Living in the bowling alley

Even though April is barely underway, the weather is starting to warm up--another ungodly Summer is coming-- and I am reminded that a couple years ago about this time I was moving my stuff into a bowling alley.

I had worked at this bowling alley in virtually every capacity, including manager, for about five years. The bowling alley was in a crappy neighborhood, but it did all right for a few years. Eventually, though, business slowed to nothing and the owners decided to cut their losses and close shop.

So the business closed, literally overnight. But the inner workings of the center, including the lanes, games, cafe, bar, etc., were kept intact while various buyers were rounded up. Someone needed to be on hand most days to show these potential buyers around (among other folks who would need entry from time to time), as well as provide a bit of security (not everyone was pleased we had closed down; like I said, they pulled the plug one night with almost NO warning).

Just so happened, as these things happen to me, anyway, that I was in need of an apartment. Was, in fact, being evicted (long story) at about that same time. And so, Voila, I was moving into a functioning bowling alley. No one knew how long the process would take, but best guesses were a couple months. It went three.

Three of the best, and worst, months of my life.

The good news: I had plenty of booze and fried food available around the clock. Deep fryers of my very own. More Schnapps and tater-tots than any one man could ever hope to digest, and god knows I tried.

Friends would show up at all hours to bowl a few games. And for a man who has always sought a degree of isolation, I had all the isolation I could handle.

The bad news: I had plenty of booze and fried food available around the clock. Deep fryers of my very own. More Schnapps and tater-tots than any one man could ever hope to digest, and god knows I tried.

Friends would show up at all hours to bowl a few games. And for a man who has always sought a degree of isolation, I had all the isolation I could handle.

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Seriously, though, there are few places on Earth lonelier than a 24-lane bowling alley in the middle of a long, dark night of the soul. Or 3:00 am, to be exact.

I gained about 15-pounds consuming nothing but deep fried foods. Supersize Me, my ass. For a while, actually, the food was pretty good, until I'd gone through the not-so-bad egg rolls and french-fries. Eventually there were only the tater-tots. The goddamned tater-tots. See you in hell, tater-tots!

I could watch television on my choice of 24 screens along the lanes, as well as a big screen in the bar area (I made my "bedroom" in the bar--another lifelong dream come true). As an additional bonus, I hooked up an old VCR so I could watch porno on every screen. I must admit, there were a few sublime evenings spent washing down my home deep-fried onion rings with cheap bowling alley whiskey while some guy got a blow-job on 24 screens.

For about a month it seemed cool, sort of a renegade outlaw type living. Gradually things started disappearing: first the games, then the refrigerators, then the lanes....It got pretty empty, and when the lanes were gone (yes, they dismantle them and ship them to some other bowling center), fewer folks came around. It was as though I'd been stranded on a deserted island that was eroding at the edges.

When the time came to leave I was relieved. Hell, even exhilarated. Returning to civilization at last, I packed my shit and moved here. Ok, not so much civilization, but something like it.

Oh, and by the way, I don't bowl.