Page 14 of Right Up His Alley

Nothing.

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter knowing I’ve traveled coast to coast, and, unless there was major construction, a pandemic, or a natural disaster, I’ve never seen a bowling alley closed on a Sunday at noon. Every bowling fan knows there’s nothing like throwing the heat of a couple frames before the next hectic week starts.

I glance down at the pair of bowling shoes on the passenger seat, the ones I still haven’t forgiven myself for taking. I regret not coming back yesterday to rid myself of them, but at least today I can see if a good night’s rest helped Ezra decide if he would be willing to accept my offer to get the alley in shape.

I won’t know what I’m doing when it comes to being a handyman, but at least I know the difference between a wrench and a plier. I think.

It’s the least I can do to honor the memory of Mr. Jiménez.

I turn off the ignition of my mom’s Mercedes-Benz—another loaner from the garage, since owning a car doesn’t make much sense when I’ve barely been in one place long enough—grab the shoes, and head toward the entrance.

With each footstep comes a soft, crunching sound as the bottoms of my shoes step on the loose gravel of the asphalt. Its desolation echoes throughout all the small businesses within the plaza. The antique shop brings in the rare straggler, the Laundromat seems to be a cover for something darker, the hardware store’s prices are probably too high, and the tattoo parlor is never busy-looking because it’s mostly run on scheduled appointments. The only business that seems to boom in the plaza is Judy’s BBQ. People in Pflugerville might not have good taste in recreational activities anymore, but they sure do know good food.

I take the last few steps toward the entrance and see it—the sign hanging in the glass.

Closed.

Clearly it's closed, but I reach for the handle anyway, hoping if I don’t acknowledge the sign, it doesn’t exist. That Ezra is waiting for me inside. That the sign is not meant for me.

The door doesn’t budge.

I grasp the brass a second longer than I need to, staring past my reflection into the dark interior like something might move in there if I wait it out. Maybe he’s taking out the trash. Maybe he got held up on a phone call for a reservation as soon as he walked in. Maybe the lights are off because he’s trying to fix another blown bulb.

Or is this just wishful thinking?

C’mon, Ezra.

I told my mom I believe he has good intentions for the alley, but now I’m starting to doubt it. My frustration wells up inside me, building an uncomfortable amount of hot pressure rising in my chest. Is he taking this seriously at all? Closing down for the day—even for one day—is just asking for trouble. I’m no businessman, but I at least know you have to keep the doors open in order for paying customers to come in. It’s almost like he wants the whole thing to fall apart on purpose.

Does he?

I laugh at the absurdity, clutching bowling shoes under my arm that look straight out of the eighties. Why am I even bothering? Why did I ever think twice about having them? It’s not like he’s even looking for the shoes anyway. Ezra clearly doesn’t care. So why should I?

I bend down and set the shoes by the door. “Fine,” I mutter, my voice low but sharp. “If Ezra doesn’t care, then I won’t either.” Let someone steal them. Who cares? They’re not mine. Not my problem.

I straighten up, dusting my hands off, but the anger’s still there, simmering between my fingers. I glance back at the alley one more time. It looks just as empty and hollow as my offer to Ezra.

But right now, looking far into the window at the darkened lanes, I can’t help but think of my dad and the life he’s forced me to fight for, just to make himself feel proud. I can’t keep fighting for things that were never mine. But then I think of Mr. Jiménez and how he showed me the magic within those lanes. He gave me reason to fight for the success I’ve earned.

I can’t help but look up and see all the letters of Spare Time now completely unlit. I remember the R and the I being the problem. This would be a good time to change those neon bulbs while the light switch is off.

God dammit, Truett. Make up your mind. Are you helping or not?

The hardware store is literally two shops down. I could easily grab what’s needed, and I could fix at least one thing for Ezra while I’m here.

It’ll only take five minutes. Right?

The bell above the door at Hendrick’s Hardware gives a tired jingle when I push inside.

It smells like dust and metal. Rows of screws and nails line the walls in little labeled drawers, the kind you have to squint at to read. There’s a ladder display near the back, all different heights, like they belong in the Three Little Bears story.

The clerk looks up from behind the counter. He’s older, gray threading through his beard, glasses low on his nose. “Help you find something?”

I run my hand through my hair and shift over to the counter. “Yeah. Uh… maybe. I’ve got a neon sign I need to fix. Do you have any recommendations?”

His eyebrows lift just a little. “Neon, huh? Those can be finicky.”

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, glancing at a rack of wrenches like they might save me, “I was hoping I could… fix it for someone.”