Diversion
Diversion
“Life is like this idiotic game.”
She stood watching me play, then, out of the blue, dropped that pearl of wisdom on me.
“How so?”
“Well, you’re just a useless ball getting knocked around and thrust from side to side and up and down. You can’t get anything done, because once you try, you’re catapulted in another direction, and you gotta face that shit all of a sudden. And then guess what? Yeah, you’re pushed all the way over there, having to deal with another set of problems. I hate it.”
She stopped gesticulating with her hands and took a swallow from her bottle, the amber liquid camouflaged by the green glass. There was a tiny, carbonated bubble remaining on her lower lip, and I liked how it reflected the blue neon—glassy and bright. The distraction almost cost me the ball, but I managed to flick it out of danger at the last moment.
“Do you hate the game or do you hate your life?”
“I hate not being able to concentrate for one friggin’ minute before someone’s telling you to do something else.”
“You’re seventeen. It’s gonna happen. Over and over again, ’til you’re on your own. Fairly normal stuff.”
The ball got trapped as it bounced between a bumper and a target. She watched the score tally at an alarming speed. It was noisy in the place, but I heard her sigh.
“Besides, you’re wrong. Life is the table, alright, but you’re not the ball; you’re the flippers. Life throws shit at you, and you decide what to do with it. Hit it hard—” Damn, another close call; I think something’s wrong with the left button. “—or you can catch it, hold it, then figure out your options. Handle it right—rack up some points. Get it?”
She looked at me thoughtfully, even though her boyfriend had joined her and was snaking his hand up her cropped shirt. I caught the ball, not to prove my point, but to have a swallow of my own beer. I set the bottle back on the floor, inside the front leg of the table.
“Dude, pretty deep shit. What are you, a philo-sopher or somethin’?”
He pronounced it fillow-sofer. He was wasted. I was surprised he even knew I was speaking to her. Hell, I was surprised he could even stand up. Maybe it was why he leaned on her for support. But I’ve seen them before and their disgusting displays of teenage lust.
“How old are you?”
She was dipping some of her long hair into her beer bottle and then pulling it out to suck on it.
“Twenty-two.”
I lied. I split the difference between our ages because… Hell, I don’t know why. I guess I didn’t want her thinking an old fucker like me was still coming to these… dens of delinquency. Listen to me, being all poetic and shit—first with the girl, now with you.
I didn’t want her to hate her life. It bothered me for some reason. A little positive reinforcement never hurts anyone. I didn’t care if it sounded hokey.
I lost the ball.
“Can I?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
I let her pull the plunger, setting free another steel sphere from the rack upon its release, springing it forward along the length of the table, birthing its short life of buzzers and bells and bumpers, while I, the god above, decided its fate.
“Hey, what do you do, man?”
“I’m a chef.”
I didn’t want to talk to him. I’d rather talk to her; she was much more interesting. By the way, I’m not a chef. I’m a cook. Breakfast and brunch. Omelets are my specialty, but I can make a Benny if I need to.
“Dude’s a chef, baby.”
More touching, rubbing, and neck nuzzling. How my culinary background was the impetus for this latest round of lewd exhibition, I’ll never know. The little intrusion in my concentration cost me the ball.
“Can you make spaghetti? I really like shpaghetti and meatballs.”
She was starting to slur her words. I sent another ball up and cracked my knuckles.
“I can make spaghetti and meatballs. It’s not so difficult.”
She smiled at me upon hearing that, and I briefly wondered if she believed me—about my age, about me being a chef, about the whole you-are-the-flippers thing. The ball careened off a bumper and swiftly shot through my defenses.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“I’ll make you some spaghetti, baby.”
He stumbled off then, presumably for the restroom and not a pot of water.
I come here most Friday nights with the two-dollar cover, beer money, and a single quarter. It usually can last me quite a while if I’m not distracted, and the law doesn’t make an appearance. There are six machines, but I prefer this one—it’s in a corner and away from the radio.
Last ball. You used to get five, but some Einstein reconfigured the machines so they play only four balls. The ball dropped fast, but I caught and held it, keeping the flipper up. I looked into her neon eyes to make my point.
“Look, the better you do in school, the more power you’ll have over life’s little problems. Understand?”
Goddammit, I sounded like an old fart. But she nodded lazily, and I could tell she was drunk from two-thirds of a beer.
“And you certainly shouldn’t be hanging out with guys like him.”
“I know.”
He came back with his fly open and a newly lit cigarette dangling between his lips.
“Ready, babe?”
She nodded at him, but she was looking at me. There was an unverbalized thought there, and I knew I would never know what it was. They left me with a screaming guitar solo accompaniment, his hand in her back jean pocket.
I looked down at my last silver orb, motionless against my flipper. I released the button and watched as it slowly rolled downward, through the gap, disappearing into the darkness.
The way pinball game becomes a metaphor for life has me thinking about how the characters in the story move around.
The drunk boyfriend is trying to score with his girl. He's physically pushing her around.
And the player is trying to score a cheap night out by making his money stretch by being a better pinball player.
I love the ending image of the pinball disappearing into the dark, just like the drunk couple disappears from the narrative. The player will also disappear into the darkness when he's done playing.
Nice dialogue but it's the small details - the bubble, the omelettes that make this work so well