“He’s a pinball wizard
There has got to be a twist.
A pinball wizard’s
Got such a supple wrist.“— Song lyrics ‘The Pinball Wizard” by The Who
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Remember video games?
Yeah, I know they’re still around. I’m talking about early iterations: Nintendo, Pac-Man, Pong, Odyssey. I don’t know the history of video games, but I’m confident my son does.
If I remember correctly, Lee was about seven or eight when he fixed a defunct Apple 2e computer I tossed aside after buying a new Mac Plus. He had it working and was playing games on it in short order. He celebrates his 44th birthday this month and video games have been his life-long hobby. A whole room in his house is dedicated to gaming—thousands of games, hundreds of collectible consoles.
I called games “a fad” in the 80s. Sitting in darkness one night trying to master one. Small objects cascading down the screen and me trying to zap them before they reached the bottom. I am trying to remember what it was called. Lee would know.
Cut me some slack, though. I grew up embracing pinball machines and pool tables for recreation. Frequenting a Pittsburg, Texas pool hall in the old icehouse by the railroad tracks. Where the last time I passed there, church services were being conducted. And my East Texas State University transcript would likely look better had I devoted as much time to studies as I did to Pope’s Pool Hall in downtown Commerce.
When “gaming” was mastering flipper buttons on a pinball machine. Pumped by the rush of ringing bells and flashing of lights, keeping the silver ball in play as long as possible. Becoming one with pinball machines like that one I happened upon one night a few years ago. In a dim corner of an old convenience store in rural Wisconsin, between the Milwaukee airport and my destination hotel.
Dubbed something about “asteroids and aliens,” the game room refugee rested among a couple of tables for convenience store cuisine “dine-in” experiences. Like hot dogs that have been lingering under a heat lamp since the Christmas holidays.
The machine’s faint warm glow beckoned the next pinball wizard to save the solar system.
I paid my tab for hotel room necessities: a bottle of water, aspirin, and a crossword puzzle magazine. Pocketed my change from the store clerk, who conducted the entire transaction without diverting her attention from a dog-eared paperback romance novel and a diet Coke.
Before reaching the door, I stopped. Surrendering to the machine’s siren song, I went to the dark corner, set my sack on a nearby table, and dug for loose change. Feeding the coin slot awakened an aurora of slumbering electronics. Lights flashed, bells rang, and a deep electronic “Darth Vader-ish” voice issued dire warnings regarding my future in the universe.
With a crack of my knuckles, I rolled up my sleeves and gripped the sides of the machine. Following a couple of practice taps with the flipper buttons, I pulled the release knob back and sent the first ball flying around the top and into play.
Game on!
I bounced it off the bumpers. Lights flashed faster. Bells chimed louder. My score was running up faster than numbers on a Walmart gas pump.
My old “pinball posture” was back. I twisted and turned with every ball. I hammered the buttons. I talked to the machine. I defended my ship and the galaxy, fighting gallantly without thought for my own safety. Alien invaders went down one after another, victims of my lightning laser fire with the silver balls.
In mere minutes, I had fought my way to galactical glory faster than Luke Skywalker.
Then it happened.
I met my outer space Waterloo in the form of a sonar-sounding, gun-toting, light-year traveler. It was over faster than a high school summer romance in September. Like awakening from an afternoon nap dream, beamed from far reaches of the solar system back to an aged Midwestern C-store at sundown. The machine slipped back into its slumber.
The cashier was still deep in her alter ego romance and aspartame aspirated refreshment. But I felt other eyes looking at me—a young alien defender who had yet to attend grade school graduation. “Are you through, mister,” the lad asked softly and politely?
I threw my shoulders back, looked at my score with pride, and said, “I am. It’s your turn now. Do you play this pinball machine often?”
“Yes sir,” he said, reaching in his pocket for his fare to fight space aliens.
“So, what’s your best score,” I quizzed him. Smiling with pride at my more than 100,000 points still flashing on the board.
“Just three hundred and forty thousand,” the youngster replied as he fed the coin slot and took his stance at the controls. “But I’m going to beat that tonight.”
I picked up my bag and headed for the door, tossing a “good luck” to the kid. And to the romance reading clerk. Still 20 minutes from my hotel, I drove into the night, looking forward to a cozy evening with a crossword puzzle.
Fourteen across. “Popular space-themed pinball machine from the 1960s.” Six letters, third one is an O.
—Leon Aldridge
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Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune, the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.
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