Tripp Lanes was a dim and dirty old place with twenty-two lanes and a fluctuating amount of bowling balls. Upon occasion, there would be five balls in the entire place. Sometimes there were too many to count, bulging from racks and sprawled out on the navy blue-colored carpet.
Every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, I watched Alfred Tripp sneak out the back door for a smoke.
“You shouldn’t do that, Al,” I’d say. “Smoking kills.” The only response I’d get was a door being slammed in my face, and the occasional sigh. It was easy enough to shrug off his attitude. It seemed it was the only thing he had left- the heart and soul of this fat, balding man.
“Used to be the best bowler in the state,” said Frank, my co-worker, as he surreptitiously pulled out a cigarette. “But his wife died and he got all depressed and shit. He wanted to sell this place and do something else that didn’t remind him of her-“
“How does it remind him of her?” I asked.
Frank lit the cigarette and took a drag. “They were old bowling partners. They opened the alley up together. But like I said, she kicked the bucket. Lung cancer. What a way to go, huh.”
I bit my lip. “Uh, yeah.” It was quiet for a minute. “Ya know you shouldn’t be smoking in here. Doesn’t it bother Al?”
“Nah,” said Frank, puffing out smoke rings. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” I wasn’t about to go tell on Frank. He and I had become good friends, working together.
Frank finished his cigarette, making sure to dispose of the ashes before Alfred came back in. As I wiped off the filthy tables in the lounge, I thought about all the times I had reminded my poor boss of his deceased wife. Suddenly, I felt at fault for his attitude he had towards me; like I was to blame, somewhat, for this grieving man’s sorrow. Smoking kills.
Months passed. Frank got a job waiting tables at a nice restaurant downtown; I told him he’d be missed (which is when he promised to visit every Friday.) I continued to work at the bowling alley, and a boy named Mike took over Frank’s old job.
One day, when I got to work, I noticed Alfred wasn’t there yet. Hmm, I thought. That’s weird. He’s always here before me.
“Where’s Al?” I asked Mike. “He’s always here before us.”
“He’s in the hospital,” said Mike, pulling out a cigarette.
I sighed. “Lung cancer?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
I took the cigarette from Mike. “Because,” I grimaced, “Smoking kills.”
Two months later, Alfred Tripp was dead. They said they had done all that they could; it just wasn’t enough.
Frank and I visited his grave the following week. He put his arm around me as a tear made its way down my cheek.
“He was a good guy,” Frank said slowly.
“A good guy,” I repeated. There was a long pause.
“In a way,” I finally said, “I’m glad it all worked out.”
Frank turned and gave me a puzzled look. “Huh?”
I wiped the tears away, stinging my face. “I bet right now, Al’s up there bowling with his wife. Just like old times.”
A roar of thunder bellowed in the late October sky, as if to confirm that I was right.
“Strike,” Frank said, hugging me close. I began to cry again.
“Strike.”
