My First Night
The ball rolled true until the very end, turning just enough to catch the side of the pin, blasting it into the bowling alley oblivion. I picked up my third spare in four frames. Not a bad game for my first time this week.
Bowling became another one of my short lived “passions” when I walked into an alley after work two weeks before, and bowled for three straight hours by myself. My muscles grew sore, and my thumb swelled to twice its normal size, but I loved it; I loved the game and the thoughts that it evoked while I played.
As I started my third game that night, a man with a faded red bowling shirt came up to me and started a conversation. “You been coming here a lot lately. Just move into town?” he inquired in a heavy accent which I couldn’t decipher. The name on his shirt read ‘Drew.’
I replied, kindly enough, describing my addiction to the game. After that comment, he walked away with a slight limp, acting as though we had never spoken. He continued to bowl, about ten lanes down from me.
After my fifth game, I gave up my conquest to reach 200, and began removing my shoes. The man in the red shirt re-emerged as I placed the shoes on the counter. “Turning it in for the night?” I nodded a reply, trying to avoid any real conversation. “Well why don’t you stop by my place before you head home. A few other bowling addicts like myself like to meet up on Tuesdays and participate in something other than bowling. My mother always said it was good to diversify yourself.”
I again nodded, muttering something about directions. It would be nice to meet some other bowlers. The solitude of my bowling expeditions was beginning to clinch onto my nerves, and it was also quite early in the night. He handed me a card that had a map scrawled on the back, and on the other side he simply wrote “Peter.”
After I stopped to pick up a late meal, I attempted to follow the directions on the card, ending up in a fairly upscale neighborhood, about 20 minutes from my place. I walked up the driveway and opened the door, as Peter had instructed me to do; apparently bowlers don’t like knocking, or getting up to answer the door. As I stepped inside, the smell immediately hit me, almost knocking me off of my feet.
I would have never called myself a drug addict, hell, I was barely a drug user, but for some reason beyond my grasp, I had always loved the atmosphere that came with everything ranging from marijuana to methamphetamine. I didn’t know why, but there was some point in my life where I decided that I wanted to do everything at least once. A childhood friend of mine guided me through what I needed to do, and frankly, doing most drugs seemed like way too much effort to be an every day thing for me.
I couldn’t identify the smell that had permeated through the house, but nothing even remotely close to that scent had ever hit my nostrils before. I continued to cautiously enter the house, finally coming to the kitchen, where several strung out teenagers lay on the floor. I looked to my left and saw Peter, laying on a couch that could have been fifty years old.
“Come on in boy. Sorry about the kids over there. They don’t even bowl.” I walked into the main room and sat down on a simple stool, the only unoccupied seat in the room. Several other guys my age were focused on the television as the only female present pulled out something that looked like bubble wrap, but after seeing the eyes of these men light up like children on the last day of Hanukkah, I knew it was much more than packaging.
The girl looked on me with somewhat kinder eyes than the rest and said “I wouldn’t recommend participating on your first night here. It can get a little intense.”
Bowling became another one of my short lived “passions” when I walked into an alley after work two weeks before, and bowled for three straight hours by myself. My muscles grew sore, and my thumb swelled to twice its normal size, but I loved it; I loved the game and the thoughts that it evoked while I played.
As I started my third game that night, a man with a faded red bowling shirt came up to me and started a conversation. “You been coming here a lot lately. Just move into town?” he inquired in a heavy accent which I couldn’t decipher. The name on his shirt read ‘Drew.’
I replied, kindly enough, describing my addiction to the game. After that comment, he walked away with a slight limp, acting as though we had never spoken. He continued to bowl, about ten lanes down from me.
After my fifth game, I gave up my conquest to reach 200, and began removing my shoes. The man in the red shirt re-emerged as I placed the shoes on the counter. “Turning it in for the night?” I nodded a reply, trying to avoid any real conversation. “Well why don’t you stop by my place before you head home. A few other bowling addicts like myself like to meet up on Tuesdays and participate in something other than bowling. My mother always said it was good to diversify yourself.”
I again nodded, muttering something about directions. It would be nice to meet some other bowlers. The solitude of my bowling expeditions was beginning to clinch onto my nerves, and it was also quite early in the night. He handed me a card that had a map scrawled on the back, and on the other side he simply wrote “Peter.”
After I stopped to pick up a late meal, I attempted to follow the directions on the card, ending up in a fairly upscale neighborhood, about 20 minutes from my place. I walked up the driveway and opened the door, as Peter had instructed me to do; apparently bowlers don’t like knocking, or getting up to answer the door. As I stepped inside, the smell immediately hit me, almost knocking me off of my feet.
I would have never called myself a drug addict, hell, I was barely a drug user, but for some reason beyond my grasp, I had always loved the atmosphere that came with everything ranging from marijuana to methamphetamine. I didn’t know why, but there was some point in my life where I decided that I wanted to do everything at least once. A childhood friend of mine guided me through what I needed to do, and frankly, doing most drugs seemed like way too much effort to be an every day thing for me.
I couldn’t identify the smell that had permeated through the house, but nothing even remotely close to that scent had ever hit my nostrils before. I continued to cautiously enter the house, finally coming to the kitchen, where several strung out teenagers lay on the floor. I looked to my left and saw Peter, laying on a couch that could have been fifty years old.
“Come on in boy. Sorry about the kids over there. They don’t even bowl.” I walked into the main room and sat down on a simple stool, the only unoccupied seat in the room. Several other guys my age were focused on the television as the only female present pulled out something that looked like bubble wrap, but after seeing the eyes of these men light up like children on the last day of Hanukkah, I knew it was much more than packaging.
The girl looked on me with somewhat kinder eyes than the rest and said “I wouldn’t recommend participating on your first night here. It can get a little intense.”