Welp, Gonna Spend The Rest Of My Money On Skee-Ball
A few weeks back, the really shady “Irish” pub around the corner, Patrick Ryan’s, unexpectedly shut down. We assumed the place had become the scene of a multiple homicide investigation, but it turned out they just hadn’t paid their rent. Soon enough, someone picked up the property, gave it at even more generic name (Paddy’s) and installed a few new features. Namely: the skee-ball machine next to which I will be found dead and penniless.
I’m not even good at skee-ball. But if you think that’ll stop me from pumping every last dollar I have—oh yeah, it takes dollars—into its circuitry for “just another couple games,” you’re kidding yourself. What’s more, there’s no one around who’s willing to play against me at length, and you don’t get free beer for hitting a top score or anything. Not even meaningless tickets come out of the thing when you’re done.
It’ll just be me, then, nursing a drink in the corner and playing skee-ball poorly, alone, for no reason. The lights will flicker and a little carnival tune will play each time I part with more cash, and those nine wooden balls will clack into place as reliably as ever. Once in a great a while I may glance at the jukebox, or foosball table, but I don’t dare approach them. These are not for my enjoyment. There’s only one place in this bar I belong. Plus, I’m not about to walk away and let someone else have a turn.