Bowling Nights

Joshua Seipp

English Major—3rd Year

Great, a red light. Another red fuckin’ light. Would’ve run it, but I can’t afford the heat. Not tonight, anyway. Instead, I just flatten the brake down and my 1968, sleek, white, beautiful mustang coasts to a stop. Next to me, an old lookin’ couple in a beatdown Chevy eases up. The driver has on some sort of salmon-colored, freshly pressed, faux tuxedo jacket while the lady is wearin’ a string of pretty, fake, pink pearls around her turkey-like neck. She glances over at me and catches me lookin’. I give a slight grin, but she doesn’t return it. She then says somethin’ real clever, I suppose. Both her and her husband grin, then laugh. My smirk fades. When the light finally flashes green, I rev past and cut ‘em off. In the mirror I hope of glimpsing their disapproved looks, shocked lips, slanted eyes even. Instead, I see nothin’ but shadows behind a rain-smeared windshield. Disappointing.

The rain is startin’ to get fat, torrential even. I still drive pretty quick though, I ain’t never been no goddamn pussy. Couldn’t be late anyways, not for my first job in years. Only problem is I can’t exactly find the place I’m lookin’ for. The neon signs which sprout up from the sides of the Arizona desert road aren’t much help: Busty’s Barn Eats, Diner, Ruke’s Route 66 gasoline stop… nada. Dusty’s Bowling Watchtower is the place I’m lookin’ for, but the rain makes it hard to find. Shit, makes it hard to see even. Now I’m gettin’ paranoid; maybe I missed my turn. I mean, I doubt it, it’s a straight shot for Christ’s sake.

But it wouldn’t be the first time…

I veer off onto the side of the road to check the boss’ letter, just in case.

Can’t be late anyways.

When I jump out, the rain floods my brand-new peach overcoat and fills my charcoal black boots right up past my fuckin’ toes. Even my lucky white cowboy hat gets drenched, knew some shit like this would happen. Nevertheless, I hastily jog around back and pop the trunk. Inside there is an assortment of what some would call ‘suspicious items’: old guns, broken knives, yellowed boxes of shotgun slugs, bent fishing rods, all kinds of shit. I jerk the letter I’m lookin’ for out from under an old dress shoe with a gash in it (my usual hiding spot). I then carefully re-unseal, unfold, and skim through the scribbled writing inside:

To my trusted John,

I have one more job for you old frien-

nope, not there.

You were my best man,

and I know for a fact that little incident in Phoenix was just a-

yadda, yadda, yadda.

Silver Fox is on a special hunt tonight,

so, I need you, alongside a special underling of mine, to-

dumb shit, dumb shit, and more dumb shit.

Here we go!

Go down I-40, take the 3rd exit, then take a left onto Santa Fe and follow it all the way to Dusty’s bowling-

Thank Christ! Only a couple more miles down the road! I knew I hadn’t missed it.

Hopefully the rest of this night will go a little more smoothly.

However, as I toss the letter back in and slam the trunk, a car emerges from the void of the Arizona desert road…

It’s a fuckin’ cop, a vulture of the desert. Shit! I speedily light up a cig from under my hat to avoid lookin’ suspicious. But as the vulture passes, his brake lights come up, and his car slows to a sneak. I instinctively glance up, and through a crack in the window, I catch a pair of deep, silver eyes peering right at me.

Our stares connect, not for too long mind you, but just enough that I tense.

Then, out of nowhere, the vulture zips up the window and high tails it back into the void, gone as suddenly as he appeared.

But even after the last bit of his taillights get swallowed up by the dark,

I still stand there, thinkin’.

Thinkin’ about how weird that was. Why did he slow down? Does he know?

And those eyes, they looked so… familiar.

How odd…

it’s nothin’ though; I’m bein’ paranoid. I know it’s nothin’.

(Or maybe, I just want it to be nothin’.)

Either way,

I can’t be late.

When I pull in, there are only a few multicolored cars dotted around the asphalt. Doesn’t worry me too much, though I never like too many people around whenever I do a job. Always makes it hard to perform.

After parking on the very outer edge of the lot, I carefully look around for my partner…

nada, no one, nothing. I then glance at my watch: 11:10 p.m., he’s late.

I didn’t have time to get used to such character flaws, so I slam my boot down a little.

Last thing I wanna do is wait.

Looks like the sky has dried up though, so I just use the loose time to stretch out on the hood of my 1968, sleek, white, beautiful mustang.

As I do, I continue to carefully scan my eyes across the parkin’ lot for him. Which is kinda hard, considerin’ both the fog and the lone light comin’ from a massive, violet, neon watchtower perched on the roof. You know, the med-i-evil type.

Tacky, but I kinda like it.

As I reach into my pocket for a cig, an old couple stumbles out of the alley.

They’re drunk.

I give them a mean glare. They don’t see me, but I glare at ‘em hard. They’re the only company I have at the moment, though.

I check my watch again, now he’s twenty minutes late. I jump off the hood and begin to pace, but the cig keeps me calm.

Did he miss his turn? Nah, boss wouldn’t send me an amateur.

But, I almost got lost…

Just then, two bulbous orbs of a car’s headlights appear out of the hazy fog.

“Better be that sonuvabitch,” I mumble.

Hadn’t had time to get used to such character flaws.

As the car comes closer, the shittiness of it becomes clearer. Goddamn, what a bruiser. A busted up, fuckin’ mule of a bruiser. When it stops, the damn thing sounds like it’s gonna fall apart. What tumbles out of it though, looks even worse:

A shaggy-haired, black-shirted, leaned beatnik! He sent me a goddamn beatnik?!

“What’s up, man! You my partner?!” the beatnik bellows from across the parking lot.

“Yeah, you’re late!” I shout back.

“Sorry man, I broke down a few miles back! This chick was able to get me goin’, though!”

Once he walks over, the smell of onions assaults my senses.

I try to cool off a little, though.

“It’s no trouble, I suppose. No one’s taken no notice of me by the looks of it anyways. Nice and quiet.”

“Sweet man, just the way I like it.”

Man, man, man. I can’t believe out of all the people to do a job with the boss sent me a goddamn, greasy beatnik.

“So, what’s your name?” he asks while pulling a pack of camel cigarettes out from his pocket.

Classy for a beatnik.

“My name’s John, You?”

He grins.

“John? Like John Wayne?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Nice hat, you a real cowboy or something John Wayne?”

Cocky sonuvabitch he is.

“Look, kid, I ain’t no cowboy, and I sure as hell ain’t no John Wayne. I’m just here to do a job.”

“Sure man, sure. You should know though-uh-this is my first, you know… ‘big job.’”

I pause, not entirely sure I heard him correct.

“Thi- this is you’re first fuckin’ job?!”

“First big job.”

“What in the lovin’ God, Jesus, Mary are you talkin’ about, boy?

Why the hell did he send a freshie to me for!?”

“Look, man, I’m not a fuckin’ freshie. There’s a reason I’m here. I've done plenty of jobs before, gas stations, drug marts, funeral homes. This is just my first big job, you know? With lots of people and shit. So just cool your jets man and lemme finish my cig.”

Goddamn, smart talkin’, greasy beatnik he is. This better pay off well.

After flicking out his cig, the kid then pops open the trunk of his mule and pulls out some supplies: two ski masks, a big duffle bag, and a pair of shiny pistols.

Nice ones too, one of ‘em is a colt magnum, I think.

“Where’d you get ’em?” I ask.

“My own private collection. Which one you want?”

I coolly snag the ivory-handled colt and slide it in my back pocket while the beatnik shoves the brass pistol down the front of his pants. He then awkwardly wriggles the mask over his head and lobs the other one to me.

“I don’t need no mask,” I sneer while tossing it back to ‘em.

“You sure, man?”

“Yeah, I don’t mind people knowin’ my face. No one is gonna kick up any dirt over a bowling alley anyway."

“Whatever man. Just don’t come bitchin’ to me when your face is all over channel 4.”

While the kid shoves the mask back into his trunk, I take a moment to look around and check the surroundings. Still no one but us by the looks of it.

I take a breath, just for me.

“You ready, cowboy?”

“Yeah, let’s move quick. Before more assholes come out.”

We shanty up to the glass doors where the smell of fake wood and cheap cologne seeps through. Before we walk in though, the kid suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me aside.

“Hey, so listen. I know the big man gave us roles already and shit, but how about you keep the people under control while I grab the shit. Deal, man?”

He wants me to be crowd control?! I’ve never been no goddamn crowd control in all my life!

“Why do I have to corral these people? It’s your role!”

“I don’t know man, you have a more… intimidating presence. Plus, this is my bag.”

I’m gonna kill this kid.

“Whatever, just try not to get in my way if things go south.”

“Deal.”

We shake hands and step back in front of the doors.

The beatnik’s breathing picks up a little.

“Okay, now you ready cowboy?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yup.”

We breathe one last breath.

I nod at the beatnik and he nods back while locking his gun.

Jesus help us; we burst in.

No going back now.

“EVERYONE GET THE FUCK DOWN! TH-THIS IS A ROBBERY!” the kid cracks out.

Real fuckin’ intimidating.

Numerous confused, picturesque families in colorful attire twist around. Some stand as still as cacti while others slowly push their kids behind ‘em.

None get on the ground though; looks like it’s my turn.

“YOU HEARD THE MAN! DOWN NOW GODDAMN IT!” I belt out myself while firing a warning shot into the ceiling.

Hell, that causes ‘em to drop. Even the beatnik gives me a surprised look. Didn’t

expect me to have the balls, I guess. Or, maybe he’s just jumpy.

Either way, everyone hits the floor.

The beatnik then quickly hops over the counter and pushes aside some sixteen or seventeen-year-old cashier. Then he blasts open the nearest register and starts shoveling cash into his bag.

As for myself, I just shuffle around making sure no one pulls some shit. Though, nobody is gonna fuck with us by the looks of it. It’s mostly just families and teens.

All in blue cardigans and light, flowery, pink dresses. Except, of course, for the two souls in front of me, yet another old couple. The husband is on his knees, eyeing me real mean like from under his midnight black hat. Kinda irks me.

“You lookin’ at somethin’ old man?”

He doesn’t reply. Fuckin’ piece of shit he is.

“You deaf old man? I asked if you’re lookin’ at me.”

Still no reply, just keeps starin’. A hot bowl of fire pushes its way up my throat. I click my boots as I walk up to him. I feel pretty cocky, so I press my colt right up near his face.

“You better say somethin’ or imma put a hole in your fuckin’ head.”

The beatnik glances up for a sec, then goes back to funneling cash.

The man still says nothin’.

I just smile and let out a little sigh. I decide to let him be. I’m gettin’ too antsy.

But as I straighten up and turn around, the man speaks:

“Little pussy ass punk.”

I pause. Pussy ass punk? That gets me goin’. That really, really gets me goin’.

I swing back around and smash the butt of my gun across his skull.

His body crumples to the ground and his wife starts screeching hysterically.

Oh shit.

Blood start’s comin’ out pretty quick, like a hole in a skiff.

The beatnik looks up again.

“Hey! Cowboy! Why the fuck you do that for?”

“Just keep stuffin’ the money and let me do my part!”

“Whatever man, just chill the fuck out.”

The beatnik’s disheveled hair starts to peak out the eyeholes of his mask.

I turn back to the old man who’s still bleeding on the ground. He’s conscious but

pretty banged up. His wife continues to moan and wail.

I hate it, makes me feel like an animal.

“Come on, lady, quiet it down.”

She just keeps goin’ though, keeps wailin’ and screamin’. Starts callin’ me all kinds of names: loser, thug, bastard. She’s gettin’ me real hot again.

“Listen, lady, I said pipe down!”

I give her a good shove with my boot,

that's when her busted up husband lunges at me out of nowhere!

Old bastard just knocks me right in the jaw! Causes my gun to flip right out of my hands onto the ground.

He then lunges for it, and almost grabs it too, if I didn’t dive myself and wrap my

fingers around the ivory hilt.

Old fuck then lobs on top of me, and we both begin to wrestle across the polished hardwood floor. Like floundered fish, we wriggle and writhe for all the patrons to see. Until suddenly,

the gun goes off…

and the old bastard becomes a two hundred-and-sixteen-pound dead weight on top of me…

Uh oh.

I peel off the body and carefully climb to my feet. Blood is covering my face.

There’s silence. Nothin’ but silence.

The only sound in the whole fuckin’ place is Chuck Berry’s “Roll Over Beethoven.”

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The old lady faints, people start screamin’, children start wailin’, and the beatnik is just near speechless.

“Is… Is he dead, man? Did you… did you just kill him?”

“Ju- Just shut the fuck up boy and keep packing the fuckin’ bag!”

“Holy shit, man, holy shit.”

I point the colt at him.

“I said, keep stuffin’ the money, boy!”

Right at that moment, lights flash outside the glass doors.

Cop lights.

Fuckin’ cop lights!

“Oh shit, man. Oh shit.”

People start frantically making their way for the doors. The sirens tare through Chuck Berry and the lights paint the whole place in maroon red.

I have no time for this; I kneel down behind one of the ball dispensers.

The beatnik doesn’t move.

He just stares at the lights. “Keep grabbin’ cash, kid!”

He looks over at me, nothin’ but dazed.

“Did ya hear what I said?!”

“I can’t get caught, man. I can’t get caught.”

“Well no shit, me neither! What makes you so special?!”

“I-I’m the boss’ son!” he mutters back.

You’re shitting me. Could have mentioned that in the letter…

or maybe, he meant not too.

“Look kid, ju-just keep stuffing the bag! I’ll keep ‘em back!”

The glass doors swing open.

The beatnik looks over.

He raises his gun up.

Dazed and confused, he must be poor bastard.

They storm in.

“Do it, you pussy!”

Several shots go off…

Then, nothing.

Next thing I know,

the beatnik is on the ground,

in a whole pond o’ blood.

As for myself, two cops drag me out into the cold, Arizona desert air.

With a fuckin’ bullet hole in my arm,

stinging to shit.

I look up to see my 1968, sleek, white, beautiful mustang flanked by a whole swath o' cop cars.

One of which drives off real quick.

A couple cops notice, but most don’t.

I do, though, I do.

The driver had those same, familiar silver eyes…

sonuvabitch.

Nothing,

but red lights.