[stylist] New Story

Sat Apr 30 03:21:23 UTC 2011

One misspelled word that jumped out at me was the desert you ate instead of 
the dessert.  (Which one it was depends on how much sand you ate. LOL!)

What was your dad talking about in your behavior?  When someone says stuff 
to you when you know you're doing the right thing, it startles you.  That's 
why they do it.  (They should have given you the points.  It wasn't like you 
intended to do it.  The kid was mean and made you mess up.)  That's water 
under the bridge, though.
Barbara

Through the sunny fields of yesterday
Echo voices of children now grown,
Their golden peals of laughter
Ring upon the ivied stone.
-----Original Message----- 
From: Jacobson, Shawn D
Sent: Friday, April 29, 2011 8:07 AM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
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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