Pinball Wizard Wannabe

There was a time in my childhood when pinball machines were a mystical game, found only in the back rooms of bars, bowling alleys, and the occasional laundromat like Ken Cadwallader’s on Highway 90 in Patterson, Louisiana. Mr. Ken opened a laundromat and drop off service on the corner of Highway 90 and Railroad Avenue in the mid 1970’s in the building that had once been the home of the Thrifty Nifty convenience store.  Like most small businesses, he only had a few employees: Ms. Andrea (his wife) and Ms. Pat Kleles.

Before electronic pinball machines had really gone mainstream, Mr. Ken purchased a Bally Pinball Wizard machine. In the midst of adults coming and going, all of us kids from the neighborhood were unloading quarters into the impressive machine built will all the latest bells and whistles. With vending machines nearby dispensing Cokes and snacks, we were entertained for hours, in a trance from the intense pressure and competition pinball brought to our lives. Too bad our money never lasted too long.

Pinball machines were a rare commodity for us. We lived in a very small town with limited avenues for such machines. It had only been a few years since pinball machines were largely banned due to their use as so-called gambling devices.  Anything banned, outlawed, confiscated, or hidden would be hard pressed to make an impression in St. Mary Parish.  I’m sure Pete Townsend wasn’t thinking about the parish when he wrote “Pinball Wizard” for The Who’s rock opera Tommy in 1969.

What makes him so good? He ain’t got no distractions. Can’t hear those buzzers and bells. Don’t see lights a flashin’. Plays by sense of smell. Always has a replay. Never tilts at all. That deaf dumb and blind kid, sure plays a mean pinball.” 

Lyrics from “Pinball Wizard”, by The Who

One friend is to blame for my pinball craving…Tommy Vining. There is a lot I can write about Thomas Joseph Vining. “Thomas Joseph” was only used by his mom when she was upset with him or was telling him to get his butt home because he was missing supper. I’m sure over time I will have more Tommy Vining stories.

Tommy made sure to point out to me that his last name is spelled with one n, not two, as in Crystal Vinning. Tommy explained the spelling difference one day when I asked him if he was related to Crystal. He said no and as preadolescent boys will do, we allowed our minds to wander and think about one of the prettiest girls in town that we both knew; Crystal Vinning, the blond haired beauty with two n’s in her last name.

Tommy wasn’t very tall, but he was agile, athletic, worldly, and just cool. Tommy had a couple of older brothers, as well as a twin brother–something that I think contributed to him knowing more about life and the world–stuff like fishing, girls, and sports.  Not like there was much more to life and the world for us than those things.

Tommy’s Dad was a shrimper and the name of his boat was the Bonjour. One day, while going through old yearbooks in the library in junior high school, Tommy and I came across a picture of two high school students sitting on the bow of his Dad’s boat as it was docked on Bayou Teche, the bayou that ran through our community. I can’t remember exactly, but it seems the picture was for one of those senior class awards like “most popular” or “friendliest” or something of that nature. I remember how proud Tommy was to see his dad’s boat pictured in that yearbook.

As was the case of most Patterson shrimpers, when not in the gulf, their boats were docked in the ‘downtown’ part of our little city. Downtown Patterson encompassed a dozen or so businesses in a half mile stretch. The stores, bars, and other places did a steady business back then but with a population of 5,000, pickings were always slim for shopping and entertainment.

Shrimpers and other downtown inhabitants spent their free time heading off to one of the dive bars or taverns that were located nearby. Tommy knew that his dad would sometimes have a beer and get something to eat at one particular place on the south side of Main Street. From his Dad or older brothers, Tommy found out there was a pinball machine in the back room of the bar. When he told me about it, we started scheming on how we could get into the bar to play pinball.  As is normal for young boys, we might as well have been planning the invasion at Normandy Beach; strolling into a bar as a preteen was not an option, nor was asking our parents, so we began to try to find out ways into the bar.

In our favor was the location of this drinking establishment. To the right was a snowball stand and then next to the snowball stand was Rizzo’s, a women’s clothing store (Check out this block on Main Street in Patterson on Google Maps, here). Hanging outside of the bar did not come across too strange then, as we just appeared to be normal kids with their bikes, enjoying the sweet flavors of snowballs.  Innocent enough, right? Tommy and I observed the comings and goings of the bar and before long figured out who was the daytime barmaid.

One hot day when business in the bar was slow, with only a couple of weary shrimpers sitting at the bar nursing their Jax beers, Tommy and I got brave and decided to go in the bar and ask permission to play pinball.  The barmaid seemed friendly enough, and gave no notice to us when we loitered outside with our snowballs, so why not?

Keep in mind, we did not actually have proof there was a pinball machine in the bar since you could not see it from the street. Up to this point it was only hearsay or rumors. We walked in and the barmaid immediately asked us what we wanted in a sharp tone, quickly reminding us we were in a bar and minors were not allowed.

Tommy shot back, “My daddy is Rabbit Vining.” Rabbit was his daddy’s nickname thanks to high school track exploits, and nicknames tend to stick in small towns longer than big cities.

The bartender said, “Okay Rabbit’s son, what do you want?” Stammering and nervous, Tommy said, “We were wondering if we could play pinball?”

The bartender stared at us, contemplating I guess how much trouble she would get into letting a couple of kids in the bar to play pinball. Maybe she was just trying to let us down easy and tell us there was not a pinball machine in the bar—could all of our spy work and pinball cravings be all for naught?

Finally, she pointed to the back room and told us we could come in the bar and play pinball. Of course we were told to keep things quiet, and she better not have to tell Rabbit that his son was playing pinball in the back of the bar. I found it funny she threatened Tommy with a report to Rabbit, because if she only knew that my father was the Reverend at First Baptist Church, a threat to report back to Brother Art would far more intimidating.

With wide grins on our faces and butterflies in our stomach, two tanned, skinny, sandy-haired boys in cut off shorts, motocross t-shirts, and worn out red Chuck Taylor tennis shoes scooted to the back of the bar before the bartender changed her mind and kicked us out. With a dozen or so quarters between us, Tommy and I fed the slot with our money and started what would be over an hour of pinball fun. When our money ran out, we walked through the bar, thanked the bartender again and ran out the door, jumped on our bikes and rode away as fast as we could, hoping no one saw us leaving the bar.

Over at Ken’s Laundromat, the Pinball Wizard game was very popular, so Mr. Ken found a more updated machine through Gary Domino and American Amusement. This one was digital with more lights and sounds that required a higher skill set than the manual machine we learned to play on. Going from the first machine to the second machine was like night and day. It is like comparing the Mattel Classic Football game to a game you play on your I-Phone now.

Mr. Ken’s new pinball machine had a hockey theme and was Bally’s Bobby Orr Power Play, in honor of the hockey great who recently passed away. If you lost the game but the last two numbers in your final score matched what the computer picked, there was a loud pop and you were rewarded a free game. Free games were also rewarded when you reached a certain high score.

Pinball kept our interests for a long time, but like most things, we would outgrow it for other ensuing fads.  It seems funny as adults to think of our childhood obsessions and the gravity we placed on them, through no mechanism other than our own imagination.  There is beauty in how our adolescent minds work—how often as adults are we able to obsess, enjoy, and share in an experience with a friend without it taking away from other responsibilities?  Sure it was just pinball, but as simple as the game played, so was our happiness. From time to time I run across a pinball machine and I envision two skinny kids in cut-off jeans, fingers the side of a wooden box, verbally willing a silver ball to go this way and that way, trying to hit the designated targets, score points, and win the grand prize of a free game.  Between the two of us, but especially Tommy, we sure could play some mean pinball.

From Back to the Bayou, by Steve Achord