Pinball and Daydreams

I was ten years old and I had captured the silver ball with my left flipper. 

I held it firmly as I surveyed the surface of the table below the glass. I checked to see if the “special” light was on. It was. I could let the ball roll to just the right point near the middle of the flipper and then tap the button hard hooking it left and down the drain that crossed the trigger for the “special.” It meant sacrificing my last ball to get a new game and five more balls to play. Suspended, I weighed my options. Free game or keep the ball in play, go for the spinners, rack up some points, and go for a new high score.

I was addicted to pinball. I wasn’t a pinball wizard; I was a pinball junkie. The owners of The Game-room were my pushers. I remember the first marked quarters handed out like candy. I felt a rush of adrenaline the first time I drew back the spring-loaded launcher and sent the ball rocketing up ramps, through spinners, and bouncing off light-up bumpers. Ding-ding-ding it danced and then shot like a bullet straight down the middle drain. Now this had my attention.  The next ball in play had my complete focus. Hyper-focus. My eyes were lasers. The machine’s cacophonous sounds and flashing lights were some sort of magic magnet. I was mesmerized. Spellbound. Hooked.

Normally I daydreamed. My mind wandered. But now I was back at the Pinball machine. I was playing the new Captain Fantastic machine; Crowds had gathered as I racked up a new high score. I could hear The Who, “He’s a pinball wizard, there has to be a……LeGette!” The game room dissolved. “LeGette!”’ Mrs. Turner, my 5^th grade teacher was barking my name. “LeGette! Are you daydreaming again?” I was sitting at my desk surrounded by rows of classmates. They were all staring at me. Their eyes signaled,” What is wrong with you?” I wanted to be back at that pinball machine. I wanted to be anywhere but here with my name being barked and a bunch of kids looking at me like I was some sort of alien.

Mrs. Turner confirmed their suspicion, “Now that you have come back to earth, Mr. LeGette, could you please come to the board and solve this problem?” I looked at the blackboard and saw hieroglyphics. Everyone called it math, but it was just a jumble of numbers and meaningless symbols. Mrs. Turner certainly knew I could not solve the problem. It was written in secret code. The room was sweltering as Mrs. Turner stared at me. She wore a tank top shirt that showed off her hairy armpits. The giant fan was blowing hot air in my direction. I was feeling sick to my stomach. I could not move. 

Sheila, a neighbor who talked to me at the bus stop, but never at school, raised her hand. She spoke up, “I can solve it, Mrs. Turner.” Phew. Pressure was off. Sheila went to the board and scrawled  numbers and lines and tapped out dots with the chalk. She finished it off by drawing a circle around her final answer. I had no idea what she had just done, but Mrs. Turner was pleased for a moment before turning to me and scowling, “You should pay attention instead of daydreaming if you want to get anywhere in this world!”

As the teacher returned to droning on about dividing fractions, I gave my undivided attention back to staring out the window and dreaming that I was being hoisted up on the shoulders of my fans who were chanting, “High Score! High Score!” They carried me to the game-room counter where I was handed a large trophy and awarded free games for life.