Coach was on his fourth beer by the time I showed up at Hi-Strikes Lanes. It was 4:30, skinny time where late-winter afternoons are concerned, but through narrow door of the Hi-Strikes, things were looking thick.

Coach didn't see me. He was sitting Indian-style on the foul line of lane three next to an ashtray and a depleted pitcher of beer. The cloud of smoke from his cigar made it seem as if he had been drawn onto the scene, like an animated character in a live-action movie.

"You know, Roy, there's an still an empty spot on the Coin-op team," Handlin said, preparing for me pitcher of water and a pitcher of iced tea.
"Jeff said he wouldn't fill it until you gave a definite no."
"That's awful nice of him, but I don't think I'm ready for league play, yet."
"Stop shitting me. I know what you bowl. Everybody does. You're ready. You're beyond ready."
"I don't think so."
"You don't think so, or he doesn't think so?" Handlin set the pitchers on the bar. I took them up.
"Thanks, Handlin. We'll see after today."

"You're not ready," Coach said as I sat on my lucky yellow foam chair. He slowly rose, using only his legs as he wrenched himself off the floor. A man of his size rising from the Indian-style position is no small feat. When he began, it seemed as if his knees would crumble within his legs. No joint was designed to accommodate so much weight in such an awkward position. Suddenly, he was halfway up, his arms stretched straight in front, legs untwisting. With nary shake nor falter, he stood fully erect at the foul line. He does this every Tuesday, and every Tuesday I watch, secretly hoping he falls flat on his ass. He never does.

"I'll tell you when you're ready to play on some pussy-ass, rinky-dink, screw-around-drink-beer-and-suck-each-others-blue-collar-dicks league, if that's what you really want to do." He turned around and faced me. His cigar glowed red hot as he puffed hard on it. "But you're not ready, yet."

I laced my shoes and stretched my fingers, hands, wrists, arms and shoulders. I drank three glasses of water and one glass of iced tea. I stretched my head and neck. Coach refilled his pitcher and finished half of it. He handed me a ten dollar bill and I headed for the jukebox.

To be honest, this was my favorite part of the afternoon. Ten dollars netted me 45 songs. When we had started coming here for practice, Coach saw to it that the jukebox was stocked with my favorite albums and updated frequently. It took me about a half hour to pick my songs.

I returned to lane three and stood on the foul line. I aligned my shoulders and feet. I let my arms hang limp. I held my chin even with the floor. Coach was sitting in the blue chair and was on pitcher number three. I began to step to the music. It was Guns N Roses' "Mr. Brownstone." I stepped back and forth, no fancy dance moves, just stepping.

"Hey, Roy," Coach said. "Roy, look at me." I ignored him and kept stepping back and forth. "Roy!" He slammed his meaty fist against the scoring table. It made an enormous sound. I heard Handlin tell him to take it easy. I knew Coach was giving him the finger.

"Roy, you want some water? Some iced tea, maybe? What's going on, Roy? What's in your head?" I didn't answer him, I just kept stepping side to side to Aerosmith, now, and then the Marshall Tucker Band.

"You wanna bowl, Roy? Here, take the ball." He brought the ball and stood at my side, facing the pins, always facing the pins. "Is it gonna happen today, Roy? Is this the one? You don't care. You don't fucking care." He'd raise the ball over his head and slam it into the floor, sink it halfway down so just the top was sticking out. He would if could, if he didn't enjoy bowling lanes so thoroughly.

"You don't care. You're a machine. You feel nothing. You're a machine, Roy. You're the Roy machine."

We kept this up for another twenty minutes or so. Coach would pause occasionally for beer and then come back and try to break my focus. It was funny, I guess, but I didn't mind so much. It actually relaxed quite a bit.

I bowled a 266, a 240 and was at 112 in the fifth frame of the third game when Coach cut me off.

"That's enough," he said. "I can't watch this shit anymore." He drained the rest of his beer straight from the pitcher and stubbed out his cigar. He hoisted himself from the blue foam chair and wobbled in front of me.

"Dammit, Roy," he spit, "I kill myself for you and you can't give me a perfect game."
"I'll get it one of these days, Coach. Don't worry."

He fixed his glassy blue eyes on me. They were small from the overall puffiness of Coach's face and unnervingly still. He wiped his moustache on the sleeve of his shirt and inspected it, then returned his attention to me.

"Whatever," he said. He cupped me on the shoulder as he stumbled away. "Whatever."

I packed up my things and went to the bar. Hanlin had a bourbon on the rocks waiting for me. I sipped it and flipped through the want ads. I don't need a job, but I like seeing what's out there. I saw one that made me laugh. This is what it said: