I didn’t know Tom Faris by name until that night.  I knew him by appearance, of course.  If there was anything close to a regular at King Falls Lanes, it was Tom.

                Tom wasn’t a league bowler.  To be honest, I was quite perplexed at Tom’s presence in the place.  He was always dressed fairly well.  He looked like a kindly grandfather.  His hair was a bit longer than my grandfathers’ hairstyles, and it gave Tom the impression of perhaps a more progressive senior citizen.  He had plastic-framed glasses and a shadow of a beard.  I never approached the guy – something about a lone, old man in a bowling alley just screamed Alzheimer’s at me – but he never did anything that caused me to be concerned.  He left the kids alone; a huge plus since Alan had once told me that he thought the guy was a pederast.  In fact, he left everyone alone.  He would sit at the table closest to the arcade and pool room and just watch people bowl.

                A few weeks before I actually spoke to him, I saw him someplace else.  It was weird, because other than work, I’d never seen him.

                I was at the funeral of my friend Andrew’s grandfather.  The guy had died at the ripe-old age of 104, and the hot rumor was that his sudden heart-attack was brought on by something being done to him by his 48 year-old wife.  His sixth wife, if we’re keeping count.  I didn’t dare ask Andrew what he thought of the rumor; Andrew’s initial comment to me at the funeral was a terse “I’m too devastated to talk, Kevin.”  It’s strange how devastation can work, considering Andrew hadn’t exchanged words with his grandfather in about eight years.  I guess maybe the fact that ol’ grand-dad was loaded led to the devastation, in the hopes that a sudden spring of “grief” might bring financial comfort.

                As I looked away from the throng of “grieving” family members, (including the sixth wife, who looked quite similar to Racquel Welch) I noticed Tom standing about fifty yards away, at another gravesite.  He was wearing his bowling alley attire:  faded brown leather jacket, tropical dress shirt, khaki pants, and loafers with black socks.  He was standing at the gravesite with a fistful of flowers, looking down, and hardly moving. 

I found myself drawn away from the exaggerated sobs of Andrew’s family, watching this intimate display from a man I only knew in passing.  It felt voyeuristic, like staring through his bedroom window while he slept.  I saw him kneel and gently place the flowers at the base of the tombstone.  He softly kissed his fingertips, touching them to the engraved name, which was illegible from my distance.  He didn’t move from his kneeling, but I could tell that he was saying something.  Conversing with a lost loved one, I could only assume.

A part of me felt a strange urge to walk up to this man, to introduce myself and tell him that I was sorry for his loss.  But that urge passed quickly as Tom stood, a tad awkwardly, and walked away from the tombstone.  He had come to offer flowers, give a kiss, and share words. 

I inspected the tombstone as I left the grounds.  The stone was inscribed: Felicia Inez Faris.   November 10, 1928 –February 11, 2010.  Loving wife.  God’s Angel.

I didn’t tell Richard or Alan about seeing Tom at the cemetery.  It was a deeply personal event, not a thing intended to be shared with complete strangers.  Did it matter that this strange old man sat alone in the bowling alley almost every evening?  Did it matter that he’d lost his wife less than a year ago?  I refused to start the conversation with them.  Richard was dramatic, and he’d demand I make sure the old guy didn’t hang himself in the bathroom.  Alan was the suspicious type, and he’d claim that the old lady being gone would only make Tom look harder at little girls.  I doubted that this old man was a pedophile, and I got no vibe that he was in any way suicidal. Despite this, I still didn’t know why he came so very often, during my shift.

Not until a fateful, rain-soaked night.

I came into the bowling alley, scrubbing the rain from my head.  “It’s a monsoon out there,” I said to Alan, who was halfway done with his newest Tom Clancy book.  He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses, glancing out the doors with disinterest.

“You’d think about investing in an umbrella, wouldn’t you?” Alan yawned, eyes going back to another CIA adventure.  “I mean, this is Florida.  ‘Sunshine State’?  Please.”

I smiled.  Alan was about fifteen years older than me.  He was balding, overweight, and a rabid cynic.  Despite his often aloof nature, something about the guy was admirable to me.  I hoped that I wasn’t still working in a bowling alley when I was his age, but the way that he carried himself made it seem like his job was somewhat important.  He did computer repair work on the side, and apparently made a whole heck of a lot more money doing that than working in this place, but he was loyal to King Falls Lanes for some reason.  I never wanted to ask.  I was certain his answer would be something quite negative.

“Tell Richard to up my pay, and maybe I will make that investment.  Umbrellas are a little out of my price range.” 

Alan shrugged.  “Or maybe your old lady could stop harping at you about picking up a second job and get a first one of her own?”

I stiffened.  Talking about a man’s wife is off-limits, but Alan had never possessed an abundance of tact.  “She’s studying so she can get a first job; a real job, not jockeying some register.”  Alan had the decency not to say anything, but there was a look in his eye that didn’t make me feel any better.  “Besides, she doesn’t harp at me.  If anyone harps, it’s me.  I’m barely making enough for groceries.”

“Wives are great at four things:  harping, nagging, moaning, and complaining,” Alan reminded.  “I’ve told you before: it doesn’t make them bad wives.  It just makes them wives.”  He nodded sagely, I suppose for some kind of emphasis.

I shook my head.  No sense in arguing with a man that had been through three marriages when I was only tinkering with my first, and hopefully, only.

He swiveled in his chair, sliding his thumb between the pages of his book.  He looked at the clock and smiled.  “I love it when you get here early, Kev!”  He glanced at me and winked.  “The schedule says I’m here for another hour, but do you mind if I skip out now?  I got a few appointments I’d love to get out of the way.”

“How are you going to work on someone’s computer during a thunderstorm?” I asked.

“Very…very…very carefully.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.  It was hard to deny someone to skip out early, especially on a day as slow as this one.  No one at all had come into the place; hardly surprising considering the conditions outside.  I knew Alan would be there for me if I had to run a little late, so I didn’t deny him.  He gave a little exaggerated whoop and went to the locker room to get his stuff.  I took up his post at the front desk, glancing idly at the computer screen and seeing that only four people had bowled all day so far.

Even I could conquer Tom Clancy with that kind of business.

Alan emerged moments later, wearing his work shirt for his computer business.  It looked a lot like a mechanic’s shirt, with the embroidered name on the chest.  He also had a striped umbrella under his arm.  He tousled my wet hair and laughed, gesturing to the umbrella.  “Sorry, Kevin, I was a boy scout:  always prepared.”

“Yeah, I could have figured that one out without the umbrella,” I shot back.  “Every scout I went to school with was a complete loser.”

He offered me a middle finger at that, and walked away laughing.  “Have fun tonight, and don’t get too busy.  Remember…it’s a league night.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Take care,” I said, idly spinning in the chair.

“Oh, before I forget:  Richard left you a note.  It’s in File 16.”  And with that, Alan drifted into the storm outside, striped umbrella keeping him mostly dry.

“File 16” was the nickname we’d devised for the Size 16 shoe cubbyhole.  It was set aside for the few bowlers that would need to rent shoes of that size.  It wasn’t out of the question to have someone ask for that monstrous size, but it was a rarity.  When we had to leave messages for one another and we knew we wouldn’t see each other, we most often left notes in that particular cubby.  Even if we didn’t pass word along, we’d eventually see something stuffed in there and read it.

I took the note, handwritten on printer paper in Richard’s messy scrawl:

Kevin,

Got a particular party that is paying big $$$ to rent us out tonight after hours.  Need someone here to keep an eye on the place, and it can’t be me.  I know I didn’t give you a heads-up, but this is BIG $$$$$.  I’ll give you some extra in next week’s paycheck, k?  Have a fun night.

Rich

P.S.  Party of “Mort”.  4 guys.  Thx.

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Most people wouldn't know to read this story, but it is a romance first and foremost in my mind.

This story was originally using chess as the setting, but that's been overdone, and after watching "The Big Lebowski" I decided to go with bowling, which seems far less likely to be the choice of such a supernatural battle of wills.

I am going to most likely edit this and post it in varying chapter since it's easier for members to read it that way, but I originally posted it on here in one huge block, which drove some of the people crazy.

updated 2 days ago by bartkc