He says, You’re thinking what on earth were we doing at that apartment the other night.
No, I tell him. I’m thinking I hate bowling and I hate bowling alleys.
He says, Westerners, you sure know how to suck the culture out of a place!
I think I’ve heard him wrong, so I say, What?
He says, Westerners, you sure know how to make things ace!
From out of nowhere, a ball comes flying from the right, lands on our lane and rolls into the gutter.
I look over, and a guy grimaces his apologies. Charles, he smiles and waves, it’s okay, don’t worry about it.
Say cheese, I say.
People starting off street photography get so worked up about how to take pictures of strangers without them noticing. Trying to figure out how to be incognito.
Truth is, you don’t need to. Exhibit A: the picture I got of the pro-bowler girl. Exhibit B: the picture I got of the guy just now.
I’m not saying you won’t look like a dick (you will), but you will probably never see that person again in your life.
But that’s not the point.
The point is, you got your picture.
Charles tells me it’s my go, nodding at the pins waiting at the end of the lane.
I say, Nah, you’re good.
Mind if I go then? he says.
Charles lets the ball fly. To finish, his right leg shoots straight across the back of his left.
I always thought bowling was a dumb, fake sport for fat people with no coordination. Like darts. But looking at Charles here, well he makes the whole thing look slick. Even with the clown shoes.
Boom. Rumble. The ball looks like it’s about to drop into the gutter, but right at the last second it curves back into the middle of the lane. Crash.
Charles’s eyes have practically disappeared on account of the big grin on his face. He holds his hand up, I slap it. The man is giddy.
Isn’t bowling great? he says.
If you say so.
My dad used to take me bowling every Saturday, he says.
Oh yeah? My dad used to beat me with a cane for not doing extra homework.
Ten more pins lower down. He asks me if I want a go now.
Go on, then, I say.
He says, Are you sure you don’t want to put on some bowling shoes? They’ll help with your approach.
I say, Nah, you’re good.
I bowl. Correction: I let go. The ball drops, rolls real slow, and plops pathetic right there into the gutter.
This is why I hate bowling: I suck.
Too bad, says Charles as I sit down. Think of it as a practical joke.
My bowling?
No, he laughs. The apartment.
Oh. I love practical jokes, I say. Especially messy ones.
He tells me that him and this dude are old family friends carrying on their childhood games well into adulthood.
Last time, the guy bought an identical Audi to Charles’s – same number plates and all – swapped them, and watched from a hiding spot in the garage as he spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out why he couldn’t get into his car.
I massage my forearm, which is already tweaking with pain.
I say, He’s going to flip when he sees the photos of his place.
Charles says, He certainly is. Did you manage to post them off to him?
I say, First thing this morning. He’ll be looking at them and freaking out accordingly tomorrow.
