Page 8 of Right Up His Alley

My cheeks burn, hoping he didn’t catch me staring. “Do what?” I ask lamely.

He gestures to the application. “Make Spare Time a contender? I can’t think of a more deserving alley.”

Spare Time as the tournament host? It’s almost laughable given the state of the alley. I’m out of my fucking league here. Strangers walking around my family’s alley, judging every nook and cranny—as it is now, there’s no way the USBC would seriously consider it. Even if I knew they were coming, there’s not much I could have done to get the alley looking better.

The truth is, even if I cleaned the dust off the bowling balls or mopped the floors, this alley would still not be up to USBC standards. The lights need replacing. The walls could use a fresh coat of paint. The wood needs a good waxing, and the kitchen needs floor-to-ceiling scrubbing. New appliances are also a must if we plan on feeding more than five people at a time.

But then my gaze drops back to the application clutched in my hands, and my father’s words echo in my mind. This is what he wanted. A chance to be a host. It feels like a final request from beyond the grave, as morbid as that sounds. Ignoring it would feel like turning my back on him, like dishonoring his memory. And I already carry more than enough guilt; I don’t need to add this to the weight pressing down on me.

He wanted me to carry out his dream. I can’t have mine, but maybe his is still attainable. Still, it would be a hell of a lot of work.

“I think you should do it,” Truett says with a grin. His enthusiasm reminds me of a golden retriever. It’s almost endearing, if I were in a better mood. But a lot has happened this morning with the police surrounding me to finding out my father applied for a damn hosting opportunity to the bowling congress. “And, if you want, I can help.”

I look at him, dumbfounded. “You’ll help?”

“Yeah, why not?” He shrugs. “I love Spare Time. Your father made a big impact on me and my career. If I can help in any way, I want to. I owe it to him and this place.” He looks around the room with a sense of wonderment and melancholy, and for a second, I wish I could see the alley through his eyes.

Before Truett or I can say another word, Mr. Weathers and the other two unnamed males come back. “Well, Spare Time is certainly… something.” I try not to scowl at his words. “Have you decided if you want to continue with the application process? If not⁠—”

“Yes,” I cut him off before he could finish. With Truett’s help, maybe this place can become something more than what it is. If he actually means it. Sometimes people say things to grieving people they don’t truly mean. My newfound enthusiasm seems to surprise Mr. Weathers because his brow cocks up, so I quickly add, “Yes, I want to continue.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Truett give me a thumbs-up. He approves. Not that I need his approval, but it’s still nice to have.

“Good, good.” Mr. Weathers nods. “We will send an email with more information for you to look over. I hope you have a good day, Mr. Jiménez. And Mr. Thorne—” He turns to Truett and offers him a genuine smile. “Tell your father I said hi. We met once a few years ago. Fantastic man, he is.”

“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Truett smiles uncertainly.

With that, Mr. Weathers and the other two men leave abruptly. I watch as they walk back through the front door, wondering if I actually stand a chance. They didn’t seem impressed by Spare Time, but a lot can happen between now and whenever they come back.

Yeah, but not miracles, my bitterness reminds me.

“Thank goodness, they’re gone,” Truett says after a minute, breaking the silence. “I’m going to bowl now. Say, can I have a pizza? You still serve pizzas, right? I know it’s just alley pizza, but I’ve been dreaming of a slice since I got into town.”

Luckily, it’s one of the things we still have that’s working, so I nod. “Yeah. Pepperoni or cheese?”

“Can I do half and half?”

“Sure.”

Truett’s smile warms something in my chest. I almost attempt to return it, but I crush that feeling before it takes root. He saunters up to his lane—Lane 7, the new and improved one—and picks up a neon-green ball.

I watch him deliver the ball down the lane, and I’m momentarily reminded of how, when we were younger, he used to distract me from my sketches without anyone really noticing. He’s always been an easy distraction. He’s got good form, which isn’t surprising if he’s some hot shot and learned from my father. When all ten pins fall over from his perfect release, Truett whoops in triumph and goes back to the ball return to start the process all over again.

I realize I’m staring and quickly head back to the kitchen, getting his half-and-half pizza ready. Truett is in his eighth frame when the pizza is finally done, and I bring it out to his table.

He’s so laser-focused on the game that he doesn’t even realize I’m there. Strangely, I feel like I’m intruding on something, so I walk away silently, not wanting to disturb him while he’s in the zone.

Instead, I go back into the kitchen to clean out the fryer and toss it for good. The damn thing probably hasn’t been cleaned since we got it. I don’t even want to know how long ago that was. It takes forever to finally get it to the point where I can touch it without getting grease all over my hands. I haul it to the dumpster out back, saying goodbye at last.

By the time I’m finished, an hour and half has passed. I notice for the first time I’m alone in the alley; Truett’s lane is no longer occupied.

That’s when I see a few bills lying out on the counter with a note. On a napkin. The same napkin I gave him to write his “complaints” down on. I can’t help but smile as I quickly grab it.

Thanks for the fun! - Truett

The money he left behind is far more than I would charge for two hours. Hell, it’s far more than I would charge for an entire day of bowling. I’m almost tempted to give it back because it’s way too much to accept—except I have no way of contacting him.

That, and I could use some of this money to help buy those lights Truett told me were burnt out above the entrance. It’s not until I put the money in the register do I notice that Truett didn’t leave his bowling shoes behind. One quick glance at the bins by his lane shows he didn’t leave them in the cubby either.