Pinball was banned in New York City until 1976 when a pinball wizard proved to a courtroom that pinball was not a game of chance but one of skill by calling out his shots to the amazed judges. The ace later acknowledged that his called shot was pure luck, however pinball machines once more populated amusement arcades and bars. Coming from Boston I had spent hundreds of dollars honing my skills on the slanted playing field. I beat most of the players in Times Square, but my favorite pinball machine was in the Gaslight Bar on 7th Avenue in Park Slope.
The bar was only a hundred feet from the apartment which I shared with James Spicer, a flamboyant jazz impressario who had once coupled with James Dean. The crowd at the Gaslight was straight. James bought the regulars drinks. They never questioned his largesse, especially since I was friends with Davie Corr, an insane bank robber, who once robbed three banks in Flatbush back to back to back. Whenever a stranger challenged me to a pinball game, Davie backed my play. A dollar for 1000 points. I sometimes won by 100,000. It was a good business for a game of skill.
One night I enter the Gaslight and order a drink. Jack and Black. A dark-haired skinny girl with big breasts was bumping the pinball machine with her pelvis. Her skin was white as a zombie. I watched her tilt the machine and asked, "Do you make love the same way?"
"Only one way to find out."
Her name was Fran. She took me back to her place. Her white skin was covered with baby powder. We fucked on the floor. Someone knocked on the door. Her boyfriend.
"Fran, I know you're in there."
"Don't stop. He'll go away." She humped upward and at that moment I knew that she did fuck like she played pinball.
Only I didn't tilt.
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