Bowling Diarrhea

“I’ve got 4 dollars in quarters. Want to help me find the sock machine?” It’s 9 PM on a Saturday and Jimbo is sopping wet. 

 “Sock Machine?” 

He must be joking. Jimbo cautiously uncurls his hand and reveals a giant pile of change. Jesus Christ, is there a sock machine here? I decide I can’t help. Tonight’s adventure was Jimbo’s idea and he’s late. I add his name on the monitor for game 2. The lanes are hot and the boys are here. Playing tonight are: 

RED WIZARD (thats me), KELSO, ZACH, KARMS, EL NINO, and JIMBO.

The roster hovers over a chaotic spread of Miller Light, honey-mustard wings, and pizza.  It’s midnight bowling. The black light colors our teeth highlighter yellow.

As I’m typing “JIMBO” into the console a large man gets close and asks: 

“ARE YOU THE AUTHOR?”. 

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure. I’ve never been called that before. Am I in trouble? Did I press some panic button that summoned a giant? A brief discussion reveals that he is an employee and he read my recent review of TBC. I can’t tell if he’s mad. 

“My name is David, but people call me the Red Wizard,” I said.  

“MY NAME IS STEVE. THEY USED TO CALL ME BIG RED.” He said with a satisfied grin. 

I take a glance at the copper hair peeking out of his winter cap. Steve and I are the “daywalker” variety of redhead. We can handle 45 minutes of direct sun before our skin bubbles and we crap our pants. A thousand years ago we may have shared an ancestor: Some Nordic barbarian known for cleaving people in half with a battleaxe for the crime of stealing his goats.

“I HEARD YOU GUYS LIKE WRESTLING.” He said to the group. 

My god… is this his catchphrase? Is Big Red gonna tear off his shirt and suplex me on a table full of popcorn and onion rings?  Is my blog gonna get me thrown off a ladder onto a bed of thumbtacks? Quick accusations dart across us. Zach points an accusatory finger at me. I try to disappear into my purple surroundings. It’s no use, Big Red’s eyes are keen in blacklight. I point back to Zach. 

“Zach just went to  AEW (All Elite Wrestling), live.” 

It’s true. Zach went to AEW: All Out in September with a guy who wore a WWE Championship belt to his own wedding. 

“WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE WRESTLER?” By his tone, I knew he meant current and from the AEW ticket. 

“Orange Cassidy” Zach replied.

A great choice. ‘Fresh Squeezed’ Orange Cassidy looks like a summer camp counselor from 1976. His entire schtick is that he doesn’t give a fuck. He is the epitome of cool. Wrestling is just a job. He shows up to work looking like he wandered off the set of Dazed and Confused: in a jean jacket and likely stoned. Cassidy’s entrance music is better than any current pro wrestler: The classic rock crescendo of Jefferson Starship’s Jane. 

Big Red seems to approve of Zach’s pick. Before Red can respond, duty calls. Balancing like a Wallenda he walks between the lanes. With one arm he swings open the hood of a pin deck and reveals the mechanical innards. He’s doing his job. Like Chewbacca hurriedly tinkering inside the Millenium Falcon before something explodes. Finished, he tight-ropes back and strides over to the front desk. 

Suddenly the entire alley goes silent. It’s the jukebox changing songs. What is it? 

Some dreamy plucking, the slow build of drums, big guitar drops. Bright piano chords dance. Zach and I smile. 

It’s Jane. 

Big Red is back to work. He’s good and he doesn’t give a fuck. The epitome of cool.