Page 5 of Right Up His Alley

Yikes.

I follow behind him to the register and throw my own shoes on top of the counter. Judging by his reaction—cocked head and raised eyebrow—I get the impression I should have laid my Nikes down more gently. Yet, as his glare pierces through my soul, my eyes can’t help but wander to the way his muscles flex beneath his Spare Time branded polo.

“Size 13, please.” I lean on the counter. “I’m a professional bowler who grew up here in Pflugerville. Just finished a two-year tour on the road and wanted to stop by the alley that gave me my start.”

“A professional bowler who doesn’t bring his own bowling shoes?” He gives me an exaggerated once-over. “Real professional.”

I laugh because, honestly, fair. “Yeah, sometimes I like to live life on the edge with rentals.”

He rolls his eyes.

“So,” I try to change the subject, “what’s your name?”

He looks down at his shirt, presumably at his missing nametag. “Of course,” he mumbles. “I’m Ezra.”

“Nice to meet you, Ezra.” I smile. “Truett.”

“You’ve mentioned that. Laces or straps?”

“No boas?” I ask playfully.

“What?” He doesn’t smile, bat an eye, or give me any sort of indication he shares the same interest I have in him.

“It was a joke. Clearly a bad one. I’ll take laces, please.” I nod before I turn my back against the counter and look around. A couple of the lanes are all lit up with bright lights, the monitors playing funny little bowling pin characters dancing around the screens as pop music streams softly from the speakers. A few lights in some of the lanes flash, reminding me of the flickering sign out front.

“Hey,” I turn back toward Ezra, “um—is Mr. Jiménez around? He probably wouldn’t remember me, but I’d love to say hello and tell him that a couple lightbulbs are out on his sign above the front door.”

“Yeah, he’s…” Ezra pauses and leans forward, sliding the shoes over to me on the counter. I catch a quick whiff of his cologne—it's masculine—a musky scent with hints of wood and leather. I pull the shoes closer. He continues, “He’s not available.”

“Damn, well, that’s okay. If you want, I can change the bulbs if you have any lying around? It can be a surprise for him when he gets back. I would just need you to hold the ladder.”

Ezra shakes his head, his voice wavering as he swallows hard. “He’s not coming back,” he says, faltering for a moment before adding, “You can pay after your rounds. I’ll be over in the kitchen, so if you could kindly grab my attention, I’ll check you out when you’re done.”

Am I missing something? Did I say something wrong?

“Um, is Mr. Jiménez okay? He still owns the alley, right?” I call out, trying to continue our conversation while Ezra makes his way back over to the kitchen area.

“Mr. Jiménez is dead, so he doesn’t own anything anymore,” Ezra growls without turning back around. “He’s been gone for a year.”

Dead? The news hits harder than I expected. I feel like I almost didn’t hear him correctly, like I’m stuck trying to make sense of it. How is Mr. Jiménez, the heart and soul of this place, not here anymore? How is he just…gone?

A short ache twinges in my chest. I’ve been sad before—sad I lost a match, sad someone broke up with me. Hell, this feeling is worse than the sadness I felt when my dad berated me in front of a room full of future teammates for showing up two minutes late to my boarding school try-outs. No, this isn’t just sadness.

It’s deeper.

More like regret.

Mr. Jiménez knew I’d become something great and promised me he’d keep up with my career. I failed to keep that promise in return. I’ve only been gone for two years. How could I not know he died a year ago?

I sniff, taking in more air than usual to avoid tearing up.

I speak in a deeper voice to hide any weepiness. “It’s a damn shame,” I mumble. “I was wondering why this place doesn’t feel like it used to. Who owns this place now, eh?”

“Me,” Ezra replies. “His son.”

My eyes widen, and my lips press into a flat line. His declaration hangs in the air. The memory of a kid with dark curly hair, wearing baggy clothes and oversized headphones, always sketching, surges across my mind.

“Holy shit. I think I remember you? You were always sitting behind the counter, ignoring us customers, and drawing in your book. Your dad would always joke about how you’d rather be on the page and not in the alley. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. Wow, I would say congrats on taking over this place, but I’m not sure congrats is the right word.”