The ball was in the crotch of the left flipper, Sankins middle finger holding the button depressed.
Up the right ramp, the most logical shot, was Light Extra Ball.
Or he could shudder kick the ball back up the return lane and…
He saw Maizy Doerter out of his left eye, leaning on the Iron Maiden pinball on the other side of the bill changer like she wanted Sankins to see her.
“How come you’re not at Bags’ funeral?”
Maizy shrugged, looked down at her own cleavage and ripped jeans.
“Can’t go to a funeral dressed like this.”
Sankins stared at the ball.
He didn’t want to get mad.
He saw a movie once, maybe a TV show, maybe he dreamt it, that a guy saw his own reflection in the pinball.
Sankins couldn’t see his reflection. His hand was starting to sweat.
“Doubt many people dressed up for Bags’ funeral. And you? You know, you know like you hate your middle name that you could have shown up to Bags’ funeral any way you wanted.”
“Maybe.”
“Not fucking maybe, Maizy. Not close to maybe.”
“You’re awful upset about it for a guy who ain’t at the funeral himself.”
Sankins went silent. He could shoot the ball into the playfield, he could probably keep the ball going for a while, but more than likely he was gonna tilt the machine.
Maizy definitely came here on purpose.
Looking for him, he couldn’t be sure, but there was a reason she was here.
Wizards was empty, except for some kinda scout troop playing air hockey and foosball.
Everybody else was at Bags’ funeral. Had to be.
“Why are you here, Maizy?
Maizy wrapped her dyed black hair around her index finger, and poked it toward her mouth. She missed, looked up at the ceiling.
“I saw your car.”
“Why were you driving by here?”
“I spent the night at The Mohawk Inn because I got too fucked up at Sinbad’s, so I just walked there.”
Sankins nodded. He understood, and he let Maizy see his eyes so she knew he understood.
His two year sobriety coin was in his pocket.
He could feel it now, where the coin was in relation to his thigh.
Funny how the brain works. I would never use my thigh to feel for something in the dark.
It was like the coin was hotter than his keys. He felt the outline. He was feeling everything.
He could have the pinball game of his life.
“I got fucked up thinking about Bags,” Maizy said.
Sankins didn’t have to be told that. He knew.
He thought about lifting the game up, tilting it without playing the ball. Just quitting it.
“I got fucked up thinking maybe I could go like I was his widow, black dress, veil….I got fucked up thinking I could go like when Bags met me, still in one of my stripper dresses at The Token.
I talked to him…”
Sankins thought Maizy would relate some story about an internal dialogue she had with Bags after she heard he died.
“His mom took his phone. He could only write at that point, and she called me to tell me what he had written, asked me to talk to him even though he was too sick to answer back.”
Maizy wasn’t crying. Her eyes weren’t puffy, but her already pale skin was pale like she was dead too, green reflections from other pinball games crawling across it like big LED bugs.
“Why aren’t you there, Stewart? I…I know why I’m…I’m not. But why…”
Stewart Sankins flipped the right flipper, the empty one, slapping the button like an amateur, like a kid playing their first game ever.
“When they gave Bags the there’s nothing more we can do for ya he called Tony Ramos, told Tony to make sure Andy Beechum wasn’t at his funeral.”
Sankins looked over and it seemed like some of Maizy’s color had returned, but not necessarily in a good way.
Maizy pulled a vape out. You couldn’t vape in Wizards. She rolled the vape in her hand.
“I think I know why,” she said quietly.
“I know why,” Sankins said. “But Tony said Bags didn’t want Andy Beechum to know why he didn’t want him there.”
“Andy could figure out why,” Maizy said. ‘He’s not stupid.”
Sankins felt like he was blushing. He spun, still holding on to the flipper button, and leaned his butt up against the Carnival Of Souls pinball.
“Well, Andy got pissed at Tony for telling him,” Sankins said. “Threatened Tony. Tony asked me to handle it.”
“Why aren’t you there, Maizy? Bags…that guy loved you like you made the earth spin.”
Maizy stared at the ground.
“His mom said he wanted to marry me. On his deathbed. Like the hospital chaplain…and…and I just couldn’t do it. It would have been fake. I didn’t love him like he…fuck this, Sankins. This sucks. Why the fuck didn’t you go? You guys were close. It’s not like he asked you to marry him.”
“He didn’t want Andy Beechum there because you slept with Andy Beechum.”
“I slept with you too, Stewart and he–”
Sankins felt sweat everywhere. Armpits. Forehead. It was like withdrawals, almost.
“He didn’t know, Maizy. I couldn’t tell him. It would have hurt him too bad. I made amends to everyone. Everyone I could. People who said I did shit in blackouts. Every single person. But he was diagnosed…and…what? Oh by the way Bags, I gotta make these amends for years of drunkenness and…”
“Did you tell Andy he couldn’t go to the funeral?”
“I told him if he showed up at Bags’ funeral or threatened Tony Ramos again I was gonna torch his fucking GTO. I was serious. I am serious. The entire fucking city will tell me. Tony will tell me. Bags didn’t want him there.”
“We slept together like three years ago, Stewart. Bags would have wanted you there.”
Sankins shook his head.
“I…I didn’t …um… why don’t you go to the reception, Maiz? The after thingy at Prumroys? Just show up, give Mrs. Dubagovich a hug, tell her you loved Bags, just, you know….”
“Why didn’t you go to the funeral Stewart? I don’t understand.”
Stewart Sankins put his right fist to his temple like he was going to beat himself up.
“Because Bags asked me straight up to my face if I slept with you and I looked him in the eye and I lied and said no. I don’t deserve to be there. I don’t deserve to be anywhere. I fucked up, and it’s too late to change it.”
He turned back to the pinball machine, but he had let go of the button, and the silver ball was gone.
***
I’m doing the best I can can to continue providing great fiction every single day. The archive is approaching 1300 stories. You won’t find a better fiction collection on Substack or anywhere. I am 84 paid subscriptions away from my goal. At ten dollars per month or ninety five a year, it’s an incredible value with a vibrant community of readers and commenters. Become part of it today.
This story had a great tone and setting. I like how the dialogue gradually revealed the characters and the nature of their relationship, how the pace created curiosity, and how curiosity made the story engaging. This is my very first post of Substack, and I'm glad it was directed to a talented writer.
heart in throat reading. Very powerful.