Workplace Touchstones – Set ’em Up

Writing Touchstones – The Pin Boy

I had several jobs before I started high school. I delivered newspapers for the once powerful and now long-defunct Toronto Telegram. I also caddied at a private golf club, and worked door to door on Saturdays with a Fuller Brush man who was my friend’s dad. The dad had been selling for years and knew the power of giving out free samples before making his pitch, especially when the sample was given out by a fresh faced kid. He’d send us ahead, one on each side of the street with the samples and strict instructions to only give a sample to the lady of the house, to make eye contact and smile, then if she returned the smile to deposit the gift in the palm of her hand. He’d be at the same doors within an hour and usually filled out orders as a result of our efforts. It worked for him and it gave us a bit of spending money. On top of that, he always treated us to lunch.

Those kind of jobs established a pattern in my life; a preference for work that kept me mobile and unconfined. But from time to time, I’ve found myself shut in to earn a living. Inside positions tended to frustrate me and were often short-lived. Perhaps that’s one reason why police work kept me contented and motivated for nearly two decades, losing its luster only when the next promotion or seniority (age) would have put me behind a desk. But every job I’ve ever had, inside or outside, has its touchstones and upon reflection usually serves up good writing material.

This post is about my first confined workplace: a bowling alley. I was a pin boy in the days before automatic pinsetters. Canadian alleys were mostly five pin establishments with a few lanes dedicated to ten pin. I was good at setting the pins for both so it wasn’t hard to pick up ‘lines’ when I needed some money. For the most part I worked at the Runnymede Bowl in the west end of Toronto. It was there that I consciously started ‘people watching, mostly to see who to avoid, and who to trust. I learned that complete trust was a scarce commodity, even in people I liked, and occasionally in me. But, I watched and I learned, and over time I established people watching as a habit.

Sometimes observations seek expression. Why not on paper? Nickel a Line is a short story that was generated from my memories of the Runnymede Bowl. Enjoy.

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Nickel a Line

Nate looked at me through grubby glasses that he hadn’t cleaned in the two months since I’d last seen him. A cloud of smoke drifted from a novelty ashtray that sat between us on a thick pad of score sheets. He’d won the tin trinket the previous summer at the CNE Midway. It had the shape of a naked woman on her back. Her hard nipped boobs poked up through loose heaps of ash. A soggy ended hand rolled rested in the cleavage.

I looked around the alleys. “Hey, Nate, looks like you’re getting busy, any chance of me grabbing a few lines?”

“I never thought I’d see you back here, Mick. You’ve been gone quite a while.”

I nodded, but kept my mouth shut. I’d started caddying at a golf club about nine weeks back. I liked being outdoors, and with the per-round rate and tips I was making better money there. Now, it was late fall and turning cold, the number of rounds I got for a week had really dropped. On top of that, Dad had been laid off from his job. My spending money was in short supply. I needed to put some gas in the car. So here I was, looking to see if I could pick up some change.

Nate started threading fresh laces in a pair of men’s number tens.

A piece of tobacco flew off his tongue. “Still five cents a line, whoever spread the rumor that I was paying seven is full of shit… I’ll give you another chance, Mick, because I could use you tonight, got a five pin league in, and you’re faster than any of the kids I’ve got.”

He looked up again. “No screwing off though, you get one two minute piss break… none of this ten minute bullshit, or I’ll take you off the damned roster for good. Go down to three and four. Those are the lanes the hot shots from Viceroy and Canada Packers are on.”

Nate and I had never really hit it off. I’d actually got into a few shouting matches with him. The last and loudest one was when he’d fudged my line counts on a league night that I’d worked.

I was glad he was giving me the alleys now, but I knew he would have me on a tight leash. “No sweat, Nate.”

I was in the perch just before the first ball cracked in. It sent all five pins on lane four flying. One of them just missed my shin. I wasn’t tucked into the foot shield properly. I jumped into the pit and grabbed the pins, three in my left and two in my right. I tapped my foot down on the lever, set the pins on their mounts, and sent the ball back before buddy boy at the other end had finished his fist pumps. No problem, I was as fast as ever.

Four frames in and I was feeling relaxed, into the rhythm, swinging between my two alleys like I’d never left. The pins were set quickly after each frame. I was keeping the hot shots happy.

The snack bar at the Runnymede Bowl was a bit of a hangout. I took a peak over to see who was around. Only a few people at the counter, and nobody that I knew except for a couple of other pin boys having a coke between lines.

Then, I checked around the open lanes down at the far end. Between fourteen and fifteen I saw two familiar faces.

Son of a bitch, that girl is Pam and… is that who I think it is? Yeah, it is. Well… there’s no fucking way this is happening.

I’d just left her an hour ago at Castle Burgers. I’d never told her I was coming here. I hadn’t really planned on it until I passed by and thought about making some money.

What the hell is she doing with Roonie? And, Jesus he’s all over her, really coming on.

I’d seen Roonie doing his thing two weeks ago at the Palais, saw him slow dancing with Gail Jennings. Basically, they were dry screwing with their clothes on. He was really grinding it to her. And now that slugs with Pam?

I watched him put his arm around her and steer her towards the front doors.

Aw shit, their leaving.

“Break on three and four,” I yelled out over the clatter of pins and the rumble of balls.

No response. I yelled my request again. Eventually another pin boy, Jim Barrett headed over from the snack bar. I flew by him on the median between lanes and ran towards the door and the stairs down to Bloor Street.

Nate saw me coming and tried to cut me off. He didn’t make it and yelled down the stairs at my back. “Mick, where the Hell are you going? The can’s up here for Christ’s sake, and you just fucking got here.”

I ignored him.

“No more damn lines for you, and don’t try up at the Junction Bowl either; I’m letting them know what an asshole you are.”

I headed west, towards the Troc. It was dance night. My mind was racing and my fists were tightly clenched. I was going to stop this, and quick.

There’s no fucking way Roonie. Not a chance, not with her, you piece of crap. Not with my little sister.

© Copyright Michael Croucher 2009