Chapter 2 #3
“Holy shit. I think I remember you? You were always sitting behind the counter, ignoring us customers, and drawing in your book. Your dad would always joke about how you’d rather be on the page and not in the alley.
I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. Wow, I would say congrats on taking over this place, but I’m not sure congrats is the right word. ”
“I know what you mean. Thanks. Also, I have no recollection of that period of my life. So, your memory is as good as mine.”
“When I came to the alley, it was all about practice, practice, practice. The only person I socialized with was your dad. Then, for high school, I was shipped off to boarding school to focus on athletics, so I missed out on local schooling here.”
“You know you can start your frames, right? My dad’s not here anymore for you to socialize with, so…” Ezra tries to play it off like his father not being here is no big deal, but I know grief when I see it.
I try to swallow the lump building in my throat, but it just stays there, heavy. Realizing Mr. Jiménez is gone now, we're left with…what? His moody offspring to suck the air out of the only place I ever felt joy growing up? This is definitely not the nostalgia I was hoping for.
Whenever the USBC representatives walk through those doors, Ezra will need to perk up, or this bowling alley will lose any chance of being selected.
I turn on my heels and begin to walk away from the counter before I hear a subtle crackle, like a low-frequency buzzing, behind me.
I twist my neck back to see Ezra about to speak into the microphone sitting near the register.
A vintage microphone I remember Mr. Jiménez used to call out ready-to-go food orders or to holler at kids running across the lanes.
“You’re right though. The alley isn’t what it used to be, but please, leave your name and number on a comment card, and I will be sure to contact you with any questions on how to improve your experience at Spare Time.
” He ends by rolling his eyes and ducking his head back under the fryer to continue working on it.
“Great, where are the comment cards?” I ask.
Ezra lets out a loud grunt and pulls himself back up from underneath the countertop fryer. He grabs a handful of napkins and slams them on the counter. “Here you go.”
“But those aren’t…” I pause, letting out a breath. “Never mind.” I’m not going to out-bicker such a grump.
I take a seat in Lane 7, since it’s primed and ready. Thanks to Mr. Personality, my name is already displayed with the first four letters—TRUE—typed into the electronic scoreboard. At least there is some modernization in this two-steps-up-from-squalor of a bowling alley.
As I begin lacing up my shoes, the front door opens. Three men wearing suits and fancy shoes walk into the alley. Each pulls out a clipboard and synchronously clicks their pens to start jotting down notes. Ezra hasn’t noticed them yet; he’s still busy hammering away on the fryer in the kitchen.
Do I help him? Do I greet the men? Why does this feel like my responsibility all the sudden? I have literally no skin in this game. I don’t care one bit about where the tournament will be held.
If traveling tournament to tournament the last two years has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t even know if I want to compete in another tournament for the rest of my life.
I just want to settle down, maybe with someone who balances me out, and not feel pressured to win another trophy.
I grew up in Pflugerville without learning anything about Pflugerville.
Maybe I want to build a life here and finally become a real Pflugervillain.
Well, maybe not a Pfluger-villain. I don’t have it in me. But definitely something simpler. Normal, even.
Coming back home was the first step in relaxing and figuring out what I want to do with the rest of my life.
Some days, I think I’m still bowling only because I don’t want to disappoint my father, not because I enjoy it.
But maybe being back here—being at Spare Time—might help me fall in love with it again.
Bowling is all I’ve ever known. I don’t have any fancy degrees to try out a new career, and being on the road for so long didn’t really set me up to have any successful relationships—especially one I can run home to.
All I have left is this dream of being the best professional bowler in the world.
A dream that isn’t and maybe was never mine to begin with.
Then I remember Judy’s BBQ.
I remember Mr. Jiménez checking in on me every single time I came to the alley, giving me small pointers that improved my techniques and reminded me to enjoy the game just a little bit more each time.
The idea of impressing the USBC representatives and helping change the trajectory of this bowling alley, similar to how Mr. Jiménez helped me, hits me as soon as the suits come closer.
All the positive memories I’ve ever had in this bowling alley flood my head in less time than it takes for me to shout, “Ezra, you’ve got some guests! ”
I look over at the men and gently wave. “Mr. Jiménez is short-staffed today, fellas. He’ll be with you in just a moment.”