Pinball

After a couple of beers in Chinatown, I walked by this late-night arcade that I always see.

It's open as usual, even though it's after midnight. All I can see of the inside is a fluorescent-lit room filled with about 10 archaic-looking pinball machines. This isn't your Robocop or Aliens pinball -- these are some old school games with nothing but balls, bunkers, pins and flashing lights.

I wanted to play. I walked inside.

"Can I have change for a dollar to play pinball?" I asked.

"You have to become a member to play," said the middle-aged attendant.

"How do I become a member?"

"You have to talk to the owner. But he's not here right now."

"How much does it cost to become a member?"

"Nothing."

"If I come back tomorrow and talk to the owner, I can play pinball?"

"No. The owner would have to talk to the landlord first."

"Do I need some kind of membership card?"

"Yes. But I don't know when you could get it."

OK, fine. I got the point and left.

You can't tell me that the arcade isn't a front for some kind of illegal activity, either money laundering, gun smuggling or drug peddling. No freakin way.

I wanted to play some late-night pinball. Maybe I should keep fighting for a membership.