend Dean owns and operates Eighty-Three Arcade, a retro arcade in Tuttle, Oklahoma. The arcade is open from 6 p.m. until midnight on Fridays and Saturdays, and, on occasion, I’ve been there at closing time. During business hours, it’s a noisy place. There are forty or so arcade machines with flashing lights and loud speakers, competing for your attention. The machines are powered by a series of power strips. At exactly midnight, Dean flips glowing switches on each power strip, causing sections of arcade games to lose power. One minute past midnight, the entire arcade is dark.

Last weekend, Susan and I stopped by Eighty-Three just before closing time on our way home from a concert. The parking lot was particularly empty, as the skating rink attached to the arcade recently went out of business. After wondering aloud about what an abandoned skating rink might look like, Dean asked me a question.

“Wanna go see it?”

After closing down the arcade, Dean, Susan, and I walked next door to the skating rink. Dean used his key to unlock the door, and we went inside.

Entering the silence felt like stepping into a pool of calm water. There was no music coming from the large speakers over the skating rink. There were no kids laughing. Every sound we made echoed throughout the building.

Off to the side stood the skate rental area. As Susan walked around, I spotted an upside-down roller skate sitting on the counter. I spun an orange wheel with my hand and the whizz of worn out ball bearings filled the cavernous building.

From there we wandered across the tile until we reached the snack bar. I hesitated before walking behind the counter and had to remind myself that the place was closed down. On the counter stood a popcorn machine and a nacho cheese dispensing unit, both of which I dreamed of owning. Bags of chips remained clipped to the metal display stand. If there was a refrigerator, I was wise enough to mentally block it out. (Nothing good ever comes from opening abandoned refrigerators.)

For then next ten to fifteen minutes, we explored the space. I sat in the chairs, wiggled door knobs, and examined the vending machines. Heck, I could have strapped on a pair of roller skates and skated a lap around the rink if I had wanted to. It was, all those years later, my dream come true. I found myself enjoying every detail of that skating rink. I imagined how cool it would be to stand up in the DJ booth, playing music and watching the action. Right around the time talk began of me purchasing it, Susan wisely whisked me out of the building and my dreams.

I have no desire to explore caves and I’m too much of a rule-follower to dip my toe into urbExing, but I most definitely see the appeal. For now, I’ll have to scratch that itch by staying at Dean’s arcade until closing time, visiting the mostly-built houses in my neighborhood, and occasionally visiting closed-down businesses when the opportunities arise.