Page 2 of Right Up His Alley

Now that I’m no longer America’s Most Wanted, I push the front doors open and am greeted by dust and a musty odor of old wood and pine-scented oil. With no lights on and tinted windows, the room is almost pitch-black. I use the light on my phone to navigate to the counter, feeling along the wall until I find the switches.

The fluorescent lights buzz to life with a dull thrum. Spare Time is a small bowling alley, but we are the only one in a thirty-mile radius of Pflugerville. Our alley provides fifteen lanes for family fun, as well as a game room and a quick service restaurant.

Game room might be a bit of a stretch. It’s really just a small arcade with four crane games and one old racing game that only works half the time. The restaurant sells your normal bowling alley food: burgers, pizza, and cheese fries, as well as a few other snacks from the bakery next door. I used to have a friend running the kitchen, but low funds forced me to let him go. Although he wasn’t upset, I still hated firing a good employee. Especially Damien. He’s one of my closest friends and helped me out after my father’s death. Without him, I don’t think I would have survived those first few months.

Damien didn’t go far—just to The Skin Quill, the tattoo shop down the plaza. Lucky bastard. Just thinking of him as a tattoo artist sends something tight and bitter curling in my chest.

Damien gets to spend his days hunched over skin and ink, turning people’s stories into something permanent. And me? I don’t even let myself want it out loud. Because wanting it would mean admitting I could choose something else. That I could walk away.

But I can’t.

Not with everything resting on my shoulders. Not with the unspoken rules stitched into me since I was a kid—family first, always. Responsibility over everything. Dreams are a luxury we don’t get to keep. Do what makes you happy, especially if it’s running a bowling alley.

So, I stay where I’m supposed to, in the alley, pretending it doesn’t eat at me. Pretending I don’t resent how easily Damien gets to chase the thing I’ve never been allowed to reach for.

And that’s just how it is.

Once I make sure the register is on and the bowling shoes are in order, I head to our back control room to turn on the lanes. Our equipment is old, so it’ll be another ten minutes before every monitor and lane come to life. The only one that works instantly is Lane 7. Just last week, I spent a good chunk of our meager savings fixing it because it gave us problems for the last few months, and my mother insisted it was fixed. It’s what my dad would do. Eventually, she wants to update the entire system, but I only see this happening if our town suddenly gets really interested in bowling.

When people think of bowling, they think of high school date nights from the 50s and 60s. It was the place to be on a Friday night with your friends. People came early just to make sure they had a lane to bowl in.

Times have changed and changed hard. Very few people come and bowl, save for the occasional family or older person wanting to relive their glory days. That’s not to say there’s no interest in the alley. There is, but it’s more of a niche sport than anything. Popular to a select few but not as popular as something like football or baseball.

The alley feels like a time capsule of the 80s, when my father first opened the place. I’m fairly certain there are still unidentified stains on the carpet from that time. Hell, even the carpet is from the 80s—black print with neon swirls all over it. It’s not the most hideous thing in the world, but it’s a far cry from modern.

As I make my way to the kitchen to start up the pizza oven, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out and don’t look at who’s calling. There’s only one person who ever calls me, since she refuses to text.

“Mamá, hi.” I balance the phone between my ear and shoulder.

“Mijo, are you okay? Mrs. Barnes said she accidentally called the police on you again, and they pulled guns on you!” My mother’s concern is palpable through the phone.

“It wasn’t guns. It was a gun.”

“¡Dios mio!” my mother gasps, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Is that meant to make me feel better?”

“Ma, I’m fine. But maybe let Mrs. Barnes know she doesn’t need to keep calling the cops? Officer Hansley responded to the call to train his new recruits. The gun had its safety on.” Probably, but I didn’t add that part.

My mom huffs. “I’ll talk to her. That poor woman. Still, she can’t keep doing this. I should⁠—”

“You’ll do nothing. It’s fine. Is that why you called? To ask if I’m alive?”

“Ezra, sometimes I don’t understand your sense of humor. Is it so bad that a mother cares about her son? You’re all I have left, mijo.”

Guilt churns my stomach. Sometimes I’m a fucking idiot, because what son would joke about death when his mother lost her husband just a year ago? It makes sense why she’s concerned and overbearing at times. At twenty-three, I may be well past childhood, but I’ll always be her child.

“Perdóname, Mamá. I’m fine. I’m opening up Spare Time now.”

“Good.” I hear the smile on the other end. “I’m glad you’re safe. Did you clean the kitchen? Is the front counter dusted?”

Sometimes I wonder if she remembers I’ve been working here since I was fourteen—nearly a decade of repeating the same routine until it’s become second nature. I could manage it half asleep without missing a step. Still, she worries.

Even though she's technically retired, my mother still handles the finances behind the scenes and rarely sets foot in the alley herself, but she never stops asking about it. She offers her help in other areas, to come in and clean, but I try to deny her the best I can without being rude. I know every time she steps into this place, the spirit of my father overwhelms her.

“Everything is cleaned and dusted,” I say.

“Good. I don’t know why I worry. You’re as good as your father when it comes to running that alley.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

There’s so much pride in my mother’s voice. Pride I don’t deserve. She doesn’t understand that my heart isn’t into it, no matter how much I try to be the man my father hoped I’d be. This alley was his freedom, but it feels like my prison. Especially when I look out the window and see the tattoo shop’s neon sign—the shop I wish I went to every day instead.