“You’veneverbeen bowling?” That can’t be right.
“Why do you say it like I just admitted I’ve never driven a car?” The ends of the yellowed laces that I’m pretty sure are meant to be whitepingoff the edge of the chair as she loosens them and stuffs her foot into the shoe.
She has a point; that came out way more incredulous than it should’ve.
“I’m just shocked.” To me it feels like going bowling is a right of passage. Surely someone in her life must’ve had a birthday party at the local bowling alley at some point.
“When was the last timeyouwent bowling?” she shoots back.
That’s a good question.
Not college—none of us had the money for extracurricular activities back then. In high school I was too busy falling in love with stupid boys, and in middle school I was too busy being edgy to partake in sports of any kind. “Probably elementary school.”
Katie Sincell’s fifth grade birthday party. Hawaiian themed with the leis and all. There was pizza, ice cream, and, of course, bowling.
Meg knocks her knee against mine. “And you’re giving me shit.”
“Who? Me? I wouldn’t dare.”
A woman in a faded denim shirt and jeans balancing two beer cans on a little black tray strolls over to where we’re sitting. “Two beers for lane ten.” She sets them on the table next to a computer screen that looks older than I am.
“We haven’t ordered any drinks,” Meg and I say in unison.
“These are from the gentlemen in eight.”
A bunch of grandpas in matching turquoise bowling shirts wave from their lane. We snag the beers and raise them in a silent toast, which earns us a few gruff cackles.
The beer is…
Well, it’s shit, but I’ve had worse.
At least it’s cold.
Fueled by terrible beer, Meg stands and straightens her jeans. “What do we do first?”
Apparently, Katie’s birthday party makes me the expert on the matter. “We need to find balls.” There are plenty of them sitting in racks behind and in between the lanes.
Meg heads toward the one at the back, and I follow. “Oh! This one’s pink. It even matches my nails.”
“I don’t know. That number stamped on the front means it’s only six pounds.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I have no clue.”
She picks it up as if testing the weight, then tries to hold it properly. “Yeah, it’s not going to work. I can’t even get my fingers into the holes.”
“That’s what he said.”
She snorts. “This might be my new favorite night.”
Mine too.
While I enjoy going to the odd bar, they all start to feel the same after a while. At least here, we have something to entertain us besides alcohol. Always a good thing.
Eventually, we find balls that work and then settle down to put our information in the ancient computer. Meg insists we’re not supposed to use our real names, citing lane eight’s listings as a reference. According to their screen, Big Billy is up next, followed by Thunderman.
Big Billy makes sense—the man has to be at least six foot five.
