When the clock strikes eight, my shift is over, and we’ve only had one group of customers in the past four hours. The register is more accustomed to cobwebs than dollar bills. This does not bode well. Tonight’s the first night of vacation for several local high schools, and Dad hoped for more action.
Dad’s holed up in his office, has been for most of my shift. I wish he’d talk to me. Confide in me what I already know. Asking Dad outright is a waste because, knowing him, he’d lie. That’s what he does when he’s trying to protect me. Good-natured? Questionable. But the truth always surfaces.
Call me a coward, but I don’t want to hear that we’re leaving. I don’t want to hear that this crappy little bowling alley is closing, taking with it my life in San Francisco. The last time we talked about moving was in January, when Dad went over the quarterly losses. Back then, the prospect of change, of leaving our foggy city, excited him. But I didn’t really think we’d come this close to letting it all go.
The bowling alley isn’t anything extraordinary. Tall ceilings, airy, with a decent twenty-four lanes. Any opulence is long gone. Two or three decades ago, the pinewood might’ve been glossy, but now it reflects a dull shine. The lanes are oiled, slick, and the walls are gray brick. Above our heads, a maze of rafters with exposed beams and wiring stretches from wall to wall. Outside, in front of the entry, Bigmouth’s Bowl glows half-heartedly in blue neon script. The second B always flickers.
Each lane has a small cracked vinyl couch with the stuffing peeking out and an old-school projector with transparencies to fill in scores with dry-erase pens. The area above each pit is painted like a colorful gap-toothed mouth, the ten pins representing teeth. Get it? This bowling alley is filled with big mouths. It’s downright creepy with a vintage flair.
The nicest thing in this joint is the jukebox in the corner. Kitschy, vaguely sexist signs like you’d find in a fifties throwback diner decorate the otherwise plain walls. I’m not Bigmouth’s biggest fan, but the space is kind of cool. In a funky, well-loved way. But no one wants funky anymore.
The thriving local bowling alleys are trendy, renovated, and you have to reserve a lane days in advance. They serve gourmet food and fancy cocktails in mason jars. Ever since Billy Goat Bowl opened last year, Bigmouth’s has struggled to stay afloat. That ten-lane bowling alley is only a mile away, stealing our business with its hipster charm. But if Dad tried, if he got a liquor license and fixed this place up, we could turn a profit.
Fat chance. Liquor licenses and renovations cost money.
I abandon my post behind the counter and drag my fingers along a couch. Next month all of this could be gone. The little café/snack stand where we serve French fries and nachos and soda. The three perpetually broken pinball machines, dust layered over the glass tables—Monster Bash, Hercules, and Creature from the Black Lagoon. The sock vending machines and the bowling ball cleaner that hasn’t worked in my lifetime. Gone.
Bigmouth’s might not be my favorite place, but it’s the last thing anchoring us to San Francisco, the city of my heart. If we leave…
Maybe if we earn enough money for the back rent and escape eviction, Dad will try harder to keep Bigmouth’s afloat.
My arms fall limp to my sides, the possibility far-fetched.
“You heading out?” Dad calls, emerging from his office.
Heart pounding—from him scaring me, from contemplating my darkest timeline—I grab my belongings from behind the register. “That’s the plan, unless you need me?”
“Nah, you’re good to go. But first…” Dad digs into his pockets, pulling out his wallet. “Here,” he offers, holding out two twenties, creased but fresh from the ATM.
Guilt twinges, a muscle spasm in my gut, as I take the money. Even if he’s paying me back.
We don’t speak. The exchange is awkward enough without words. I fold the bills and slip them into my purse. “Thanks.” Before I lose my courage, I ask once more, “Is everything okay?”
My father is a sweet man—too sweet—and he lets life and people like Art Jesset waltz over him. Dad’s combed-over black hair, a shade richer than my own, is particularly pathetic today, and he has a mustard stain on his shirt. He grabs a rag and runs it over the framed pictures of Bigmouth’s more prominent history.
Photographs of Grandpa O’Neill, my mother’s father, who opened Bigmouth’s, and Grandma O’Neill. Pictures of my mother, which simultaneously hurt and confuse. I understand why Dad doesn’t keep any in the house.
“Ah, Caroline, the money thing yesterday was just a mishap, a mistake. Won’t happen again, I promise,” he says. “And why wouldn’t everything be okay? It’s a beautiful day.”
Every day is beautiful to Dad, a quality I simultaneously admire and hate. On one hand that much optimism must be nice. On the other? I’d rather acknowledge that danger’s coming and act than get bowled over.
No pun intended.
I sigh as I readjust my backpack. This is why we’re getting evicted. Dad can’t admit when the going gets rough.
“I don’t know; it’s just really quiet for a Friday night.” I study his face for any flicker of emotion.
Dad’s smile wobbles, imperceptibly, and he glances at his shoes, twisting the rag between his hands. When he looks back up, his smile is steady. “Sure, it’s a little slow, but that’s none of your concern. You’re seventeen, Caroline! Act like it.”
“I’ll get right on that,” I say dryly, and lean into Dad’s embrace, hugging him against my shoulder. It’s hard to be mad when he has mustard on his shirt. “Wanna watch Antiques Roadshow after you close up?”
Dad perks up at this. I have more in common with strangers on the Internet than I do with my own dad, but watching people turn junk into treasure is a mutual pastime we both enjoy. Shame he has no desire to turn our junky bowling alley into something worth treasuring.
“I’ll try. Will you let Fiona know I had dinner at work? She always tries to save me leftovers.” He grimaces comically because his sister is the world’s worst, yet most ambitious, cook.
Aunt Fee moved in once it became clear Dad couldn’t raise me alone. She is my maternal stand-in figure, laughable considering the woman doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body.
I smile as my mind spirals with an anxious brand of panic. “See you at home.”
Halfway to the door, I hesitate. Tomorrow is the FIDM tour, and I still haven’t canceled my spot. If Bigmouth’s goes belly-up, is there a point in going? Bigmouth’s closes, and we’ll be out of San Francisco before I can even apply to be a student at FIDM. Besides, my mom attended fashion school. The parallels are too strong for me to ignore.
A shake of my head clears my mind, and I leave the bowling alley. If, for some miraculous reason, Bigmouth’s pulls through, there will be other opportunities.
Relief fills me now that I’ve resolved to skip the tour. But it doesn’t take long—actually, it takes just until the Glen Park BART sign looms—before it disappears.
Because I’m no closer to conjuring up eight grand than I was this morning.
The stairway into the Bay Area Rapid Transit resembles a descent into hell. The underground station is busy, being early on a Friday night. I shuffle with the mass of pedestrians to the turnstiles, where I swipe my electric-blue Clipper card.