Sunday

Making me cry is your favorite pass time.

Some things never change, men singing about women breaking their hearts. Ironic, but you have to admire the commitment to the lie. Real Country. The band was good; tune sticks in your head. I woke up humming the tune, heartbeat playing the drums in my skull. I was only going to have one, but I guess I sat on the wrong barstool last night. It was slow for a Saturday and Sharon had nothing better to do than gab with an old wrench monkey. She asked about the shop, and I told her about the cars changing, but not really changing, and the shop not changing at all. She told me about the band and how they signed with a local record company Plumbs on Saturn, that probably was about as wishful as the band itself. I asked Sharon if they could have picked a worse name. She liked it, like the hop-a-t-rex. She didn’t get it.

A woman broke my heart once. More than one, but one… We were on-again-off-again. Never dated in high school, but I went to work at the station and she worked a farm. Strong as hell. Beautiful. Tough.

I used to race flat track motorcycles. She watched me win my first race and I called her my Lucky Penny. Broke my leg on the next one and changed her to Unlucky. I thought it was a laugh. Now I know it wasn’t.

You don’t want to hear about it, and she wouldn’t want me to tell it.

Breakfast: coffee, eggs, bacon. Don’t tell my doctor. I had a Mr. Coffee that lasted for 20 years. The next ones 3 years, 2 years, and 6 months. Now I use a percolator that has copper trim and a spout. See? I am sophisticated. I picked it up at an antique store filled with the same Chinese junk at Hobby Lobby. This one booth though was filled with old tools, bb guns and percolators. They wanted $50, but a lady took it out of my hands, crossed off the $50 and wrote $20 and I didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything either. My kind of gal. Ask me how I know what they sell at Hobby Lobby. I got the festive bug one year and got a Christmas tree for the station. A chorus of Jesus Loves you and Chinese decor stopped me in my tracks and I about-faced. But the percolator turns out it’s also a 1950 and still brewing strong. No wires. Coffee doesn’t need any. I did swap out the jet for a bigger one.

Early morning, it’s cool enough to mow the lawn, but afternoon is too hot for grass to grow if I don’t water. Summer does have perks. The sky was clear except for contrails. When I was a kid you might see one, but it was pure blue. Now the lines criss cross. I stood on the porch in my robe and cup of coffee and found a few that made a nice grid. x here, o there, I drew the letters in the sky playing against myself. It was a tie. No erasing necessary. Eventually I started in the corner and trapped me into not being able to block with two lines open. Hah! Take that sucker! I finished the last of the coffee, even the grind floaters at the bottom. They grew on me since I got the percolator. It reminded me of the grease bits that would fall into my mouth as a kid. I thought jaw doing a jig would help me get the angle. I’ve learned to keep my mouth closed since then. Even wear a mask sometimes. But I like the coffee bits.

I put the coffee cup down and walked over to my outside bowling ball. I leave it lying around for practicing my swing. It’s cracked and they’d kick you out if I tried using it on the lanes. This one I picked up from the thrift store. It was 16 lbs. I drilled it out and added lead and sealed it. 22 lbs so when I throw a 16 it feels like a rolling a tennis ball.

That was 3 months ago. I loved bowling as a kid but never figured it out and no one explained it right. Even as a strapping teenager the ball was too heavy and I looked like the Tasmanian Devil trying to put a spin on it. Penny would make fun of me for the way my leg kicked out and arm swung in the air. She said I looked like a cartoon matador. No one told me just swing it like a pendulum and let centripetal force do the work for you. And the ones at the alley are designed to go straight. They put funky cores in the center to make them hook. I joined a league and ordered one that looks like a mushroom in the middle.

I’m sure it’s got a mushroom core, but you know how the saying goes, don’t trust, verify; so I actually ordered two to cut one open. They came yesterday, and I’ve got a few hours to kill before league so I brought the sacrificial ball and the mount I made out to the band saw in the shop. I figured it’d take about 5 minutes and boy was I wrong. If I had know it would take 20 minutes I would have swapped the robe for jeans. And I cut the wrong angle to boot. No mushroom, just a cross section of the stem. Or the head. I don’t know how big it was. So 20 plus another 2 minutes of swearing and another 26 minutes of cutting two halves and I had 4 quarters of a plastic mushroom. I’ll be damned.

The senior league is at noon, but they don’t wrestle transmissions and I still got it, so I’m playing the spring chickens at 2. I decided to kill some time with the morning football game. Rams vs Seahawks. I hope they both lose. I stopped caring when they started thinking they were something more than football players. There was an ad for a dancing show with some football player and I wasn’t surprised. Then another one about some washed up quarterback cloning his dead dog. It was something to kill time and judge. A couple hours passed and my stomach told me I had better things to do. Lettuce, tomato and you know what, don’t tell my doctor, between sprouted bread that didn’t taste like sugar and another percolator with the grinds in the bottom of the cup to finish out the hour. A guy threw a ball. Another guy brushed the guy trying to catch it. A guy didn’t catch it. The guy that didn’t catch it ripped off his helmet and stamped his feet and waved his arm in front of the guy in black and white who looks like he escaped from prison. It was all very dramatic. The Rams and Seahawks both lost. I turned it off before it ended so you can’t tell me otherwise.

I had nothing better to do so I figured I’d go down to the alley and see what a mushroom can do to 10 pins. I put the chosen ball in the new bag, and decided to load the victim into a tool bag. Someone might get a kick out of it. I carried a bag in each hand out to the F1 and tossed them in the back. I thought about not locking the door, but the houses were getting closer and I figured I better start. This door was funny. I’ve had doors you have to pull to line up the bolt, but this one you have to push just right and turn the key. Locked, loaded, caffeinated and the tick-tac-toe champ headed out.

The bowling alley wasn’t crowded, so I parked in the back and carried my bags in. The grease and crashing pins hit me as I walked through the doors. Nothing’s changed in a sport that doesn’t need it. Twenty years ago they talked about putting RFID in pins, then I’d really want to hit them. Now they’re talking about attaching strings for tracking in the new builds. But these old wood pins are still honest.

The cashier looked at both bags. “Need a lane?”

“Yeah, with bumpers.” I made a bouncing motion with my head back and forth.

He paused, and then started typing on the computer.

“Shoes?”

“Do I have to? I wanted to try socks.”

“Uh, sorry sir. You have to use bowling shoes. What’s your size?”

“I was just joking kid, I have shoes.” His mouth started opening so I clarified “They’re bowling shoes. In the bag.”

“What’s in the tool bag?”

“Four quarters of a bowling ball. Want to see them?” Four quick knocks on the counter and the kid jumped. I opened the bag and his face twisted.

“You can’t actually use those! They won’t roll down the lane, and they’ll scratch it.”

“Aww you sure? I thought I was on to something. I guess I’ll just show them off and see if anyone agrees with you.” The kid was visibly relieved.

“Ok, lane eighteen. I’ll be over to set up your bumpers.”

“A little wet behind the ears huh?”

“‘Scuse me?”

“No bumpers. Feeling lucky today.”

I’d had enough fun and walked towards eighteen before he left another opening.

I laced up my clown shoes, and entered Mushroom for the name. I’ll let it take the credit this round. Or the blame. I lined up further to the left to give the hook room. “One,” I said out loud, taking a step with my right and pushed the ball forward. The ball felt different. “Two,” I stepped with my left and dropped the ball towards my hip. The pins would never know what hit them. “Three,” right step, arm swinging back like a pendulum. I could feel the ball start to twist. “Four,” left step, the ball came down, I slipped my thumb while flicking my two fingers and rotating. My right leg kicked out behind my left, my tongue sticking out the left side of my mouth for balance, and my hand in the air like a cartoon matador. The ball rotated like no alley ball could, barreling towards the pits straight into the gutter.

I held the pose, just in case it would help the ball find it’s way back. I’ve seen it happen. Maybe I do need bumpers. I snapped by legs together and about-faced like I was leaving a Hobby Lobby. The kid caught me catching him staring and looked back to the computer.

The screen updated: “Mushroom -”. I felt bad for the ball. People probably noticed. Mushroom rolled up the ball return losing some speed at the top. I thought it looked a little sad and could use a pep talk. I crouched down and gave it a pat on its back, not sure which side is its back, is it the side with holes or opposite holes? Maybe it doesn’t have a back, just an outside. “Come on you lousy rosin globe, you cost…”

“Winston! Are you talking to your ball?”

Sammy. He walked up with arms out, showcasing that black bowling shirt, white stripe on one side, ball knocking over pins on the other. He was probably mid 40s but had been bowling since high school. Someone probably explained it right.

“You don’t talk to yours? How do you make it behave?”

“Ohh I saw your gutter. That’s operator error, my friend. Can’t blame the bowling ball.” He said with an eye roll.

He gave a firm handshake. I never understand why people judge a man by his handshake. I can appreciate it because society told me to. Judge a man by his shoes, a car? Sure, those are choices. But a handshake?

“I can, and I will. Thank you very much. I know it doesn’t make it true, but it’s a free country and I can be wrong if I’d like.” I picked up Mushroom four another throw. I started a little closer to the center. I still took for steps. I didn’t narrate them. I did stick my tongue out. I didn’t gutter ball. “Hotdog!” I smacked my hands across and lifted a knee. “Eight pins, the Mushroom is on the board!”

Sammy was laughing. “Hey you’re getting the hang of this. What you got in the tool bag, body parts?”

I stopped and looked stone face at him. “How’d you know? No, really! Come here and look.”

“Oh no no way, you ain’t got no body parts in there. I was just teasing.”

“No! I’m serious, I can’t believe you guessed.” I held the open bag, prodding him to look. He had his hands up in defense turning away but looking out the corner of his eye, and then started laughing again.

“Winston you… that’s hilarious what’s wrong with you going and cutting up a bowling ball.”

“I wanted to see what the core looks like. You ever seen one?”

“Yeah man, they’ve got videos of it.”

“What? Really? I wanted to know if it actually had a mushroom shaped core.”

“How do you know your other one does too? Maybe they only put it in that one and now you cut it up.”

“Ahhh come on Sammy. You’re killing me. Now I have to cut this one open too or I’ll never sleep at night! Maybe I can get someone to make a clear one.”

“Yeah they got those too!”

Sammy and I, separated by decades stood there, laughing up a storm. The senior league wasn’t amused, but old folk don’t have a sense of humor. Just me. Sammy joined me and we finished out the game. Mushroom lost, but recovered a very respectable 186. Sammy hit 233. I ordered up a pitcher of beer and he got a pitcher of hops and we made our way to the league lanes. I pulled the quartered ball gag two more times, but nobody was home. I shot a 179, a career high of 221, and flopped the last game at 155.