Bowling Diarrhea

Who is the maniac that has been polishing the doorknobs here for the past 40 years? Some janitorial warlock has hidden this place from the ever-consuming jaws of time. Armed with wax and Windex, they have stopped all decay. Cherry Laurel is in stasis. Free of entropy. Immortal.

It is old, yet stunningly clean. If I was even mildly hungry, I would eat beef soup ladled directly out of the toilet. This act is not as extreme as it sounds. At Cherry Laurel Lanes, all patrons must remove their shoes upon entering the building. You can confidently abide by the “five second rule” here.

Don’t let Cherry Laurel’s exterior fool you. From the outside, it looks like an abandoned hunting blind. The camouflage has a purpose. It fools the eyes of “Swifties”, soccer moms, and UFC bros that travel on Tonawanda Creek Road. Leaving this place unnoticed by their glances. These simpletons simply cannot appreciate the nuance of a bowling alley named after a tree that grows in Bulgaria.

How can something so old feel so new? What is the source of this magic? Does the fountain of youth serve PJ’s Crystal Beach Loganberry? Yes, it does.

Unprovoked and from afar, the bartender tells me something that brings sweat to my forehead. Grinning while washing a glass he says:

“At Cherry Laurel Lanes, the Buffalo Bills have been AFC champions since 1990.”

That can’t be true, but, why do I believe him? Determined to forget this interaction, I begin to bowl. I am rolling alone and I am the only patron here. Something isn’t right.

Everything looks like it is has been placed here by a team of NASA scientists wearing anti-static suits. I have an uncanny feeling, like I am being watched by the unbroken gaze of a dozen ghosts.

Where are they? I can hear the faint scrape of a ballpoint pen on paper. The bartender is gone. There is movement behind me.

It is a Slush Puppy machine with a large perpetually rotating tilted cup above it. Closer now, I carefully examine the wobbling relic. Various fruit flavors sit like hand soap bottles at its breast.

How does this thing still run? Each of the white spouts is devoid of any discoloration. Discreetly, I hunch over and try to squirt some green lemon-lime into my mouth. Nothing.

The entire machine is hollow. Like a plastic decoy television in an IKEA showroom. Crouched, I can barley perceive a seam on the back of the machine. I open it and expose a large cylindrical vial of liquid. It is surrounded by a dense labyrinth of wires. Jostling it, it glows a deep burgundy red.

I open the cylinder and take a drink. How could I be so foolish? All this tinkering with the Slush Puppy machine…I nearly forgot to polish the doorknobs. Bills are on at 8. Squish the fish.