“Oh let her bowl,” Craig mouthed to me.
“No,” I shook my head at him.
The man and his six-year-old daughter took one last look at the lanes filled with smoking and drinking men, and then left.
“All she wanted to do was bowl,” Craig said.
“So?”
“You’re mean!”
“I am,” I said. “But I am not going to stay here for another hour and a half and then collect the seven dollars I’ll make from them.”
“It’s the poor guy’s weekend and he just wants to show his daughter a good time.”
I rolled my eyes. “What kind of dad takes his six-year-old out at 9 o’clock at night?”
“He doesn’t get to spend much time with his poor daughter, because he divorced a woman JUST LIKE YOU!”
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“What kind of dad takes his six-year-old out at 9 o’clock at night?”
The kind that works all day Friday and has to drive 40 miles to go get his little girl for his visitation, take her out to dinner and then tries to make it to the bowling alley before it closes. You were wrong
And you like to make broad assumptions. For all you know he and his daughter live in the same city, they might even live in the same house. For all you know, he might not even be divorced.
What I do know is that the hours for Open Bowling are clearly posted on the wall as you walk in, where it states that there is no Open Bowling on Fridays.
So really, if the Dad had read the sign he could have saved his daughter any associated bowling heartache.
Wow, she _is_ strict.
Reading saves. Like Jesus.
Where they live, divorce or not, all assumptions aside, Dad just wanted his girl to have a good time.
You coulda, shoulda caved. Big Meanie!
The black market Vioxx still was pumping in Mike’s veins as he piled into his Dodge neon with his daughter. Here he was, on a cold Friday night, the RA crippling his joints was, for once, held at bay. He remembered how his Dad would take him bowling, or “Polish Chess” as he called it. “Bowling, Mikey,” his dad calling him by his loved-loathed-loved nickname, “is about skill and finesse. It’s like courting a woman and saving a friendship. If you can bowl, you can do anything.” Like Mike, his Dad’s RA soon left him unable to bowl, or much of anything else. Mike remembered how much pain his Dad was in that last day when he asked Mike to get them some Pepsis from the 7-11. Mike was just closing the cooler when he heard the bang from his Dad’s service revolver. It was probably a blessing that the crowd blocked the view of the brain and blood splattered windows of the truck, but Mike still felt no closure. Now, cruising around with nowhere to go, nowhere to bowl, Mike spotted the 7-11 a few blocks away. Forcing a smile, he turned to his only child and asked, “Kelly, honey, you know how sore my joints are. Would you mind going into the store and getting us some Pepsis?”
The last thing he thought was how bitter the barrel tasted in him mouth.
I am so naming all you bastards in my suicide note.