Gary Moshimer

 

 

I’m slapping my new purple high-tops over Lebanon Mountain on my way to Lar-a-bowl, where my father is working on a perfect game. He called me on my purple phone all excited, pins crashing in the background, his mouth garbling peanuts and groaning with nerves.

“I have to get over the mountain. Can’t someone pick me up?”

“No can do. They’re all here. I’ve forbidden anyone to leave.”

My mother is visiting her sister in Pittsfield, or she would be helping me out for sure. My old man is still bitter I didn’t try harder at bowling, me being his only son. So, I have to stick out my bad thumb, the one with the permanent bowling injury from when he tried to make me champion of my grade school. The bone is warped.

The thumb catches me a granny with streaks of blue and white in her hair and shirt. She drinks from a whiskey bottle and smokes a long cigarette in a bone colored holder. “Mae.” She pokes out a skinny blue finger for me to shake.

“Doug.”

Turns out she’s headed for Lar-a-bowl also, but for a different reason. She’s going to light her farts out behind by the propane tanks.

“You can’t do that. You’ll blow the place up.”

“Nah. It’s outside. You only blow up if you’re in a confined space and there’s a leak.”

“You’ll go on fire, at least.”

“Nah. I have these special fire-proof pants. And long wooden matches.”

“Wow. Can I take pictures?”

“Most certainly, my new friend.”

“I have to watch my father, though. He’s working on a .300 game. He’s never had one.”

“Not to worry. I have mucho gas! Chili burritos! Dried apricots! I’ll be there all night for your pleasure!”

She speeds down the mountain, no brakes. I think I will die with this old woman, that my old man will never forgive himself for not sending someone for me. But she’s an excellent driver. Deer leap out and she swerves expertly and yells, “Fuck you all, nature! I’ll burn your ass with my ass torch!”

I’m thinking this is going to be a great night.

 

 

Lar-a-bowl is the bowling alley owned by the Larabee propane company. Out back they have their tanks and trucks in a fenced-in area and it always smells like rotten eggs. There are big NO SMOKING signs all over and I point this out to Mae.

“You need to live long enough for me to come see you.”

She gives me the thumbs up. In the weird overhead light her blue stretchy pants look pink. I raise my ruined thumb.

Inside, I find my father has just four strikes to go. He’s staring at the ball return waiting for Wade Butz to bowl in the next lane. Wade is an old prick. He grabs his crotch and thrusts it at my father, then throws a loud gutter ball because he’s so far behind it doesn’t matter.

“Top that, Dickweed,” he says in a loud whisper. I can tell he’s had a few beers.

Lloyd Thomas, a friend of my father’s, complains to the manager, who is acting as an official. “Dammit to hell, Perce! Reel that son-of-a-bitch in!”

Perce says to Wade, “Let’s keep this civil, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Wade spits into his own hand towel and I snicker. He gives me a look to kill, for being the son of his bowling nemesis. Then he spits one more time, this time on the lane, and then packs up his ball and heads out of the building.

Everyone sighs relief and my old man gets to concentrate. He takes a knee and says a mumbling prayer to the bowling gods. He gets up and throws his thundering curve, which kills the pins. I see that each pin is Wade’s head with a dumbass look of surprise. So I know it’s clear sailing.

He nails the last three and the crowd closes in, slapping his back. I sneak out.

 

 

I hear the plume before I see it, along with shithead Wade’s voice. “Ya wanna kill me with that? Ya wanna kill all of us?” Another WHOOSH! “Come on. I’m still your old man. Give me some sugar, baby.”

I peek around the corner. Wade’s on his knees and Mae is bent over some feet before him, in farting position. Suddenly she can’t get the match lit; her hand is shaking. Wade jumps up and tackles her, throwing punches with bad intentions.

I run and jump on his back and chop his neck. He laughs and throws me over his head, but I land right under Mae. I grab the match, give her a squeeze, and use her as a fire-thrower, blasting Wade. His shirt goes up, and then his hair. Screeching, he stumbles back into the fence, where the lone tank at this end of the lot stands. That goes up too, blasts off like a rocket. I crawl towards Mae and find Wade’s hand with his fucked-up pinky ring.

Everyone’s outside now. Officials want to evacuate, but people want to stand and watch, their faces aglow. My old man climbs up onto a fire truck with his arms in the air. I chant: “Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry!” and the crowd takes it up. I get up there with him, and Mae follows. Someone brings a beer and my old man cracks it and it foams all over. Mae grabs it and guzzles. I smile so hard it feels like my face is on fire.

It’s a wonderful night here at Lar-a-bowl.

 

 

 

 

GARY MOSHIMER has stories at Pank, Word Riot, Smokelong Quarterly, Monkeybicycle, and many other places. He lives near Lancaster, Pa.