Rewinding Time To The Video Store Era

There was a time not that long ago, yet somehow feels like a lifetime away, when Friday nights meant one thing: a trip to the video rental store. Not a scroll through endless streaming options, not a voice command to a smart TV. No, the ritual we had back then felt oddly sacred. It was the 1980s and 90s, and the local video store was our buffet of cinematic indulgence.

I can still hear the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the gentle whir of the VHS tape rewinder behind the counter. The air almost always was coated with the scent of plastic cases and cheap popcorn, and the carpet was always a little worn. It felt almost like an extension of my own house under my feet. The aisles were lined with promise: action-packed explosions, tearjerking dramas, goofy comedies, and horror films with covers so terrifying, yet awesome, that I’d sneak peeks when my parents weren’t looking.

As I got older, every visit began with a ritual. First, the “New Releases” wall. It was always crowded, always competitive. If you were lucky, you’d snag the last copy of Jurassic Park or Speed before someone else did. If not, you’d settle for something you’d never heard of, hoping the cover art wasn’t lying.

Then came the browsing. I’d wander the aisles with a kind of reverence, flipping over boxes to read the back, studying the staff picks, and occasionally eavesdropping on other customers’ debates. “Is Pulp Fiction better than Reservoir Dogs?” These were the questions that mattered.

When I was a kid and was first visiting the first two video stores in the area, I would immediately start looking for wrestling tapes. They’re weren’t a lot of them to choose from back then, but when I’d find a copy of Wrestlemania or Starcade ‘85, I was in heaven. Then I’d browse the cartoons for episodes of GI Joe. There was just a certain type of magic to it back in the very early days.

The older teenagers working behind the counter in video stores were the gatekeepers of cool. They knew every movie, every obscure title, and they had opinions…strong ones. I remember one guy with a ponytail and a denim vest who swore by Clerks and other such movies.

Returning tapes late was a sin, and rewinding them was a moral obligation. “Be kind, rewind” wasn’t just a slogan, it was a code of honor. And when you forgot (or ignored) that little code, you secretly wondered if they’d let you rent another movie or not.

There was something magical about choosing a movie in person. You weren’t just watching a film—you were committing to it. You held it in your hands, imagined the story, and made a decision. It wasn’t passive. It was personal.

Sometimes, I’d rent the same movie over and over. The Goonies, Back to the Future, Labyrinth. They became part of my DNA. And when I finally bought my own copies years later, it felt like claiming a piece of my childhood.

Eventually, the stores started disappearing. First the mom-and-pop shops, then the big chains. We didn’t have a Blockbuster in my area, but we did have Movie Gallery. It eventually went from a Friday night staple to a ghost town. The shelves emptied, the lights dimmed, and the magic faded.

But I still think about those nights. About the thrill of discovery, the joy of anticipation, and the quiet satisfaction of a good movie and a bowl of microwave popcorn. It wasn’t just about entertainment…it was about connection. To stories, to people, and to a moment in time.

And every now and then, when I see a dusty VHS tape at a thrift store or hear the click of a plastic case, I’m transported. Back to those aisles. Back to the counter. Back to the magic.

Because for me, the video rental store wasn’t just a place. It was a feeling, and it still lives in me, and what I wouldn’t give to rewind it all one more time.