Fred's Big Game

"Well, you just listen to me, bud: she can't take a hit to the body and her block's weak on her right side. Hard jabs to the belly'll do. Her arms are pretty long; close in and hurt her before she uses that nasty left on you." Emma grins and rubs her chin, aiming that special grin at Mark. "And she can throw. Watch for rocks, plates, pots, pans...insults--"

I finish up my shell and grab my ball while Mark's jaw drops. "Fred, she's PERFECT! Have you got a sister?" Mark asks Emma, and I smile as I roll my ball toward that happy place that brings them all down. I see Emma grin; she actually looks proud as she tallies my score: an X in frame eight, 148 as of frame seven, versus 150 in frame five, to be 180 in frame six if Emma strikes.

The whole alley seems to be crowding around lane four, our lane, to watch Emma roll. She's a performer; she takes a little bow as she weights her ball on her arm and seat myself at the table to mark her score.

Emma has a bit of shimmy to her approach, her butt wiggles in a way that's gotta stop every male heart in the place, and I watch her turn her damn foot just the way I did. But damn if that snow plow doesn't go straight into the deck and lay waste. I make a note to myself that Emma doesn't always take her own advice. "One-eighty," I call to her, and our fellow bowlers cheer. I take a drink of beer, knowing that we'll have to hurry the game for the crowd.

I'm up and my ball is in my hand even as Emma takes my arm. "Hurry up," she tells me. "Jackals make me nervous." She indicates the bowling alley patrons with a toss of her head and I approach the lane, not quite steady, and thwack myself really hard in the side of the ankle with the ball as I release it.

The agony is sudden and deep, and I topple over on the lane, clutching my ankle. I can't see the pins, but it sounds like a strike and there are a few cheers from the crowd mixed in with the hisses of sympathetic pain from the veterans and derisive laughter for the inexperienced. My pain-reddened field of view is filled with Emma, looking very worried, almost frantic.

"Fred, are you okay?"

"Not sure," I manage. "I feel like my ankle got kicked in the balls..."

"Try to keep it off the lane next time," she tells me, and I can see concern in her eyes. "C'mon."

I let Emma help me up and support me to the chair.

"Can I have a cup of ice?" she calls out, and three empty drinks are thrust at her; she picks up my rosin bag and rips into it with her teeth. "Here, hold this," she tells Mark, and dumps the rosin out of my bag into his outstretched hand. She dumps the ice into the bag and sets it on my ankle. "Pressure," she tells me, and I press the rosin/ice bag as hard as I can against the ankle. "Oh, and Fred?" I look up. "Great roll!" and I see the X in the ninth frame.

Emma picks up my blue marble and kisses it, then set it back on the return and picks up her own pearl. She turns toward the crowd. "How many more times do I have to do this?"

"Four," a bunch of people, including me, yell to her.

"Dude," Mark says to me, still holding a hand full of rosin. "Want this?"

"No thanks." I grin at him and he sets the rosin pile carefully on the table of the open lane next door.

"Go Emma!" Mark yells, and she faces him with a look of pleased embarrassment.

"Okay, this one's for Mark," she says to the crowd, and she lets loose with a rocket that devastates the pins. She jogs back to my chair to tend to me.

"Thanks, Mark," she tells him.

"Anytime, little sister," he tells her.

"Fred, can you bowl?" Emma asks me, and I stand up, wincing.

"I can if I shoot from the foul line," I tell her, and I take my ball from her and limp to the front of the lane. I am careful to keep my ankle far short of the swing of the ball and so I let the ball go too late. This slows the roll but it still rolls true; the wood falls in a slow collapsing pattern.

"Yanked the ball! You don't deserve that strike, Derf," she tells me, then scores it. "One seventy-eight."

I hobble to the table and pour Emma and myself the last of the beer. We click glasses and drink, our gaze locked.

"How's the ankle?" she asks, and her voice is soft and a little unsure. I just smile at her.

Emma walks slowly to the lane and sets her ball on the floor in front of her. She raises her arms. "This one's because WE WANT CHEAPER LANES!" The crowd roars and Emma scoops up her ball and, fluid, flings it sideways down the lane. It twists weirdly, picks up a drastic hook about forty feet down, and kicks the one, two, four, and seven pins into the rest of the deck. A left-to-right strike, and I know Emma's going for a comeback, she's trying to bowl a perfect game. No; she's not even trying.

I limp up to the foul line and throw a careful rock, minding my form and ankle placement. This one rolls just as I like it, a little hook at about forty-five feet and slam into the one and three, and down the pins tumble. "Beautiful!" Emma yells, and there's applause.

Emma addresses the half drunk bowlers watching, points at me. "That's Fred. He's done some incredible things in his life, mostly to his ankles. He's my guy." She smiles, and I hear aww's from the crowd. And Emma turns and lets fly a blistering-fast roll down the alley; it seems to be at the pins sixty feet away in half a second, and the pins scatter. The number one pin flies into the lane next door, and the pinsetter guy runs down the gutters to go get it. The bowlers' cheers are louder than ever. I give a little extra rub of the icy rosin bag on my bare ankle (now turning blue), then drop it on the floor and limp to the lane Last frame.

"Go Fred!" someone yells, and Emma comes back with "Yeah, knock em down!"

I aim my shot carefully, take two steps back and approach the lane the 'normal' way: a couple of steps in. On the second step I realize this was a mistake; the ankle doesn't hold against the skidding up to the foul line and I drop to one knee. The ball slams against the lane hard enough to feel it through the floor and wobbles as it spins toward the pins.

It seems to vibrate as it touches its first pin, the four pin, down the left side; somehow, the pin goes forward instead of back, and the one and two pins fall. the rest of the deck collapses like a house of cards.

"Fred! Yes!" Emma yells. "You made a lousy roll look good!" The crowd chuckles and then quiets; all eyes are upon my girl as she approaches the lane. She turns, and I catch her private wink before she speaks into the surreal solemnity of the alley.

"Okay, this one is for me, so in love that I don't...care...about anything else." And Emma turns and dumps her ball straight into the left-side gutter.

There's no question that she did it on purpose. For a beat there's no sound except the pinsetters in the back; I feel shock that Emma threw away a perfect 300 game. Then a female voice yells "Yeah, go baby!" and the frozen instant shatters; half the crowd cheers and half groans with disappointment, and I realize that bowling is not Emma's life. I am. I cheer.

"What?" Emma asks the groaners. "You guys take this much too seriously. Game, right? Would you like a brochure?"

"You guys play us?" a skinny woman asks; she sounds like the woman who yelled. She has another woman in tow; they both look very athletic.

"I'm sorry, I gotta sit out," I tell them. I pick up my ruined, now-sopping rosin bag and stick it against my ankle, which is now about the size of a grapefruit.

"Yeah, nasty ankle killer," The woman told me. "You guys thought about competing?"

"We might," Emma tells her.

The woman, in her early twenties by appearance, sticks out a hand. "I'm Jo, this is Janice. You're Emma, and this is Derf."

Emma grins at her. "My Derf. We fell in love in this bowling alley last night."

"We fell in love last night too!" Janice speaks, and Jo looks at her, eyes wide. The awkward level skyrockets, but Emma just grins.

"You guys did?" she asks, but doesn't wait for a reply. "That's great! We're Those Christmas Eve Guys! Perfect for a doubles league." Jo looks more at ease and Janice just looks intoxicated, but I know she's not: she's lovestruck. Like me. "I like you guys," Emma says, and beams at them both, rummages in her bowling bag and produces a stub of pencil and a little pad of paper with Hello Kitty on it. She writes and passes it to Janice. "Let's bowl. Doubles is Monday, want to do that?"

Janice and Jo look at each other and look at me. "Perfect," I say.

Mark trots up and hands Emma a bag and some money. She lets the cash drop into her bowling bag and hands the bag to me. Inside is a brand new rosin bag.

"For my Real Man," Emma tells me, and presses her lips to mine. We sit and change shoes.

Mark carries my bag and I hang onto Emma's shoulder all the way to the car. We put our bags in the trunk.

"Man, Fred, you bowled like crazy," Mark told me. "You guys should join a league. How's the foot?"

"Still hanging by a thread from this smashed ankle," I reply.

"Oh yeah, here this'll help." I hear the distinct sound of a lighter and smell a familiar aroma, sweet and musky. Mark sticks a fat joint between my fingers.

Any other time, I wouldn't hesitate, but I have no idea what Emma's take on that sort of thing is and she gives nothing away, standing, straight-faced, looking at me with those eyes the same shade of blue as my ball. I think for a moment, then look at the joint and shake my head. "You, know, I probably shouldn't--"

"Well, jeez," Emma says in an exasperated tone, taking the joint from my fingers, "don't bogart the man's weed, Fred! Rude. D'you mind?" she asks Mark, and he just grins and motions her to continue; she inhales and hands it back to me. "I swear, I'm gonna have to teach you manners..."

I roll my eyes and hit it my customary once. Mark follows suit and makes to pass to Emma, but she demurs. "No thanks, Mark, I'm a lightweight," she says with a giggle. "Ah thank Ah shall swoon," she says in a horrid Southern Belle accent, and presses her wrist to her forehead.

Mark knows better than to offer me any more pot. "Hey, if you guys want to...y'know, really bowl, I wanna be on a team with you," he says.

"That'd make us five," Emma tells him. "Can you keep a sixth?"

"Five? Oh...those two?!" His voice carries shocked disbelief. "Dude, they can't even roll!"

"At all?" Emma asks, interested.

"One got a forty and one got a twenty-six, their lane was a gutter-fest."

Emma laughs. "Okay, someone's gotta teach 'em how to bowl. You teach 'em," she tells Mark."If you can get 'em to bowl 160 and pick up a reliable sixth person, we'll let you on board." She laughs at Mark's shocked look. "We'll talk, Mark. Now, we've gotta go; I want to stop off at work for a minute and say 'Merry Christmas' to Jerry."

We wish Mark a Merry Christmas and I get into the passenger's side. Emma starts the Volvo and pulls out into the weak sunlight of deep winter afternoon. To credit Mark's grass, my ankle does feel better. Emma is obviously feeling it; she rolls the window down and cranks up Christmas carols on her stereo.

We sing "Winter Wonderland", we sing "Let it Snow". We sing "Silent Night" and "Deck the Halls". Emma sings "Santa Baby" to me and I start "Baby It's Cold Outside" but we're at Jerry's before I can get more than a few bars in.

"C'mon," Emma tells me, then "Oh. Whoops." She grins at me, shuts her door and comes around to mine. I let her support me to the door. Emma raps twice."

"Fuck off, we're closed," comes Jerry's voice from behind the door.

"Open up Jerry," Emma tells him, and he opens the door on us.

"Hey, Emma," he says, "Nice of you to drop in. What the hell you been smokin'?" he asks her, his eyes narrowed.

"Aww, you DO care!" Emma hugs him. "I've got Fred; can he come in?"

Jerry looks at me up and down. "I let you go out with my barmaid and you get her stoned?"

"We were just along for the ride," I tell him, and he looks long at me, then chuckles.

"Yeh, looks like she's carryin' you, lightweight. So why should I let you into my employees-only Christmas?"

Because last night I'd made him a promise: that if I got Emma pregnant, I'd have to work her shifts until she came back. It could happen.

"Remember last night, what we talked about?" He nods, looking at me like a jeweler looks at a gem. "You might need a good bartender," I tell him. Emma looks lost but Jerry's smile gets wider and he puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Sure. C'mon in. You want somethin', help yourself," Jerry told me. I hobble over to get a shell, and leave the fee on the bar. I see Jerry and Emma talking, but I can't hear them; Emma's smiling and Jerry hugs her and walks her over to the bar.

"Get your money back in your pocket, Fred, it's Christmas, and I got a toast." He slips behind the bar and opens a bottle of champagne; he pours flutes. Passing them around, he continues. "Friends, an announcement: Our little Emma has finally found a guy that bowls her over, heheh." I can almost hear the 'fifties drum sting to the joke. Jerry looks at me. "And her guy here tells me that he's found his girl, and that's love; we knew these guys for years and nobody woulda thought...well, okay, someone mighta thought it," Jerry says, looking at Emma. She looked innocent. "Anyway, here they are, and it's the best Christmas present to get. Cheers." We sip, but I have one of my own. I raise my glass to Emma. "To the Amazing, Spectacular Emma Duncan the Bowlin' Nurse." We touch glasses; Jerry looks confused but tops us off. I look around the bar; we are the only three here.

I need to go let some beer out so I limp to the men's. Once inside, I relieve myself, then I take a look at the vending machines on the wall. I have no change. I wash and go back out to the bar to whisper in Emma's ear; Jerry is nowhere in sight. "I need some change for the vending machine in the men's. You know, that one?" I tell her softly.

Emma nods once and gets up from her barstool; she walks to the men's and slips inside for a moment. She has two rubbers in her hand when she walks out, and she tosses them to me before throwing a five on the bar with my beer money. She shows me a tiny toothy key on her ring.

Jerry comes back into view from his office. "Emma, I gotta run home, the wife," he says. "Wait for me here, don't let anyone in til I see 'em. Right? Oh yeah!" He walks over to Emma and hands her an envelope. "That's for you. You bring in good people, they come back to see you. And they drink. keep it up."

"Oh, Jerry, no," she says, tears in her eyes. "Just...just keep it, I love working here!"

"No doll, that's for you," he tells her and then walks to the door. "Don't let anyone in, right? And don't let him eat all the Beer Nuts like he usually does."

"Hey, Beer Nuts!" I look around on the bar for some while Jerry walks out the door. My eye falls on Emma, standing by the bar crying. "What's wrong, sugar?"

"He can't pay me extra just for doing what I'm supposed to be doing," she tells me.

"He told you it's 'cause you bring people in," I told him. "I can see that. And more people is more money for the house."

Emma sighs and nods, then starts leafing through the envelope. "There's...shit, close to six hundred dollars in here..." She sobs.

I take her in my arms. "You could give it back, y'know," I tell her.

Emma looks up at me and it's crushing to see tears in those eyes.

"Put it in an envelope and put a note in it. Here." I grab a napkin off the bar and a pen out of the cup by the till, and I write:

'Dear Jerry,

This was given to me by a girl named Emma to pass on to you. She wanted you to know that she likes you and likes working at your establishment, and that she knows the place needs the money more than she does. She mentioned'

I look at Emma. "What do you guys need around here?"

Emma thinks. "A replacement liver for his wife would be best," she says low, and I nod.

'an illness in your family and we both hope it will help.

Sincerely,

K Kringle

P.S. You're on the naughty list again this year, Jerry.'

I show her the note and her nose crinkles in fun. "Fred, this is perfect." She finds a clean envelope and stuffs the money and the note into it, stopping to add a dollar of her own money, then seals it and slides it under his office door.

"Wow, this is fun!" she tells me. "We can't be here when he opens it, though, he'll make me take the cash."

"What do you have against taking cash?"

"Not cash, his cash. His wife's really sick, and he needs the money for the bills."

I see her view, and I understand her feelings, and I take her in my arms and kiss her, tenderly. Her lips move under mine, wanting more, and her hands grab my back through my shirt. Emma's breathing rapidly now, and her breath puffs into my mouth as I kiss her, and she's making a growling sound deep in her throat with each kiss. She sounds hungry, and her lean body with its curvy hips and chest presses against me. She pulls back to look in my eyes.

"Are you ready to work off three glasses of beer, Freddy?"

"Sure, Em," I reply. "I figure all I have to do is feed you once a day and I'll get all I need." I rub her back where the shoulders and spine meet.

"Aww, God, Fred, that's wonderful, right there...and I have never let anyone call me Em before."

"I can call you Em," I tell her, confident.

"Ohh..why do you want to call me that?"

"Because you call me Derf."

"Oh, no! No, I take it back!"

"You can't take it back, it's on the score sheet. It was projected up for the whole bowling alley to see."

"Then you are Derf forever!" she yells. "Sir Derf the Infinite, Albatross Around the Neck of the Wonder Nurse! Woo!" She squeals as I grab her ass. "Careful," she tells me with a revealing little smile. I pull her close to me and nestle her on my chest, and her hands drop to my belt buckle, unfastening. "Mister Real Man," she says to me, "May I borrow your rosin bag?" She takes me in hand and pulls me toward the dartboards and pool table. She backs against the table and lifts herself. "Fred, you know I have always wanted to this?" She lays back against the green felt and slips her hips out over the edge.

"Fuck on a pool table?"

"No, GET fucked on a pool table."

My hands are on her flat belly and gliding down over her skin, firm enough to not tickle, and they find the button of her jeans. I unsnap and unzip and slide her pants down and I look in front of me and there is her sex, wet, and I smell her and I cannot resist her. I bury my face between her legs. Emma lets out a yelp of surprise but then gasps and I feel her part her thighs for me as my tongue finds her. Her clitoris is hard under my tongue and I lick down to her entrance, darting my tongue inside her . She moans low and I know she's going to come quickly, and so am I. I drop my pants and press myself against her, and I feel her tense.

"You want to get fucked on this table?" I ask her.

"I want to get fucked hard and fast on this table, Fred," she replies, and I slide into her in one rough stroke.

Emma arches her back and hisses. I hold her hips and pull her away from me, then pull her hips to me as I thrust, and Emma draws in a ragged breath. "Do it, fuck me--"

I pull her off and slam her onto me in quick succession, again, and again; she lays her cheek against the green felt and whimpers in pleasure. "I love you, Emma," I tell her as I hammer her.

"I love you, Oh, Fred, I hunh-uh--" Her speech turns to a rising pleasured yell that turns to individual screams in time with my thrusting.

I continue, fucking her just short of sadism and she grabs my hips, slapping me against her, harder, and I understand that she needs this, she needs me to rape her on this table. This is not really something I'm wired for. But the sight of her lain back on the felt, her head thrown back so only her triangular jaw on a pillow of strawberry-blonde is visible and her panting groans with each stab excite me and encourage me to do this, to make her happy. I hold her wrists to the felt, plunge into her.