There's No Place Like New York City

Chapter 4 - "A Six. That's Bad. Really Bad."

“Oh, you have another turn. You always get two tries, unless you get a strike.”

I rolled another ball down the lane and….

Gutter ball.

“Watch me.”

He took three confident steps, and with well-practiced form, the ball sped down the lane like a tornado.

Strike.

He gave me a satisfied expression as he handed me my ball. Gutter ball came after gutter ball and my hope of ever knocking down one pin vanished. My score was zero. Blake, on the other hand, had a perfect game.

He landed in the seat next to me, “That, my friend, is called a—”

“—rigged game,” I huffed.        

He cooed, “Aw, someone’s a sore loser.”

“And someone’s an egotistical, fraudulent manipulator.”

He removed himself from the plastic chair, “Up.”

“We’re going?”

“Psh, of course not! I’m going to teach you how to bowl.”

“Ha! Me? The sore loser?”

“Yes, you, the sore loser.”

He entered only my name for the next game.

“At least three steps, keep your arm straight the whole time, and don’t let it go too soon or too late.”

It was working! It was going to be a strike! Then it curved. Right. In. Front. Of. The. Damn. Pins.

I pointed an accusing finger at them, “They’re mocking me!”

I felt his chest brush against my back and his brawny arms around mine. The ten-pounder was placed in my hand and Blake led my swing.

Strike.

Finally.

But it wasn’t mine.     

“Let me try."

In the next one, half of the pins went down. My second try, the rest of them went down. Spare.

I finished the game with a score of one-hundred-twenty-eight. I cheered as I pranced toward Blake.

            Blake

Huh. One-hundred-twenty-eight. A good score for a beginner. I was happy for her.

Before I could comprehend what she was doing, her arms wrapped around me in a grateful hug. I sucked in a breath; I shouldn’t get too close to her. But it just felt so right.

“Thank you,” she mouthed and then released me.

“Do you want to play another game, or do something else?”

“Practice makes perfect.”

And so we practiced. Well, she practiced. I couldn’t really get any better.

After about ten games or so, our shoulders were sore from swinging. We sat in comfortable silence stretching out our exhausted arms.

She spoke, “Why aren’t you like, a professional bowler?”

“I… don’t really like bowling. I mean, I like it, but it’s not something I would want to do for the rest of my life.”

“But you could make loads of money!”

“And not have fun doing it.”

“So you’re having fun being a cabbie and pastry server?”