Chapter 10 6:45PM

CDs slapped onto one another as Reid spun the wheel, fishing options.  No surprises. Buffet. Skynnyrd. Petty.  Nowhere but the Sunshine state would you land this trio on a regular basis.  Reid placed a couple quarters into the box, carefully selecting.  Clutching Coors, he sat down and settled into the stool. Bowler walked in as Pearl Jam’s “Nothingman” fell into the first chorus.  He stood there, blending in as successfully as Karen Carpenter standing in an all-you-can-eat buffet line.  Putting hand to forehead, Bowler saluted the crowd until he found Reid and moved into the neighboring stool.

What took you?

Parking is not easy around here.

Like picking up a seven-ten split?

He laughed.

You are funny.

Ah, so I’ve been told.

Nothingman came to its fade-out conclusion as the live musicians began to cue up for another set.  During Round 1, they did a very good impression of Chicago blues, rolling in the standard Sam & Dave’s known to most of the people in this place as Blues Brothers classics.

So my tenpins friend, what do you go by?

Bowling Bill.

Can I call you Bowling Bob?

Hell no!

I sense a little sensitivity.  Is there a Bowling Bob somewhere you don’t like or is he a fightin’ cousin?

Ain’t my name and I can’t see why someone would want to call someone by a different name the minute they meet them.

He stared at Reid like he was the split that ruined his perfect game.

Well?

Reid took a slug from his Coors, pretending he didn’t hear.

Why would you call me Bob?

flickr. creative commons licensed by massdistraction.

It’s a theme I’m working.  Everybody is “something Bob.”

Except me.

Well there goes that theme, right out yonder wafted cotton palm-patterned curtained, four-paned open window.

Reid watched the band ritually perform their silent warm-up so as not to frighten away tourist dollars.  They were better than their atmosphere.  Reid looked at them.  A crew looking like they peaked in high school, they didn’t seem to have the self-esteem to seek a better room. He put them out of focus to return to Bowling Bill.

I promised you a beer.  What’s your pleasure?

I’m not that particular.

Reid looked up at the bartender, ordered a Coors for his pinhead friend and another for him.  Reid tipped the current Coors back, finishing the final tepid third before his next round sweated a ring on the bar.  He pulled six crinkly ones out of his right front pocket and slid the pile.

Reid turned his ears to the Lakers-Nets pre-game. Bowling Bill, more follower than leader, followed suit as he took the popcorn bowl, emptied what was left in it on the counter. Sorting through the bits and pieces, he picked up half-popped kernels and burnt ones, using saliva as glue on the tip of his right index finger.

You know, beer certainly quenches.

Yes, my friend, it does.  Liquid bread, you know.

Food for thought, if thought is all you have.

Reid leaned back on his barstool, twisting around to pull his eyes off of the NBA Finals to Bowling Bill.

You did a dandy job on that bowl of popcorn.  One more like that and your belly will be topped off.

A man as puppy-eyed as a man could get.  If Reid peered any more intensely into Bowling Bill’s baby blues, he may weep.

C’mon man, a little food for the cause?

The cause?  Like what?  Authentic bowling alley grub? Day-old pizza?  A three day-old hot dog seared on the electric rotisserie?

The bartender, intuitively eavesdropping, dropped off a fresh bowl of popcorn, overflowing with bulbous salt-empowered neon bright yellow cumulous shaped treats.

More popcorn.  Presto.  I’m not an ATM, dude.  Just thought you looked like you needed a drink.

And I do.

Jesus.  Gone.  Must be the salty popcorn.  Reid jerked his head toward the bartender who acknowledged the jerk with one of his own.  Reid turned quickly.  His elbow, all thumbs, knocked his beer over.  The bottle somehow caught the edge of the bar counter, twisting the brown pelican upright as it fell, banging against the stool to the left of Reid on its way to the floor.  Reid twisted with it, picking it out of midair before cold Rocky Mountain refreshment had a chance to sully the floor, saving about two bucks worth of beer and impressing himself with his dexterity.

Read the rest of this page »