Chapter 2 #2
Mr. Jiménez was more than just the owner of the alley.
He was a teacher, a mentor, a friend even.
I can’t help but smile, knowing he taught me more than just how to add a side spin to my throws or position my feet.
But then a wave of sadness hits me, realizing a stranger has had more of an impact on me than my own father—even in the very career Dad pushed me toward, urging me to follow in his footsteps.
With Mr. Jiménez, it was the only time I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, that I could just learn a new skill without feeling pressure. There were no major expectations of me.
The flickering neon lights above the bowling alley doors bring me back to reality. Walking toward the entrance, I stare up, noticing the neon sign is missing a couple letters.
Spa e T me
I can’t help but let a soft chortle escape. This old place has probably been so busy lately, Mr. Jiménez hasn’t had time to change the bulbs, let alone notice them. I make a mental note to let him know about the sign if he wants to make a good impression on the USBC reps.
“Hello?” I call out, glancing back as the door yanks free of my grip and crashes shut, louder than it should be.
The alley is a dead zone, dark and completely void of any humanity. My nostalgia fades a bit before I call out again, “Hello! Anyone here?”
A head of dark curls pokes up from underneath the register in the kitchen area located to the left, directly across from the shoe counter.
“Oh.” I pause. “Hi!”
“Sorry. Give me a minute,” he says curtly. His head swiftly returns underneath the fryer, presumably attempting to fix something.
“Take your time! I’m in no rush.” I walk toward the open lanes, swiping my finger across a rack of bowling balls, collecting an amount of dust I am not comfortable with. I pat my golf pants to wipe it away, which leaves a line of gray dirt on my Avalons.
I take a seat at a high-top table in the center lane. The empty seating areas around me give me pause. If Spare Time hosts the USBC, I worry if we’ll even have enough audience members to buy tickets.
“You have a reservation?” comes a voice from behind me.
When he enters my view, I realize his voice belongs to the most attractive face I’ve seen in a long time.
His toned body moves toward me with the silkiest confidence, a tattooed arm etching across his sleeve, skin glowing with a sun-kissed warmth even in the alley’s dim light.
Dark curls crown his head, wild yet controlled, framing a rugged jawline I can’t help but trace with my eyes.
“I’m… my name is Truett Thorne.” I try hard to mask a goofy smile.
“Okay? Does Truett Thorne have a reservation?” he asks before moving behind the shoe counter.
Yikes.
I follow behind him to the register and throw my own shoes on top of the counter.
Judging by his reaction—cocked head and raised eyebrow—I get the impression I should have laid my Nikes down more gently.
Yet, as his glare pierces through my soul, my eyes can’t help but wander to the way his muscles flex beneath his Spare Time branded polo.
“Size 13, please.” I lean on the counter. “I’m a professional bowler who grew up here in Pflugerville. Just finished a two-year tour on the road and wanted to stop by the alley that gave me my start.”
“A professional bowler who doesn’t bring his own bowling shoes?” He gives me an exaggerated once-over. “Real professional.”
I laugh because, honestly, fair. “Yeah, sometimes I like to live life on the edge with rentals.”
He rolls his eyes.
“So,” I try to change the subject, “what’s your name?”
He looks down at his shirt, presumably at his missing nametag. “Of course,” he mumbles. “I’m Ezra.”
“Nice to meet you, Ezra.” I smile. “Truett.”
“You’ve mentioned that. Laces or straps?”
“No boas?” I ask playfully.
“What?” He doesn’t smile, bat an eye, or give me any sort of indication he shares the same interest I have in him.
“It was a joke. Clearly a bad one. I’ll take laces, please.
” I nod before I turn my back against the counter and look around.
A couple of the lanes are all lit up with bright lights, the monitors playing funny little bowling pin characters dancing around the screens as pop music streams softly from the speakers.
A few lights in some of the lanes flash, reminding me of the flickering sign out front.
“Hey,” I turn back toward Ezra, “um—is Mr. Jiménez around? He probably wouldn’t remember me, but I’d love to say hello and tell him that a couple lightbulbs are out on his sign above the front door.”
“Yeah, he’s…” Ezra pauses and leans forward, sliding the shoes over to me on the counter. I catch a quick whiff of his cologne—it's masculine—a musky scent with hints of wood and leather. I pull the shoes closer. He continues, “He’s not available.”
“Damn, well, that’s okay. If you want, I can change the bulbs if you have any lying around? It can be a surprise for him when he gets back. I would just need you to hold the ladder.”
Ezra shakes his head, his voice wavering as he swallows hard. “He’s not coming back,” he says, faltering for a moment before adding, “You can pay after your rounds. I’ll be over in the kitchen, so if you could kindly grab my attention, I’ll check you out when you’re done.”
Am I missing something? Did I say something wrong?
“Um, is Mr. Jiménez okay? He still owns the alley, right?” I call out, trying to continue our conversation while Ezra makes his way back over to the kitchen area.
“Mr. Jiménez is dead, so he doesn’t own anything anymore,” Ezra growls without turning back around. “He’s been gone for a year.”
Dead? The news hits harder than I expected. I feel like I almost didn’t hear him correctly, like I’m stuck trying to make sense of it. How is Mr. Jiménez, the heart and soul of this place, not here anymore? How is he just…gone?
A short ache twinges in my chest. I’ve been sad before—sad I lost a match, sad someone broke up with me.
Hell, this feeling is worse than the sadness I felt when my dad berated me in front of a room full of future teammates for showing up two minutes late to my boarding school try-outs. No, this isn’t just sadness.
It’s deeper.
More like regret.
Mr. Jiménez knew I’d become something great and promised me he’d keep up with my career. I failed to keep that promise in return. I’ve only been gone for two years. How could I not know he died a year ago?
I sniff, taking in more air than usual to avoid tearing up.
I speak in a deeper voice to hide any weepiness. “It’s a damn shame,” I mumble. “I was wondering why this place doesn’t feel like it used to. Who owns this place now, eh?”
“Me,” Ezra replies. “His son.”
My eyes widen, and my lips press into a flat line. His declaration hangs in the air. The memory of a kid with dark curly hair, wearing baggy clothes and oversized headphones, always sketching, surges across my mind.