14
It had been a long time since J's Bar was this crowded. Most were new faces, but J had no gripes– a customer's a customer. He had every reason to be in good spirits. For what with the icepick cracking ice, the clinking of ice and tumblers, laughter, the Jackson Five on the jukebox, clouds of white smoke hovering about the ceiling like balloons of dialogue in a comic book, that night seemed like another round of summer.
Nonetheless, there was something "off" about the Rat. He sat by himself at one end of the counter, skimming the same page of his book over and over again before finally giving up and closing it. If at all possible, he would have liked nothing better than to chug down the last of his beer, go home, and simply sleep. If he would have been able to sleep, that is.
For one week now, luck had lost all sight of the Rat. Scant snatches of sleep and beer and cigarettes, and even the weather was starting to give out on him. The rainwater washed down off the hills into the river, then flowed to the sea, turning it a blotchy brown and gray. A disgusting view, an ugly outlook. He felt as if his head was stuffed full of wads of old newspaper. He slept lightly, and never for very long. It was like sleeping in a dentist's overheated waiting room. Whenever anybody opened the door, you'd wake up. He gazed at the clock.
Half the week he'd been immersing himself in whiskey, he'd decided to freeze all thought for a while. One by one he'd inspected the cracks of his consciousness like a polar bear looking for ice thick enough to cross. And only when he found prospects that might just possibly get him through the rest of the week did he sleep. The trouble was, when he awoke, everything would be just like before. Except maybe his head would ache a little.
The Rat looked blankly at the six empty bottles of beer lined up in front of him. Between the bottles he had a good view of J's back.
Maybe the tide's going out, thought the Rat. I was eighteen the first time I had a beer here. How many thousands of bottles of beer ago had it been? How many thousands of potatoes worth of fries, how many thousands of jukebox selections? All of it, everything that had swept like waves up to this little barge, was withdrawing. Haven't I already drunk enough beers in my time? Of course, by the time people get to be thirty or forty they've had their share of beers. Even so, he thought, there's something about the beer here. And twenty-five, that's not such a bad age to retire. People with any sense have gotten out of college and are working as loan clerks at the bank by this age.
The Rat added another empty bottle to the lineup, and drank down half his brimming glass in one gulp. Out of sheer reflex, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then wiped his damp hand on the seat of his cotton pants.
Let's think this one through, he told himself.
Don't run away, think. You're twenty-five years old, a good age to be thinking a bit. You're two twelve-year old-boys old, kid, how do you measure up? Not even one boy's worth. Maybe not even worth as much as an ant farm in a pickle jar. Oh, lay off; enough with these stupid metaphors. They don't do any good. Think, where did you go wrong? C'mon, remember. Like I even know where to start looking.
The Rat gave up and guzzled down the rest of his beer. Then he raised his hand and ordered another bottle.
"You're drinking too much today," J said. No matter, the eighth bottle took its place on the counter.
His head ached a bit. His body bobbed up and down on unseen waves. He felt sluggish behind the eyes. Vomit, said a voice at the back of his head.
Go ahead and spit it up. Then you can have yourself a good long think. So stand up, get yourself to the john. No good. Can't make it to first base.
Yet somehow the Rat managed to throw out his chest, stride to the restroom, open the door, chase out a young woman who was touching up her mascara, and bend over the toilet.
How many years has it been since I got myself vomiting sick? Forgotten how to vomit. You undo your trousers, was it? Cut the dumb jokes. Just shut up and vomit. Vomit till nothing comes but gastric juice.
Once the Rat had vomited up all the liquid in his stomach, he sat down on the toilet and smoked a cigarette. Then he washed his face and hands with soap, and smoothed down his hair at the mirror with wet hands. A bit on the gloomy side perhaps, but his nose and cheeks weren't so bad-looking.
The kind of face a junior high school teacher could love, maybe.
After leaving the restroom, he went over to the woman whom he'd interrupted at her make-up, and apologized. He returned to the counter, drank half a glass of beer, chased it with a single gulp of icewater from J. He shook his head two or three times, and by the time he'd lit up a cigarette, his head was resuming its normal functions.
Well, ready then, the Rat muttered. There's a long night ahead, let's get down to thinking.
15
It was the winter of 1970 when I slipped into the enchanted kingdom of pinball. I might as well have been living in a dark hole, those six months. A hole dug to my size right in the middle of an open meadow, where I just covered myself, putting a lid on all sound. Not a thing engaged me. When evening rolled around I'd wake up, bundle up in my coat, and have myself a time off in a corner of the game center.
I'd finally found myself a three-flipper "Spaceship" exactly like the one at J's Bar. When I put in a coin and pressed the play button, the machine would raise its targets to such a succession of noises it'd almost start shaking. Then the bonus light would go out, the six digits of the scoreboard would return to zero, and the first ball would spring into the lane. An endless stream of coins fed into the machine, until one month later, a chill and rainy evening in early winter, my score soared to six figures like a hot-air balloon after the last sandbag is tossed overboard.
I wrestled my trembling fingers away from the flipper buttons, leaned back against the wall, drank my ice-cold can of beer, and stared for the longest time at those six digits registered on the scoreboard–105,220.
That was the beginning of my brief honeymoon with the pinball machine. I hardly showed up at the university, and poured half the earnings from my part-time job into pinball. I became practiced in most techniques – hugging, passing, trapping, the stop shot – and soon enough it seemed someone would always be watching in the background when I played. A high school girl with bright red lipstick even came up and brushed her breast against my arm.
By the time I broke 150,000, winter had really set in. There I'd be, alone in the freezing, deserted game center, bundled up in my duffel coat, muffler wrapped around my neck up to my ears, grappling with the machine. The face I'd encounter from time to time in the restroom mirror looked lean and haggard. My skin was flaky. The last sip of each beer began to taste like lead. Cigarette butts scattered everywhere around my feet, I'd munch on a hot dog or something I'd keep thrust in my pocket.
She was great, though. That three-flipper "Spaceship" – only I understood her, and only she understood me. Whenever I pressed her replay button, she'd perk up with a little hum, click the six digits on the board to zero, then smile at me. I'd pull her plunger into position – not a fraction of an inch off – and let that gleaming silver ball fly up the lane onto the field. And while the ball was racing about, it was as if I were smoking potent hashish; my mind was set free.