Something Under the Bowling Alley

Despite what you're about to hear, I love working at a bowling alley. It's the kind of part-time job you'd assume doesn't exist anymore. The play-whatever-music-you- want kind, the leftover-pizza's-all-yours kind. But it's more than that... It's like I'm trauma bonded to the place. I'm always thinking something along the lines of "God I hope that's apple juice" or "did we ever get tested for asbestos?" It's falling apart, the beer is cheap, and I'm going to remember this job for the rest of my life.

That said, it freaks me the fuck out sometimes.

I'll give some background first. This bowling alley is tucked away in the middle of nowhere, rural Ontario. The roads have no street lights and if you drive just a few minutes further, there's nothing but trees and fields. We open at 5pm, so in winter it's dark by the time we start our shifts -let alone finish. And because the area is kinda sketchy, we always work in pairs. Sometimes it's just me and my 17yr old coworker serving beers to a dozen burly men, dodging "princess" and "sweetheart" at every turn. But other times we're complimenting kids on their Disney costumes and getting free plates at potlucks. I take the good and the bad, day by day.

If you haven't worked at a bowling alley, you probably don't know what the back looks like. While the front end has music, glow lights, neon signs, and crowds, the back feels like a whole other world. The way the music is muffled, the only comparison I can think of is a bathroom at a club. Body heat and a decent connection to the furnace keeps the front end toasty, but this time of year the back hits you with a wave of cold. Then there are the balls. People don't stop throwing when you go back there to fix something, so amid the grinding of gears and pulling of chains, you're hearing fast-moving balls slam into the backboards again and again. Of course you wonder whether one will slip through, hit you in the spine and paralyze you for life. Or maybe your hair will get caught in the ball-lift chain and you'll be slowly scalped with the power button just out of reach. Yeah... it's not safe. But remember the tips and free food. I'm not stupid, just a broke student.

Today I had to run to the back by myself and grab this girl's ball. It's her lucky one, the one with the pink swirls, and she refuses to play without it. My 17yr old coworker -we'll call her Jess- was busy mixing drinks so I had the honour of climbing down into the dark well on lane 9 and fishing the ball out. As usual, I swallowed my apprehension towards the noise, the stale smell, and that ever-biting cold. I lifted the heavy wood panel that covers the well and squatted to take a look.

If I can see and reach a lost ball from on top of the well, I always prefer to knock it into place without climbing inside. But couldn't see this one. There weren't any balls stuck back there and the machine seemed to be working fine. I lowered my legs and glanced at either end of the dusty, concrete floor. Still nothing, so I reluctantly sunk my head under and craned down at the one last place it could be.

To get the balls to roll down the tube, there's a height difference between the pins and the ball-lift. That difference is because of a platform over the concrete floor, which is, for some goddamn reason, hollow. My boss and the decades of bosses before her have tried nailing pieces of scrap wood to prevent the balls from getting stuck inside, but nothing works. Stray balls will slam into the back wall with enough force to kill a small animal, then bounce right into what is essentially an endlessly dark, unknowably deep crawl space. And I have to get them back out. So today, I curled my whole body to get a glimpse inside it, and with blood rushing to my head, I caught sight of those damn pink swirls.

It was so far in, I wasn't sure whether I'd be able to reach. For all I knew, I had imagined it, a mirage formed from dizziness and the shadowed unknown. But I rolled -now fully caked in flakes of splintered brick- to get a better angle and stuck my arm as far as it could go. My shoulder squeezed between the edges and I bit my cheek to bear the sting. But I could feel it close, like static electricity jumping between my fingertips and the ball's surface. Just a little further, I thought, instead of grabbing a broom like a smarter person would've. My nose squished against the wood. Breath warmed my face while the rest of my shivering body was left wanting. I felt something graze my finger pads and with one last stretch I grabbed at it. My hand curled around the ball just as another hand clasped it.

I swear it was a hand. Some part of me wants to justify it by saying that a kid found their way under the lane and our fingers met, but no kid's fingers are that cold. Or that soft. Soft like they had no bones in them. As soon as I gasped the feeling was gone, as if whatever it was pulled back and surrendered the ball to me. But I'll be honest, I nearly cried. I practically threw the ball into the ball-lift before racing back to Jess.

Jess scares easily, so I didn't go into detail. When she saw me anxiously scrubbing at my fingers with bleach I summed it up with, "I felt a hand." Then, "I don't know Jess I just felt something touching me for a second," and, "No, God no, I didn't see anything." She was as ready to leave as I was, but the party had paid for the full hour and we had tons of cleaning left to do. We talked about moving the group off of lane 9 so neither of us would have to go back there again, but three of our screens were already down and there was no way to fit 60 people on six lanes. Best I could do was talk to the girl with the lucky ball. I asked her to use the normal balls for today we can handle one of those succumbing to the void- but she refused. I insisted she bowl on a different lane instead and that went over a little better. She moved, thank God. For the rest of the night, Jess and I would only run to the back together. Neither of us touched that crawl space. She drove me home so I didn't have to walk thirty minutes in the dark to catch the bus.

I'm home now, rolled up in bed with a bag of chips and my heart is pounding. I know I won't have Jess' company every time I run back to retrieve a ball. I know I'll eventually have to reach into that hollow space again, especially during Monday leagues when all the old farts brings their expensive balls from home. It's my job. I don't have a choice. Should I quit? I've put up with far more real danger... rusty nails sticking out, balls flying at my knees, tripping hazards as I tiptoe past those 10ft deep wells. It feels pathetic to consider quitting over something I probably just imagined, but I can't get it out of my head. The worst part is, I think I lied to Jess without even realizing it. Cause when I watched the girl pack up her ball, I got a better look at it. It's not pink at all. It's blue and black. I thought it had pink swirls because I saw something vaguely round and pink when I reached into that crawl space.

But it wasn't her ball.

I don't think it even was a ball.

After my Monday shift I'll give this post an update, if I don't call in sick. I might still be throwing up by then. Thanks for reading. Wish me luck.