I end up driving past the Herndon and Marks intersection in Fresno at least once a week, usually without planning to.

It’s not on purpose. It just happens. I’ll be on my way somewhere else, hit that stretch of road, and suddenly I’m looking at a shopping center that doesn’t look the same anymore. A center that still looks like something else in my head.

Because that’s where Blockbuster used to be.

And every time I pass it, I’m back in a different version of myself.

I’m about eight years old, maybe a little older by the end of it, sitting in the back seat of my dad’s car, already thinking about Friday night before we even parked.

Fridays Used to Be an Event

Back then, Fridays had structure. Not the kind you mapped out during the week, just the kind that showed up whether you planned for it or not.

Blockbuster first. Then DaVinci’s Pizza. Then home. Every week the same loop, like it had already been decided somewhere else.

We’d get out of the car and it was always the same details. The bright blue and yellow sign. The pull door I somehow always tried to push first. That specific lighting that made everything feel a little more important than it actually was.

My brother would head straight for the video games. No hesitation. Like there was a timer only he could see.

I’d drift toward the horror aisle like I was getting away with something just by being there.

“The Sixth Sense.” “The Blair Witch Project.” Rows of covers that, looking back, feel like they belong to a different version of time.

Most of the time I’d end up with “Scary Movie” anyway. Calling it horror like that made it feel like I was following the rules. It wasn’t. It was just what I could convince my parents was acceptable without explaining too much.

And if our mom was the one who took us, there was candy too. Always candy. Our dad’s a dentist, so that part kind of explains itself.

The Hunt

But that wasn’t really the point.

The point was the hunt.

Because the real moment wasn’t picking the movie.

It was finding out if it was actually there.

You’d grab the empty case first. Always the empty case. Then you’d stand there for a second longer than you should, like maybe it would change if you looked at it again.

Then you’d check behind it. Then the return bin up front. Then you’d start doing the math in your head about what the backup plan was going to be.

Sometimes you got lucky.

Sometimes you didn’t.

And that was just the night.

It wasn’t just us either. Half of Fresno was in there on the same mission. You’d see kids from school, neighbors, people you’d run into on a random Monday, and nobody would say anything about it. Everyone had the same Friday night assignment.

Friday Nights Are Pizza Nights

After that, DaVinci’s Pizza.

That part hasn’t changed in my memory.

Large Hawaiian pizza. Every time. I know what people think about that. I’ve heard it. I don’t care. I am correct. It is delicious.

My brother would go meat lovers. My nephews would rotate between cheese and pepperoni like that was some kind of strategy. My dad would act like the two-liter Pepsi was something he was being reluctantly talked into, like it was going to cause long-term consequences we’d all have to deal with later. He was right, of course.

We’d bring it home and the pizza would just sit there in the middle of the table like it was part of the house.

Nobody really sat down. You just moved through the room. Grab a slice, stand for a bit, drift back toward the TV.

The movie was always on. And somehow it was always slightly more important than everything else happening in the room.

My mom would pop a bag of microwavable popcorn and throw in some Hot Tamale candies.

And for a couple hours, that was it.

There were no smartphones. No scrolling. No second screen asking what else was on. Just the thing you picked, whether it was good or not, and the time you spent together because of it.

A lot of those movies probably weren’t even good.

That didn’t matter then the way it would now.

One Shot, One Night

Now I can pull out my phone and watch almost anything in about ten seconds, which should feel like progress. And in a way, I guess it is.

But I’ll be honest, I spend more Fridays now scouring through options on Netflix or scrolling through my phone more than I ever do actually watching anything. (Which a video I found online while scrolling is what really sparked this deep craving of those Friday nights).

There’s something about having everything that makes it harder to pick anything.

Back then you had one shot. One rental. One night. You didn’t really negotiate with it. You just made it work.

Fridays Look Different Now

These days, Friday looks different.

I get off work, go to the gym, make dinner, put something on in the background. I’ll sit on the couch with a bowl of whatever was fast to make, and by the time I look up the credits are rolling and I can’t tell you what I just watched. Half the time I don’t even remember making the decision to watch it.

Saturday mornings are usually breakfast and the farmers market with my dad, which is probably the one thing that’s stayed the same in a good way.

But Friday itself doesn’t feel like that anymore.

It doesn’t feel like anything is building toward it.

And maybe that’s just life. Maybe that’s the part nobody really tells you. That at some point, the week stops ending in something and just keeps going.

Every so often I’ll drive past Herndon and Marks avenues, and it all comes back for a few seconds.

The Blockbuster aisle. The empty cases. The race between my brother and me in opposite directions. The pizza waiting to be picked up. The Pepsi my dad did not want us to buy.

And then I’m back in the car again.

Driving through the same intersection.

Just older.

Still trying to figure out where that version of Friday went.

About the Author

Anthony W. Haddad is a Fresno-based reporter and columnist best known for the award-winning Millennial View column series. He covers a wide range of topics, from pressing local issues and community concerns to the everyday challenges and experiences facing millennials today.

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