Halloween
Jay
The woman crying in the bowling alley wouldn’t be so problematic if she wasn’t doing it so loudly and from a seated position that has her encroaching into our lane. Dressed as a cat.
If I pretend she isn’t there and bowl my turn, I’m an asshole.
If I ask her to move, I’m also an asshole.
More than caring if I come across as an asshole is the fact that interacting with a strange woman having a public meltdown is the last thing I want to do.
The last thing I’d bet any man wants to do.
“My money’s on a government diversion,” Marv says with raised eyebrows from behind the rim of his plastic cup of beer. His round face framed by hair sticking out like he’s been electrocuted makes his statement either more or less absurd.
“From what?” I ask, as my ball pops up the return and I slip my fingers into the holes, eyes glued on the weeper. Her cries have been replaced by a blank stare down the lane, shifting her presence from sad to spooky.
“From what?” he repeats with an incredulous scoff, eyes pinging around in their typical maniacal fashion.
“Everything, Jay. How many times do I have to tell you they are into ev-er-y-thing?” He presses his lips into a tight line to drive his point home.
“Why do you think they have these fancy new computers to keep score in here?” He flicks a finger against the screen of the dated computer monitor, but I don’t argue.
A monotone voice comes over the speaker: “Okay, Bowlers, it’s officially seven o’clock on Halloween, meaning the tree has been lit in the town square and Santa has arrived in Springer. Christmas has officially arrived in Christmas Village USA.”
When the previous Halloween music is replaced by “Jingle Bells,” per town tradition, the woman lets out a loud sob.
I grimace and glance around the bowling alley.
The only other person besides Marv, the cat, and myself is the acne-faced, teenage boy who works here, obliviously useless as he scrolls on his phone.
An annoying sense of obligation claws at me.
Like it’s my duty as someone not crying to ask this basket case what’s wrong.
I just want to bowl—like we do every Halloween—and have fun—like we do every Halloween—without all this.
“She’s not bleeding,” I say, unmoving as she drops fully onto her back. Her head rests in her own lane as her long black spandex-covered legs stretch into ours. Bowling ball cupped in my hands, I glance at her assigned table: one beer, barely touched. She’s not drunk. “She’s probably fine.”
“Could be menstrual,” Marv says between sips. “The females hide the blood making it nearly impossible for the males to detect. Trust me—” He gives me a knowing look. “I learned the hard way.”
I don’t ask him to elaborate.
The woman pulls herself to a seated position, wipes her nose with the fabric of her catsuit, and glances toward us, catching us staring. Shit.
I force a smile, and gesture at her with my ball.
“Oh,” she says, standing with another sniff. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose is red, her painted-on black whiskers are smeared across her cheeks. “Sorry, I-I don’t usually do all this.”
“All good,” I say with a tight smile, stepping up to the line and preparing to bowl.
If I curve it to the right it should—
“It’s just,” she continues, taking a step toward our area and using a tail I hadn’t noticed to wipe her eyes. Judging by the way she’s moving into our space, she’s a talker. I mask the audible groan building by clearing my throat.
“Sorry, you want to bowl.” She blinks at the ball in my hands. “My kids love bowling.” Her eyes fill with water. “My divorce finalized yesterday.”
I cut my eyes to Marv; he’s frowning. She doesn’t notice.
“And my ex-husband wants yearly holiday rotations. Yearly.” When she laughs, it sounds like an actual cat being held underwater.
Our silence seems to encourage her, because not only does she keep going, but her voice gets louder with every word.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” she demands.
“Who does that? I love Christmas. I love all holidays. We live in Christmas Village USA, for God’s sake.
He did it on purpose. After he fucked a nurse.
” She blows out a frustrated breath, and the cat ears on her head droop to the side.
“Lots of nurses, actually.” Now she’s yelling. “And I gave birthday blowjobs!”
She’s furious, dressed like a cat, and it takes every ounce of willpower for me not to laugh at her shouted blowjobs.
“And my job.” She groans—loudly. “I’m a writer.
I write about motherhood. And holidays. And every year I write about family Christmas traditions.
I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m a cat without the rest of my litter.
” She lets out another cry as she twists her tail in her hands.
“Santa just marched into Springer with his Christmas tree-carved jack-o’-lantern and lit the town Christmas tree and had the town costume contest, and I’m here alone.
I can’t write about this.” She makes a disgusted face. “I’d rather die.”
I’ve seen the Santa jack-o’-lantern and ridiculous contest—which Santa always wins—and the tree lighting. They’re nothing to die over, but I don’t dare tell this crazed feline woman that.
“I mean it,” she continues. “Just kill me now with your bowling ball. Smash it over my head and shove a pin through my heart. I won’t feel it. Just—”
Whatever she’s saying next comes out too wet and garbled for me to understand, but she’s stepped to the side enough I can bowl my turn.
So I do.
Right down the middle for a strike.
I celebrate with a coordinated spin and clap. “Rock’s on fire today, Marv.”
He grunts. “You practice all year? Against the rules, you know.”
I chuckle, adjusting the antler- and bell-adorned hat on my head before swiping my beer from the table and eyeing the score screen—fourth strike in a row.
“College intramurals,” I remind him with a grin, taking a sip of the subpar lager. It lacks flavor, has zero depth, and I’m pretty sure they need to clean their lines. Bad beer is better than no beer, so I take another sip.
“Bullshit,” Marv says, standing. He adjusts the tuck of his Holiday Club bowling shirt at the elastic waistband of his sweatpants before investigating his ball with his flashlight. “That was twenty years ago.”
He’s right—I bowl like hell every September and October just so I can kick his ass come Halloween and—
“What are you looking for?” the woman who refuses to leave asks Marv as he shines a light in every crevice of his ball. She’s now standing at the end of our U-shaped seating area, curious look on her tear-streaked face.
“You with them?” Marv’s eyes narrow; despite the harsh tone he uses, she makes no effort to leave. He sighs. “Fine. Gunpowder. Evidence. Anything they can use against me in a court of law.”
Pleased he doesn’t detect anything, he pockets the light in his sweatpants and takes his ball, sending it down the lane to slam into the pins. Bastard gets a strike.
The cat stares. Sniffs again.
She wants to talk.
No thanks.
“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to your game,” she says with a weak smile and without moving. Against the backdrop of the over-the-top, tacky, holiday-themed bowling décor and the now-cheery Christmas music blaring through the speakers, she resembles a human-sized stray cat on its last life.
“Okay,” I say, with a lift of my beer. “Cheers.”
She inches back into her space as Marv and I each take another turn.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her take a sip of her beer before picking up a ball and lobbing it down the lane; it goes so slowly I wonder if it might stop. Instead, it drops with a sad thunk into the gutter, barely mustering the gumption to roll the rest of the way.
Her shoulders slump, along with the fuzzy black tail attached to her costume, and “Frosty the Snowman” plays over the speakers. When she starts crying—again—the cat ears give up their fight of staying on her head and fall to the floor.
Marv looks at me like I’m supposed to do something about this.
“You,” I snap in a whisper.
He holds up his palms, eyes wide like no way in hell, dude.
I consider what to do, pressing my index finger and thumb to the center of my mustache then sliding them away from each other. Twice.
I take one reluctant step toward her. Then another.
Next to her, I clear my throat, ignoring every warning bell telling me this is the worst idea. I don’t want this kind of drama. I don’t want any drama. It’s the whole reason I’m here with Marv.
And yet, despite all that, I can’t let a woman in a catsuit one day post-divorce cry to the tune of too-early Christmas carols.
“You know,” I say, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans as we watch her pins reset down the lane. “It’s ridiculous in a world where ‘Thriller’ exists, ‘Frosty’ is playing on Halloween.”
She blinks her watery gaze to me. To my antler-covered hat. My mustache—thank you for noticing. At my red-and-white striped bowling shirt, her eyes linger on the embroidery spelling out The Holiday Club.
“It’s rude, really,” she says with an almost smile. “Don’t they know it makes unassuming women everywhere turn into blubbering idiots?”
I rock on my heels. “Happens all the time.”
She laughs fully, wiping her eyes with her hands—her once whiskers now unrecognizable—then looks at my shirt again. “I’m sorry for interrupting your game. You a team?”
“A club,” I say with a grin. She looks at me with big wet blue eyes; I take a step back. To be nice: “You want to join us?”
“Whoa,” Marv barks, pouncing to a stand. “We do not know this woman, Jay.”
I pin him with a look. It’s one day, one game; we can both handle that.
I think.
“Fine,” he grumbles at me. To her: “You wearing a wire?”
Here we go.
“Uh.” Her brows pinch as she sniffs again. “No . . . ?”
“Don’t mind him,” I tell her, rubbing a hand along my jaw. “Marv spends too much time on the dark web.”
Marv grunts and she nods slowly, taking him in.