Chapter 3
What the hell is he doing?
I’ve known Truett for all of five minutes, and he’s calling for me like he works here, like we’re best friends. I don’t have best friends. I have people I fuck, and I have people I drink with. Sometimes those people overlap, but best friends?
There’s no time.
I give up on fixing the damn fryer for now, making a mental note not to use it. It’s probably time to buy another one and toss this one out. That’s a problem for later. Now? I have mysterious men at the door and Truett to deal with.
Wiping the sweat off my forehead with a discarded rag, I head to where they’re standing by the counter. Truett is the only one smiling out of the four, his pearly white teeth shining in the dull fluorescent light. Despite my earlier annoyance, I can’t help but notice how nice his smile is.
That is until I see who he’s talking to. My stomach churns, not liking the idea of these professionals here. Are they from the city, here to close me down? Are we behind on payment? Maybe I need to start going in behind my mother to double-check.
Before I get the chance to speak, one of the men who had been eyeing Truett suddenly exclaims, "Are you Truett Thorne? You are!” he answers his own question.
To his credit, Truett looks embarrassed, running a hand through his hair before shrugging. “That would be me, yeah. It’s nice to meet you, Mr…?”
“Weathers. Rick Weathers.” Mr. Weathers reaches out to shake Truett’s hand, and the other two minions follow suit. Didn’t realize I was running a damn meet and greet today. Apparently bowlers are more famous than I imagined.
I clear my throat to draw their attention. “Can I help you?” My gaze shifts between Mr. Weathers and Truett, lingering on Truett as I search his expression for any clue why these strange men are here.
“Are you Arsenio Jiménez?” Mr. Weathers squints at me over the top of his glasses. He pronounces my last name like Gym-en-ez. It’s so far from the correct pronunciation, I almost mistake it for a completely different last name.
When I say “no,” the three men stare at me expectantly. I’m almost tempted to see how long they’ll go on staring if I don’t speak, but a firm nudge to the rib from Truett has me speaking again. “Arsenio was my father. He passed away a little over a year ago. I’m his son and the… new owner.”
“Our condolences for your loss.” The man speaks as if reading from a script. “My name is Rick Weathers, as you probably heard. We’re here on behalf of the United States Bowling Congress because of the application Arsenio submitted last year.”
My brow furrows. “Application? What application?”
Mr. Weathers looks just as confused as me. He gestures to the man on his left, tall and lanky with a receding hairline. He scrambles forward, pulling out a stapled application before unceremoniously thrusting it into my hands.
“This is the application in question, Mr. Jiménez,” the second man says, butchering my name like Mr. Weathers.
I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I look down at the application in my hands.
At the very top is a picture of the alley with my father standing proudly in the middle.
It’s a few years old, pre-cancer diagnosis.
He looks healthy, smiling at someone behind the camera.
An unexpected wave of sadness crashes over me—but grief is funny that way.
One day, you’re completely fine, going through your normal life.
And the next moment, debilitating pain hits you, demanding attention. It’s heavy and impossible to ignore.
“Can… can I have a minute?” I hate how choked-up my voice sounds, and I don’t dare meet the eyes of anyone around me.
“Of course. We’re just going to take a look around the alley, if you don’t mind.
We’ll explain everything when we’re done…
that is, if you’re still interested after reading through the application.
We can answer any questions you may have after,” Mr. Weathers says, and I nod, not really registering his words as I turn my back on them.
Not registering the fact I have three prominent figures from USBC in my alley.
Maybe I should worry or show some appreciation that they are even here, but the only thing I can focus on is my father’s application.
My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Not now. Not here.
Instead, I move toward an old chair by the arcade and sit down at one of the tables, looking over the application in my hands. An application he never told me about.
Like a ghost, I flip through each page silently, letting my eyes wander and linger over the words without really reading what it says. A lot of it’s legal jargon that goes over my head, but then something catches my eye: a handwritten attachment at the bottom of the application.
It’s a letter, written by my father, dated a few months before he passed. He submitted this application knowing he was going to die. Knowing he’d probably never know if his application would be considered. Did my mother know about this? Did she help him?
A lump rises in my throat, thick and suffocating. I hear footsteps approaching, then the scrape of a chair being pulled out beside me, but I can’t bring myself to look up. I can’t, not when my father’s words are right in front of me, silently begging to be read.
To whom it may concern,
I am submitting this application on behalf of my bowling alley, Spare Time, in the hopes of being considered as a future host location for an official USBC tournament.
We are a local, family-owned alley in Pflugerville, TX, that cherishes family and hard work.
We provide a certain charm to the area, transporting people back to simpler times as they bowl their problems away.
You won’t find another alley with as much heart as we have.
Although small, our alley has big dreams to expand the love of bowling throughout the community.
Being a host for the official bowling league tournament would bring in new fans and new opportunities for not only Spare Time and the USBC, but Pflugerville.
I won’t be running Spare Time forever. The next owner will be my son, Ezra Jiménez, a fierce, strong-willed, and hardworking man. This opportunity will give him the future I’ve always wanted him to have.
Thank you for considering us.
Arsenio Jiménez
I don’t even realize I’m crying until the first tear lands on the application. A gentle hand reaches out, cupping my shoulder. I nearly jump at the contact, but the hand is comforting and grounding in a way nothing else is. When I look up, Truett is there. It’s nice not to be alone with my grief.
“I’m sorry. I really liked your father. He was a good man. I’m sad I couldn’t see him one last time,” he says softly, his own voice scratchy as if he’s keeping himself from crying. Maybe he is.
After all, I wasn’t quite honest with him before.
I did recognize Truett when he walked in.
I remember seeing him often with my father.
He always seemed interested in learning from him, and my father lit up anytime he had the chance to teach someone about his favorite sport.
They had a bond, one I might have been jealous of when I was younger.
“It’s fine.” But it’s not, and we both know it.
Truett doesn’t try to push me or get me to talk about my father like so many people do when they learn about his death. He’s just there, hand on my shoulder, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I can’t help but stare at him from the corner of my eyes. His shaggy brown hair looks styled with more products than I can name. His sharp jaw and chiseled features remind me of guys plastered all over sports magazines. The kind of posters teenage girls—and queer men—would hang up on the wall.
But his eyes… They are kind in a way you can’t fake. I may be softening toward him. Just a little.
Truett turns toward me. “So, are you going to do it?”
My cheeks burn, hoping he didn’t catch me staring. “Do what?” I ask lamely.
He gestures to the application. “Make Spare Time a contender? I can’t think of a more deserving alley.”
Spare Time as the tournament host? It’s almost laughable given the state of the alley.
I’m out of my fucking league here. Strangers walking around my family’s alley, judging every nook and cranny—as it is now, there’s no way the USBC would seriously consider it.
Even if I knew they were coming, there’s not much I could have done to get the alley looking better.
The truth is, even if I cleaned the dust off the bowling balls or mopped the floors, this alley would still not be up to USBC standards.
The lights need replacing. The walls could use a fresh coat of paint.
The wood needs a good waxing, and the kitchen needs floor-to-ceiling scrubbing.
New appliances are also a must if we plan on feeding more than five people at a time.
But then my gaze drops back to the application clutched in my hands, and my father’s words echo in my mind.
This is what he wanted. A chance to be a host. It feels like a final request from beyond the grave, as morbid as that sounds.
Ignoring it would feel like turning my back on him, like dishonoring his memory.
And I already carry more than enough guilt; I don’t need to add this to the weight pressing down on me.
He wanted me to carry out his dream. I can’t have mine, but maybe his is still attainable. Still, it would be a hell of a lot of work.
“I think you should do it,” Truett says with a grin.
His enthusiasm reminds me of a golden retriever.
It’s almost endearing, if I were in a better mood.
But a lot has happened this morning with the police surrounding me to finding out my father applied for a damn hosting opportunity to the bowling congress. “And, if you want, I can help.”
I look at him, dumbfounded. “You’ll help?”
“Yeah, why not?” He shrugs. “I love Spare Time. Your father made a big impact on me and my career. If I can help in any way, I want to. I owe it to him and this place.” He looks around the room with a sense of wonderment and melancholy, and for a second, I wish I could see the alley through his eyes.
Before Truett or I can say another word, Mr. Weathers and the other two unnamed males come back. “Well, Spare Time is certainly… something.” I try not to scowl at his words. “Have you decided if you want to continue with the application process? If not—”
“Yes,” I cut him off before he could finish.
With Truett’s help, maybe this place can become something more than what it is.
If he actually means it. Sometimes people say things to grieving people they don’t truly mean.
My newfound enthusiasm seems to surprise Mr. Weathers because his brow cocks up, so I quickly add, “Yes, I want to continue.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Truett give me a thumbs-up. He approves. Not that I need his approval, but it’s still nice to have.
“Good, good.” Mr. Weathers nods. “We will send an email with more information for you to look over. I hope you have a good day, Mr. Jiménez. And Mr. Thorne—” He turns to Truett and offers him a genuine smile. “Tell your father I said hi. We met once a few years ago. Fantastic man, he is.”
“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Truett smiles uncertainly.
With that, Mr. Weathers and the other two men leave abruptly. I watch as they walk back through the front door, wondering if I actually stand a chance. They didn’t seem impressed by Spare Time, but a lot can happen between now and whenever they come back.
Yeah, but not miracles, my bitterness reminds me.
“Thank goodness, they’re gone,” Truett says after a minute, breaking the silence. “I’m going to bowl now. Say, can I have a pizza? You still serve pizzas, right? I know it’s just alley pizza, but I’ve been dreaming of a slice since I got into town.”
Luckily, it’s one of the things we still have that’s working, so I nod. “Yeah. Pepperoni or cheese?”
“Can I do half and half?”
“Sure.”
Truett’s smile warms something in my chest. I almost attempt to return it, but I crush that feeling before it takes root. He saunters up to his lane—Lane 7, the new and improved one—and picks up a neon-green ball.
I watch him deliver the ball down the lane, and I’m momentarily reminded of how, when we were younger, he used to distract me from my sketches without anyone really noticing.
He’s always been an easy distraction. He’s got good form, which isn’t surprising if he’s some hot shot and learned from my father.
When all ten pins fall over from his perfect release, Truett whoops in triumph and goes back to the ball return to start the process all over again.
I realize I’m staring and quickly head back to the kitchen, getting his half-and-half pizza ready. Truett is in his eighth frame when the pizza is finally done, and I bring it out to his table.
He’s so laser-focused on the game that he doesn’t even realize I’m there. Strangely, I feel like I’m intruding on something, so I walk away silently, not wanting to disturb him while he’s in the zone.
Instead, I go back into the kitchen to clean out the fryer and toss it for good.
The damn thing probably hasn’t been cleaned since we got it.
I don’t even want to know how long ago that was.
It takes forever to finally get it to the point where I can touch it without getting grease all over my hands.
I haul it to the dumpster out back, saying goodbye at last.
By the time I’m finished, an hour and half has passed. I notice for the first time I’m alone in the alley; Truett’s lane is no longer occupied.
That’s when I see a few bills lying out on the counter with a note. On a napkin. The same napkin I gave him to write his “complaints” down on. I can’t help but smile as I quickly grab it.
Thanks for the fun! - Truett
The money he left behind is far more than I would charge for two hours. Hell, it’s far more than I would charge for an entire day of bowling. I’m almost tempted to give it back because it’s way too much to accept—except I have no way of contacting him.
That, and I could use some of this money to help buy those lights Truett told me were burnt out above the entrance.
It’s not until I put the money in the register do I notice that Truett didn’t leave his bowling shoes behind.
One quick glance at the bins by his lane shows he didn’t leave them in the cubby either.
I thought I was dealing with a professional bowler. Clearly, he still has a thing or two to learn about bowling etiquette. First rule? Always return the shoes.