Pinball Wizard

A micro-story about another type of pinball wizard

         I walked into Ford’s corner grocer one slow afternoon and saw this neighborhood guy—older than me, but not by much—playing the pinball machine like he had all day. The place smelled like old floor wax. As the game counter clicked up sixteen free ones, he shot me a quick, knowing wink. Then he shifted his foot, just enough for me to catch the trick.
         A matchbook, folded over and jammed under the rear leg.
         It lifted the machine just a hair. Not enough for a casual glance to notice, but enough to slow the ball on its way down so he could guide it a little longer. The trick was he couldn’t nudge or smack the cabinet the way hotshots usually did. One hard bump and the machine would flash TILT, wipe his game out, and draw a glance from Old Man Ford. So he played it cool, barely moving, letting the angle do the work. The machine gave off that steady, tinny chime—half music, half machinery—like it was trying to keep a tune and couldn’t quite manage it.
         I wanted to stay and watch, but my newspaper customers didn’t care about a pinball stratagem—they cared about getting their papers on time. So I headed out, the bell on Ford’s door giving that flat little ring behind me.
         Later I heard he cashed in a thousand games.
         I still feel the wow of that.