Ever since I was a young girl I've played the silver ball. From Nantucket down to Edmond, I must have played them all. But I've never seen anything like him in any amusement hall. That deaf, dumb and blind boy sure plays a mean pinball.
Must be those crazy flippers. His touch gives them a thrill. His deft tongue wags so glibly, I know I'll take a spill. Such a smooth talking wizard. There has to be a twist. Words warp illucidly. Hit me like a fist.
Cunning. Sharp. Plays by intuition. Scores big by manipulating the landscape under glass. Uneven pressure. Metal balls crashing, bouncing. Racking up the points. One offs no more.
Bells a' flashing. Buzzers squealing. Knot growing deep in my belly cutting off my inner joy. Attacking my self-assuredness. Shrouding my joie de vivre. Until I acquiesce. Fold my cards. Melt into the shadows.
Things going bump in the night. My night. Once solemn peaceful slumber interrupted by rattling noises. Breath whistling scarily. Noisily. Carrying me to the very edge of my comfort zone. And beyond. Uneasily. Ding. Ding. Ding. TILT!
To think I almost handed my pinball crown to him.