Pinball wizard

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"Creature from the Black Lagoon. Classic. This the one?"

"Yep, that's it. See up here? The Movie Madness light isn't working quite right. You'll get bursts of flickering, but even that's not timed as a reaction to anything in particular, and it's more confusing than anything, as I figure, why wouldn't it be broken entirely?"

The repairman gently placed his fingertips on the corner of the machine and looked it over. It had seen better days, but it was in reasonable condition where it counted.

The owner of the place, a barcade called Pinball Pint Club, decided he had more to say. "It must be a frayed wire or something going on in there, right? And the last guy that came in totally botched Dracula, and—"

"Dracula? If you still have it, I'll do that next, if you'd like. Half price. He's a count, after all." He looked up at the faulty light, though maybe it wasn't the light's fault at all, and pressed the middle and ring fingers of his right hand to the pane above it. He inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds, and then exhaled twice as much as light gathered around his fingers and fell through the pane into the machine.

That was that. But it wasn't enough. He swiveled a sea-grey messenger bag from around the back of his denim jacket, pulled out a small container of cleaning spray with a segment of cloth, and set to work on the sticky, circular remnants of the Pint Club part of the establishment.

"Wait, you're a—"

"Climber, yes. Denali, about three years ago."

"You're a Climber. Alaska? I've never been up there, but I do have a cousin up in Washington. And you can what, fix things?"

The circle now removed, he gave a nice coat of attention to the pane before kneeling down to the side. He responded distractedly, eyes never straying from the yellow button on the right side as he lovingly restored it to a kinder state. "Just pinball machines, actually."

"What?! Why not everything? Why not something you could get rich from?"

Left side now. "I like doing it, people need it, and there isn't much competition. What more could you want? Besides, they like humility. It's a safer ask."

The owner watched him work, both confused and a bit envious. "Well, why not more machines? What if someone goes and gets the power to break pinball machines instead? I mean, I don't want them to—"

"If someone wants to climb down to one of those horrid spots just to destroy pinball machines and give me more work to do, I just hope they give me a map, so we can follow each other in circles. It'd be a nice way to keep busy."

"Not a fan of the dark, I take it?" The owner didn't elaborate further, too interested in the answer to keep up his amicable rambling.

The repairman moved onto the token slots, the last pieces still craving a bit of attention. "Not a fan of confinement. I'd rather die at a high spot than a low one, if I had to. Anyway, your Creature should be very happy now. How about we go look at the other one?"

"Uh, yeah, let's do that. By the way, did you know these used to be mostly actual pins before they got all fancy? Name almost doesn't even make sense anymore. You know what should be called pinball? Bowling." The owner paused, clearly hoping for a response.

The repairman gave a half smile and a laugh in the form of a brief exhalation as he went to pay his respects to the Count. "You might be onto something."

And now we decide which story will be told as the very first of Bloomside's second year.

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From a potential story called Pendulum:

There's a painting of a grandfather clock leaning up against the wall, hidden behind the piano in my apartment.

It was my great grandmother's, which I suppose makes it a painting of my great great great great—wait—great great—well, you get the point.

I can't bear to look at it.

Or, from another called Brunch on Sundays:

"It's a taco stuffed inside a gyro—I've been calling it a gyrco—you want one? This one's vegan. Wait, no. That one's vegan. I added an egg to this one."

Honestly, I don't have a whole lot to report this month. I've been wandering outside, replaying an old Pokémon game, surviving on hope and a few matcha drinks made with sparkling water. Had a panic attack inside of a dream the other night. Normal things.

It's hitting the 90's this week, and barring anymore dreamside panic shenanigans, it'd actually be pretty convenient if I could figure out how to estivate. It's like hibernating, but more suited to fellow dramatic northerners or certain snails in France.

Only two more Bloomsides until we're back to the proper months.

Keep blooming,

Martin

Previous stories from Bloomside:

Crows and the things they pine for
Crows and the things they pine for: part two
From Moab to Mars
The witch of the wool
Waiting for the sun
What the well holds
Cabin fever for a coward
Check for lasers

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