Page 7 of Right Up His Alley

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?”