Bowling Diarrhea

I am a yank. This is a cold hard fact that I often forget.

That is until I am forced to listen to pop-country-rap for two hours straight. Blasting through a dusty speaker synched with a disco light that has been set to “seizure mode” since 1999.

The nostalgia is heavy. As are the arms of the security guard. He is watching a UFC match on a TV that is practically on the ceiling above the bar. Wearing a bullet proof vest with 4 energy drink cans lined up beside him. Ready to pop at any moment.

There are about a dozen patrons walking across this dusty cosmic carpet. It wobbles as I walk to the mens room door covered in that ubiquitous garbage bag material that is supposed to be a Christmas decoration.

Good sports work here for sure. There is an employee with a designer baseball cap. He is the MacGyver of early 90s computer interfaces and spray disinfectant. Scorekeeping is perilous here. One score change may trigger the Y2K virus (yes, still), sending a nuclear missile ripping out from the basement of the steamy Cheese factory across the street.

Lactalis… those boys can move some milk. A conversation over a pair of burning Seneca 100’s made us privy to the shady dairy workings. Lots of skin rashes we have been told.

Back indoors. Many handwritten paper signs, warning patrons that smuggled booze will get them a lifetime ban from this establishment. Have I broken some rule by just entering this place? I feel like I have.

The pop country is beginning to make our blood coagulate. It has been Two hours and we haven’t heard Bob Seager’s voice once.

There are $5.50 wrist braces for sale in the case on the wall. I doubt anyone here knows where the key is. The faded chalk bags have been staring at the ceiling (which is covered in brown drip stains) for decades.

“should we get food?” I asked.

Bernie looked at me like I just asked if I should lick the floor. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“You really are a fan of bowling alley diarrhea, aren’t you”

It’s true. My stomach was already bested by the “mop-water” coffee and spicy chicken sandwich I had eaten for breakfast at a different bowling alley I visited about 12 hours ago.

This was the third bowling alley I visited today. By far the worst. What kind of gastric distress would an order of Pizza Rolls from a place like this bring us? Do I care?

This place smells like a port-o-potty. A clean one at least. The designer-hat-man pump sprayed that cologne-musk that kills covid on the grey tables.

I am not sure what is more threatening to our safety. The country-rap music, or the gunslinger bowling pin animations that wobble on the tube television suspended over Chris’ head. No turkeys here.

Our lane- neighbors are young parents on a date… while somehow they try to connect with their teenage kids looking at their phones. This phone generation is gonna forget how to walk, let alone throw a greasy 15 pound ball down the lane. Have you ever seen a 6’2″ teenager pout at their parents after they get a gutterball? Yikes. Such a pathetic wood floor sojourn.

The music won. We just couldn’t take it anymore. It rolled a 300 right over our heads. Ears bloodied. Nostrils overpowered. If there was a juke box, or if someone gave the employee with a lip-ring the Spotify, we could have stayed longer.

Chris almost died on the way out. It wasn’t the gunslinger pin animation that got him. Broken sidewalk, ankle killer. The south Buffalo sidewalk, like a bear trap tried to pull him in.

Face first into a brick wall at Five Star Lanes.