You know who ya are.

Thinkin’ yer all better than everybody else, what with yer arm brace and yer solitary nature. Just watchin’ the scoreboards flickerin’ on the faces of the little kids trippin’ over those half-drawn bowlin’ bumpers while ya run yer hand through that slicked-back hair, greasy as the pizza Larry’s slinging over in concessions. Ya think yer top banana but yer not. Taste that air. That’s hate and lust and feet and smoke. Breathe it in.

Yer all worried about yer form with that wrist splint, but no amount of wood and cloth will keep you from scuffin’ those horrible blue shoes against my hardwood floor. Mister All-Pro. Mister Skinny Minnie. There are twenty teenaged girls runnin’ round with skirts up to their hoohas, and they’re closer to a 300-game than ya could ever hope to be. Don’t think I can’t see ya leering. Mister Limpy. Mister Gimpy. At least the boozehounds and beer guts don’t try to hide it. They stare. You glance. Mister Pervert. Sick Mister.

Yeah. Put that ball back on the rack. Yer done fer the night. Too insecure to use one of the brightly colored bowling balls. Pink, green, orange, burgundy. All shiny and half neon. Not you though. Yer not shiny. Gotta be black. Classic black. Trusty black, jest like yer teeth. Don’t think nobody noticed. These lights are fluorescent, pally. Anybody with half a mind to sick themselves out could just take a gander at yer slack jaw, crawling with nachos and cheese fries and plaqueteria.

Oh, it’s plain to see. Yer headed to the arcade for fun and frivolity. Funny. Seems like the teenieboppers are there too, sittin’ on the scratchety-assed pool table and flirtin’ with the boys at the Pac-Man cabinet. Yer just in it fer the watchin’. Plunk in a couplea quarters for the crane game, maybe win yerself a couplea greeny yellow stuffed animals fer the lovely young ladies. Maybe they’ll remember ya in a few years when they can take out daddy’s car, and they’ll see ya in that wrist splint and throw ya a mercybone.

Yer shakin’ and it’s not helpin’ yer cranin’. Sick Mister. Hearin’ the girls shriek makes ya all aquiver. They love this song. Oops they did it again. Ya watch ‘em dance and ya delight in their dithyrambs. Ya shake some more and ya shake some more and then ya stop shakin’. No more quarters in yer pocket, eh? Is that right, Mister Poor? Mister Sadsack?

Whatcha doin’ there? Just ploppin’ on the arcade floor like a cadaver? Yeah, yer a real winner. Mister All-Pro. Slippin’ off yer blueshoes and puttin’ on yer specialshoes. Walkin’ a little straighter now, are ya?

Puff puff. Just a counterboy with his spraycan, of course. Ya hand him yer bowlin’ shoes, completely unaware of his admiration of ya. Of his yen. Puff puff puff. Mister Lover Lover. Walkin’ away and never knowin’.