sition with his rear in the air. “You can grab my bag and hand it to me when I get up.” I reluctantly pick up the bag and wait. It’s not very heavy. I’d guess he has an eight-pound ball, maybe even a seven. It would have to be on the light side, if he has any chance of actually bowling with it. Here I am, standing, holding the bag. I feel weird about it, so I hold it out in front of me. I’m not really comfortable becoming a part of his life, even as small a part as the girl who picks up his bowling bag and helps him walk across the street. The sooner I can get out of this situation, the better. It has to be a full three-and-a-half minutes that he’s stuck in that position, and I, therefore, in mine. Finally, he gives a grunt and straightens up to his full height. He’s not actually much taller than me, and it feels strange to be next to a man without that difference. He taps his cane on the ground a couple times, chuckles, then reaches over to me. Rather than grabbing the bag, however, he puts his free arm through mine, leaning on me for support. The link between us is established, whether I like it or not. We begin the jaunt across. Now, of course, I’m in trouble. Once we get a bit closer, it’ll be pretty obvious that the place has been closed for awhile. Right now the guy is concentrating too much on walking to notice anything though. He walks with confidence, I’ll give him that. Shoulders thrust back, head up, slow and steady, but he’s not gonna let anyone get in his way. We’re so slow that even on this quiet street three cars have to stop and wait for us. He nods to them in turn. He steps carefully up on the curb, and then we’re across. He heaves a sigh of relief, pauses just for a minute as he breathes in deep. “Feels good to stretch my legs,” he says. “But what’s this?” He waves his cane at the door. “Looks like they’re closed.” “Hmm.” I drop his arm, though I’m still carrying his bag, and walk over to the doors, peering inside. “Looks like they’ve been closed for awhile. This place isn’t in good shape.” I can’t believe he hasn’t realized what a liar I am. He shakes his head, looks down at the ground. “I don’t understand. The boys and I just played last night. I bowled 270.”
112
|
Lisa E. Balvanz
SIXFOLD FICTION SUMMER 2013