[stylist] New Story

[Shelley J. Alongi]

great imagery.
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Jacobson, Shawn D" <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Friday, April 29, 2011 6:07 AM
Subject: [stylist] New Story


> Here is my latest.  It's a change of pace for me, not science fiction, 
> it's more of a childhood memory tale.
>
> I hope you enjoy
>
> Shawn Jacobson
> Mathematical Statistician
> Phone# (202)-475-8759
> Fax# (202)-485-0275
>
> A Night at the Totem Bowl
>
> If you want to start a fight in my family, just say the bowling is not a 
> sport.  I know that some people see it as an excuse to drink beer, but in 
> my family, bowling was serious business.  Dad was a truly good bowler, not 
> quite good enough to go pro, but good enough to bowl in tournaments all 
> over the place and sometimes win money.  And mom was the best women bowler 
> at the Totem bowl.
> So when we went there to bowl for green stamps, I know we would have fun 
> in a serious way.  "Remember to wait till the bowler on the right is 
> finished before you start your approach" dad reminded me "and when you're 
> finished go back and sit down.  Don't wait at the end of the approach 
> until the pins fall."  This was going to be my first chance to bowl for 
> green stamps with the adults, and dad wanted to make sure I acted the 
> part.
> We went into the bowling alley past the Indian inspired tile art, and 
> walked up to the counter on the right to pay.  I didn't need to see to 
> know that I was in a bowling alley.  The smell of wax, oil, and rubber 
> along with the crazy music of falling pins would tell me where I was even 
> if I were totally blind.  "Let's get supper" mom said.  "Then it will be 
> time to get our bags."
> We had supper in the lounge.  Kids weren't supposed to go in there because 
> they sold beer.  But they let us in whether due to my mom having worked 
> there before or because they didn't think a blind guy could cause trouble, 
> I don't know.  Sighted people's motivations baffle me sometimes.
> The lounge wasn't that interesting, even if it was adults only; it was 
> just a dimly lighted room full of tables and chairs with a bar along the 
> side across the kitchen from the lunch counter; the place kids could eat. 
> It was about as interesting as the Papoose room where the nursery was. 
> The area around the coat racks with its wooden carvings of Indian spirits 
> was more interesting.  So were the halls that led back past carved totem 
> poles to the room where you could see the automatic pinsetters from the 
> rear, now that was cool.  The lounge was, well, boring.  At least the food 
> was good.
> I had my usual, a cottage cheese salad with a cherry on top, and a 
> tenderloin sandwich made with a big piece of fried pork that dwarfed the 
> bun that pretended to hold it.  Then there was desert, a big chunk of 
> coconut cream pie full of sweet creamy goodness.
> Then it was time to bowl.  I got to throw the first ball and, I guess I 
> was over excited, but I threw the ball wide; gutter ball, darned if I 
> didn't hate that.  This get guffaws of laughter from the college aged kids 
> that were sharing the alleys with us.  I assumed they were college aged 
> kids because they had Hawkeye sweaters on.
> "Stay calm, don't lose your cool" dad said "go up there and pick up that 
> spare."  Dad knew that I tended to get mad when the game wasn't going my 
> way.  I almost didn't get to bowl tonight because I'd lost my temper 
> during a practice game a few days ago.  I screwed my temper down, picked 
> up the ball and tried again.  No spare, but at least I kept this one on 
> the alley.
> My first big chance at green stamps came in the fourth frame.  I looked up 
> at the rack; the color wasn't quite normal.  Was that a yellow headpin?  I 
> squared my shoulders to the pins and pushed off.  The shot felt right, the 
> good feel of a well executed swing, the ball rolled down the alley and, 
> boom! The pins flew about in a blur.  Strike!
> "That's the way tiger" mom yelled.  "Now get your stamps."
> I bounded up the three steps from the bowling area to find the table where 
> the stamps were.  "Over there" dad said then, seeing my confusion "Right, 
> no, now forward."   I got to the table and picked up my sheet of stamps. 
> Dad later said there were 80 stamps, but I didn't count them.  I just got 
> a death grip on my prize and headed back.  Unlike the sportsmanship award 
> I had been given, I think for being blind, I had actually earned this by 
> doing something well, an honest sheet of stamps for an honest strike.
> We went back to bowling.  We all did pretty well, I even had some more 
> strikes, but we didn't get a lot of chances for a big stamp total.  Mom 
> got 100 stamps for a strike with a green headpin and dad had one strike 
> worth 50 stamps, but nothing else big.
> The kids who were bowling with us had a couple of shots at 500 stamps, but 
> by then their games had pretty much fallen apart.  I guess it had 
> something to do with the amount of beer they were drinking.  I didn't know 
> how you could be so thirsty that you needed five or six drinks each like 
> they had, I only wanted two pops the whole night, but they must have been 
> real thirsty because they kept drinking.
> Dad had bought some raffle tickets, and his number was drawn for a chance 
> to win 2,500 stamps.  He went up, through a good ball, but when it was 
> over he still had the eight pin standing.  Dad plodded back shaking his 
> head and muttering about the only true tap in bowling.  After all the 
> raffle shots, we went back to bowling.
> Throughout the night, everything else, the Indian art, the desolation of 
> another year at the Braille school, even the antics of the people bowling 
> with us seemed to fade into the background.  Only the game was important. 
> For that night, the game was at the center of the universe, the only thing 
> that mattered.
> Then it was the tenth frame of the last game, my last chance for something 
> exciting to happen.  I looked up and saw, to my dismay, a rack of white 
> pins; not a colored pin in sight.  "Get a strike and you get another 
> chance" dad reminded me; but I already knew that; I knew the rules.
> I threw the ball.  I looked like it could be a strike, but it was too far 
> to the right, too light on the headpin.  The ball chopped the headpin in 
> front of the two; it ricocheted off the side and kicked the four pin out 
> from between the two and the seven, the left-side baby split.
> "You know how to pick that up" encouraged mom "just hit the two on the 
> left side and let the ball hook into the seven."
> So I throw the ball, but, again, it was too far right.  I stood at the end 
> of the approach trying every bit of body English I could to get the ball 
> to go just a bit further left.  It rolled, rolled, and just clipped the 
> two.  It bounced of the side and just hit the seven pin with barely enough 
> force to make it fall.  "Great spare" yelled mom.  "That's the way!"
> I went back to the return for my ball, picked it up and looked at the next 
> set of pins.
> At first, it looked like the pin setter had broken and only set up part of 
> the rack of pins.  Then I realized what I was seeing, colored pins.  Just 
> then mom got real excited; "Wow! You can get 5,000 stamps if you get a 
> strike.  Go get em tiger!"
> I backed up to the very back of the approach and prepared for the shot. 
> This was the one I'd been fantasizing about all night, indeed for the last 
> week since mom and dad had told me I could bowl with them.  I fiddled with 
> the ball to get in the exact, most comfortable, position, squared my 
> shoulders to the pins the way dad had told me, checked my feet, tried to 
> relax, and, innocent of the fear of failure, I launched myself down the 
> approach.  Step one: I pushed the ball out so that my right arm could take 
> the ball back.  Step two: I let gravity and my arm start the ball on the 
> back swing.  Step three: I let the momentum of the ball carry it back and 
> up as my knees started to bend so I wouldn't drop the ball.  Step 4:....
> "Hay blind boy, let me show you how to get to the pins" one of the college 
> kids, sounding like the alley drunks I had met, yelled as he headed for 
> the approach.  I don't know if it was the kid or my dad bellowing at him 
> to shut up stat started me, but my final step faltered and the slide 
> became a stumble.  The ball thudded onto the lane.  I had too much follow 
> through, so I teetered on the brink of the foul line.  How the shot was as 
> good as it was I have no idea.  It kind of wobbled down the alley going 
> bump, bump, bump as it rolled over the thumb hole, then that stopped and 
> the ball started to hook to the left of the headpin.  Meanwhile I flailed 
> like you would if you slipped on unexpected ice.  I wind milled myself 
> around, but I knew I would fall.  The ball hit the pins and they all went 
> down, but it was no use, I finally stumbled over the line; it wouldn't 
> count.
> I picked myself up finding myself in a sudden madhouse.  Dad was yelling 
> at the college kids with words that made my mouth taste of lava just 
> listening to them.  Dad didn't show his temper much, but it was on display 
> now.  I think he wanted to murderize someone and might have hurt someone 
> except that the manager had run down to the lanes to try to calm him down. 
> The manager was trying to cool dad off while telling the kids that they 
> were done for the night and not to come back until they grew up in maybe 
> ten years or so.  I wanted to cry, and even more I wanted to go slug 
> someone, but the college kids were bigger than I am and I've never been 
> much of a fighter.
> Mom was at the stamp table imploring them to give me the stamps anyway 
> since all the pins had fallen.  I knew my blindness was part of the 
> conversation, it always is.  I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I 
> could imagine and the imagining was enough to be embarrassing.  "Come on" 
> said dad in a tired disgusted voice "let's get out of here."  He pulled 
> mom away from the scorer's table, I think mom wanted to say more but knew 
> better than to argue with dad when he was in one of those moods.  We 
> headed out.
> "Promise me you'll never act like that on a bowling alley ever" dad 
> admonished.
> "I won't" I replied as we walked out into the parking lot.
> "I mean it son.  Always take the game seriously" dad continued "promise!"
> "Sure" I replied.  "I promise."
> I saw the bowling alley disappear behind us.  Summer vacation was almost 
> done and school loomed darkly in the future.  At least, I would have 
> something to tell the other kids at Vinton when I got there.
>
>
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