“Hey. Can I try the bank?” The chubby boy he had been suddenly bloomed to life in his face. As if to vouch for his character, he introduced himself. “I’m Charles Sleep.” We shook hands.
“Tim Bowling,” I said. And when I did, I saw the old Ladner Lanes again. I hadn’t seen them in such a long time. The skinny Ouevray twins were pinsetters. They crouched out of sight behind the pins and, when you left a dreaded split, they magically cleared the rubble from the gap. Meanwhile, the whole town came out to bowl. Everyone kept their own scores, chewing on pencil ends, shading in the strikes and spares, working out the math. Shrouds of cigarette smoke. Laughter. Chants of “Hecky! Hecky! Hecky!” as my father readied to throw the last frame of a perfect game that did not end in perfection. One year
