It all started so innocently.

“Oh, we’re going to your Aunt Laura’s house? Well, I was just reading about something that I’m sure the kids would love. Oh, and it’ll be just like our days back in school, in Charlotte. You’ll never get this. A pinball museum. That’s right – a pinball museum! Old machines, from the ’60s and ’70s! Just like we used to play. Yeah, and it’s right around there. So… If you think so, maybe we should stop by. I mean, if we have the time.”

We should have known he was full of shit – Dad had lived with Mom long enough to know his way around a bold but well-stated triple-reverse-psychology “suggestion” better than we could have ever imagined. But none of us expected the scene as his hour of free playtime at the museum came to a close.

His fingers, still gripping the “Charlie’s Angels” machine’s flippers, are nearly purple with — it’s hard to say. Tension? Skyrocketing blood pressure? The effects of the full-body orgasm he’s been having since he walked through the door? Without turning his head, though, he says through clenched teeth to Mom:

“Take the kids, and the car. I’ve wasted my life. I’m never leaving this place.”

Dad’s never cried in front of us before, but tears are streaming down his face now – but they don’t seem to have anything to do with the fact that he’s just abandoned our family forever. No, now that his hour has officially run its course, he’s walking right past us as he thrusts his wallet directly into the hands of the nerdy young cashier.

“Take it all. Fuck it. I don’t need it. Just don’t get near me, and don’t ever try to take me away from here.”

Without another word, he’s back at a new machine, and as we stared, confused, in his direction, we could make out his muttered “oh, the action is fast on this one” and “I haven’t played pinball since Rhonda got pregnant and ruined my life.” We looked at each other – Mom’s name isn’t Rhonda. Rick, my older brother, starts to cry, too.

A comforting hand begins to pat us on the back. As we turn around, we see the pimple-faced cashier from the front desk. He offers us our father’s wallet – light a few $20s, but otherwise intact.

“Boys, don’t worry about your dad. I’ve seen it a million times before – he’s going to be going through this for a few hours, but once he starts losing his energy, he’s probably going to find himself down the street at a bar, drinking away all of these memories. Just like he has everything else since you were born.”

Rick looks up with him with tear-stained eyes. “You mean, Dad will forget all about this pinball craziness and come back and love us again?”

“A man never forgets pinball, son. But the world can keep them apart – and when they cross paths, sometimes something like this happens. He’ll be okay – or as okay as any man can be.”

We looked at each other, and the man far down the aisle performing an elaborate series of hip-checks on a “Gilligan’s Island” pinball machine. We had known him as our father before – but we realized that we could never really know him.