Nothing can break in a bowling alley, he had read or heard somewhere, said this to Claudia when, in the hallway between their offices, she suggested, bowling, we’ll go bowling, Seth.

You bowl? he said. He was on his way back from copying his patient’s mood record. Purposely left him there, alone, trembling, so his patient could see that sitting in an office couldn’t kill him.

State bowling champ, she answered. Wild, uh? She walked down the hall, threw an invisible ball toward the invisible pins. Her leg lifted behind her. She turned around. Strike, she said. Winked at him. He pictured Twinkle Toes Flintstone bowling with a boulder.

It is a myth, she said, about bowling alleys. She once broke the head of a pin right off. Wild, huh? Like snowflakes, she said. You know, no two being alike. A myth like that.

So unlike the women that once attracted him. Petite women, made of air. Not like her at all. Big teeth, big hair, big, brawny arms. Fairies, sprites they had been in that other life.

He hesitated. Claudia, a grad student at Penn, 27, 28 years old. Was that too far away from 35? When did he start caring what others think? So it wasn’t that. Something else. When his face had been all over the news, he went out purposely, faced the stares, the pointing fingers, whispers. Then he grew bored of it all. Almost a year—should have died down to nothing by now.

Fine, he told her. Bowling it is. He returned to his patient. Miles stared at the gleaming glass of Liberty Place. His knees trembled, his forehead dripped. Miles panicked in enclosed places—elevators. Vertigo overwhelmed him. So he would spin Miles in a chair, over and over, until he habituated to it. Then they would ride the elevator, up and down, up and down, ad infinitum, until it meant nothing to Miles.

How ’bout you, Miles said. You ever have these attacks?

After the accident, the very next day, he drove up and down the expressway, around the Art Museum, back towards the zoo, around the park, back on the expressway, the entire day, and the day after that, and after that, and weeks, and months. He never shook, never trembled, nary a flutter.

Never, he told Miles.

I didn’t think so. Miles stood up. His leg almost gave way, but he held on to the chair. So you are a rock, Miles whispered. And I am paper.

It isn’t like that, he told Miles. He grasped Miles by the elbow. Held him. I got you, the gesture was supposed to say. You aren’t alone.

How ’bout I spin you, Miles said. Okay, Ice King?

Okay, Miles. He sat cross-legged in the chair. Ready, Miles said, then spun him, slowly at first. Sky, bookshelves, file cabinets, the door, the framed college degrees, empty shelves, sky, bookshelves. His office spun around him, and he all he could think about was how sparse it was. Faster, Miles spun, trying to get him to feel what he felt, but he could spin forever without changing, like a turtle on its shell, or a Bug spinning on a highway.

He arrived early at Wynnewood Alley. Home of the Magic Triangle. Got a lane. Shoes. He walked along the rows of balls, stopped at the pink one. They were returning from a bowling party, wasn’t that it? Before the crash. He pictured a pink dress, the pink ball, rolling towards him. He didn’t fight the memory, allowed it to overwhelm him, knowing the sensations had no power to inflict any damage. Through him the ball rolled.

Hey! He turned around. Claudia ran over, introduced Tim, her younger brother, and his fiancée, Tina. And him, her boss—Seth. Not really her boss, he told them. Yeah, yeah—the things you have to do for a raise, Tim said. Got to give the boss a raise first, huh? Tim punched him in the arm, then went towards the bar. Turned around for a parting shot—I guess we know what magic triangle Doc has his eyes on.

So, he thought, Tim would be the Inappropriate Comment Guy. He liked to know early on what he was dealing with. And Tina?

I took my niece bowling and she wouldn’t wear the shoes. Said they were too ugly. What a trip.

He walked down to the alley, sat on the curved plastic of the bowling bench. Changed his shoes. Claudia sat next to him. I can’t believe you’re here, she said.

He looked around. Nothing could be done to bowling alleys to make them anything but old and worn—not the electronic screens, the vending machines that accepted credit cards. The age crept out, in the beaten shoes, the pinball machines, the rows of dull and chipped balls, the stained carpets, the pastel plastic of the chairs and benches. He felt the tiniest urge to run out—away from the musty suffocating oldness of it all. How odd, to feel such a flutter.

Claudia still looked at him. Her finger stroked his arm. He focused on it so he could feel it.

So—you’re all old and whatnot, Tim said, sitting next to him, handing him a Rolling Rock.

Not that old.

Kids?

No, he said. But look at you—engaged.

High school sweethearts. One in a million, huh. How lucky is that?

Claudia announced the game. The two couples formed a team, each person throwing alternate frames. She stuttered over the “couples,” looked away from him, down toward the triangle of pins, then back at him, her cheeks red now.

Weak link, Tim said. He pointed at him with both bowling shoes.

In college, they bowled for bong hits, each ten-pin deficit another hit as soon as they returned to campus. Every Monday they played. He was the only one with a Tuesday morning class. He got good quickly.

Weak link? Him. Poor Tim—about to get slaughtered in this, their first game together.

Claudia threw first. Her ball headed straight for the gutter, spun away, curved toward the center, then exploded. Pins flew.

Doc, what’s up with you? A bit on edge?

He had flinched at the sound of the strike. He smiled at Tim, held up his Rolling Rock.

After Tina’s spare, he stood up. Threw the ball between the arrows. It never moved from the line, smacked the pins—a strike.

Claudia ran over to him, almost knocked him over, grabbed him around the waist, spun him around. Turned to her brother. You’re goin’ down, Mister.

He wobbled. Her body had felt so hard against his.

They did it again, strike for strike. And then again. Each collision of the ball, the pins, sent Claudia against him, her sweater full of tiny jolts. Her hips bumped against his; their hands slapped in mid-air. She even spun him around once and he careened against the scorer’s table, Tim, landed on the bench.

By the sixth frame, the game had been decided. Wrong about you, Doc, said Tim. Let’s break for some brews.

He looked up at the Xs, blushing red, blinking, six of them all in a row. And after them, the empty boxes, six others. He had eliminated all fear around such emptiness and anticipation. More often than not, it was the anticipatory anxiety that crippled patients, led them to a cascade of thoughts and sensations so they ended up with their quivering paralysis. He smiled at the empty boxes as if it were nothing to fill them with Xs, tens, hundreds, as many as needed.

Claudia walked behind him, held him by the waist, whispered, Look at that, Seth. She moved against him. Let’s do it. A perfect game.

He turned around, wanted it, too. Yes, he said, we’ll do it.

They sat on the benches, drinking their Rolling Rocks. His head buzzed. Claudia's legs draped over his. The Doors played from the ceiling, “People Are Strange.” Faces, loneliness, a forgotten name.

Tina held out her finger. Her diamond solitaire failed to glimmer in the dim light of the bowling alley. Oh well, she said. Maybe we should have bought a miniature disco ball.

How ’bout you Doc, Tim asked. Ever been married.

He shook his head. Looked at Claudia. Wondered what love would feel like, what weakness would fill his limbs. Or what reaction might he create in someone else. Only in his office, spinning in a chair or jogging on the treadmill, did hearts go flutter and heads go floating away. The excitement of the doctor—a tiny bit illicit, this date. That accounted for the flush of Claudia’s cheeks, her brushes against him, their entangled legs.

The patients call him the Ice King, Claudia said. Unflappable.

So you are going to make him flap, Tina said. She twisted her diamond, as if she were a superhero, the Green Lantern, unleashing its power into the world.

Impossible, Claudia said. Right, Seth? Her foot rubbed against his ankle, lifted up his pant leg, traveled up his calf.

He said nothing. Tim asked something about a perfect game. Never, Claudia told Tim, but well, I dreamed about it.

What do you make of that, Doc? Tim said.

Seth ignored him, instead looked at Claudia. You were probably alone at the time, he said to her.

Yes, she said, the only one there. But naked. She blushed. Wild, huh?

Yeah, he said. He pictured her dream. Felt warm. The beer, of course, the beer.

Tim stood up. Time to roll.

They disentangled. Three strikes, Claudia whispered in his ear. That’s all you need to throw. Her lips lingered there. What wishes awaited the thrower of a perfect game, or at least half of one. What world awaited his entrance?

Claudia began the seventh frame. Every moment, every ball she threw mirrored the one before, the ball sliding toward the gutter before breaking toward the pins. The pins blew up. She ran over to him. Oh my god. Seth. Oh my god.

Tina and Tim no longer played. So he was up. A slight burning sensation tingled in his fingers and a film—a very light one, yes, but a film nonetheless on his hands, fingers. He looked at the ball return for the fan. Not there. His hands hung in mid-air, unsure where to go, what to do. He brushed them against his pants, reached for the ball.

Tim stood on the benches, cupped his hand around his mouth. We got a perfect game going here—eighth frame, he announced. He flapped his arms. Flap, flap, Doc.

A few people, five, six, moved toward their alley. The ball slipped as he threw it, headed right down the center. The far right pin stood; from the opposite side, a pin rolled across the lane, nipped the standing pin. It wobbled. Claudia ran up to the line, began blowing.

Make a wish, Tina yelled, as the pin fell. He let out a breath, not realizing he had been holding it. A few claps from the crowd. Claudia gave two, three quick hits into his stomach. Crunch time, she said. And you the Ice King. Do you have any idea what this would mean?

No, he said. No idea.

Do it and find out. She pushed him gently toward the benches. He sat down. Bowling. Jeez. It wasn’t like this in college.

Claudia threw the ball she always threw. It broke as it always did, always would. Smashed the pins. She turned back around. Hey, how ’bout a little support here.

Give me a “C”, yelled Tim. “C,” yelled Tina. Through all the letters. He stared at the alley, a long tunnel, an impossible distance to cover.

He looked around. Most of the bowling alley had made their way over. Twenty or so. A few families, bunches of college kids with Villanova, St. Joe sweatshirts, guys in their matching shirts and wrist braces. Whispering. Staring. Pointing. There they are—the couple three strikes away from 300.

He chugged down the rest of the Rolling Rock, wiped his hands on his pants. Catastrophic thoughts, his patients have, attached to every tingle, every flutter, every twinge. Death, they think. Craziness. Can’t breathe. Need a doctor. Need to run. Get out. Now.

He held the ball in his upturned hand. Rubbed it with the other hand. Felt the urge to kiss it—resisted. He looked at Claudia, her lips partly open, her body forward, all anticipation. Okay.

And it was perfect, this first ball of the tenth frame, never a doubt as it crashed into the pocket. He turned, pumped his fist. Yes!

Feeling it, Doc, Tim said. Oh yeah, he’s feeling it.

Two more throws. Claudia slapped his ass.

He collapsed in the bench. Did some diaphragmatic breathing. Closed his eyes. Felt a thud next to him. Opened them. Claudia.

It’s just me, she said. This is—I don’t know. Something. Maybe I need to go outside. Get some air.

Avoidance. That’s what sends patients into their spiral down, makes things—restaurants, theatres, planes—blow up, transform into these monstrous tasks.

Hey, he said. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

I don’t know. Not get a strike. He traced the outline of her fingers. And then what? he asked. Oh, and then, it will be a moment lost. That’s all. A once-in-a-lifetime chance. A sign that these things aren’t meant to be.

It has nothing to do with us. Nothing, he repeated.

She stood up. Okay, Seth. I get it. She walked toward the lane, didn’t even pause, threw the ball straight, without the break, straight down the center, the sure split. A strike, though, all the pins felled by the force of the blow.

She turned around, bowed as the crowd clapped, walked back to sit next to him.

Nothing but a thing, she said. Do it and be done with it.

He stood in his spot, cradled his ball, stared at the pins, steadied himself.

One shot. Not like you get to do it again, over and over, up and down the elevator. He didn’t believe in such moments, such worlds, moments that couldn’t be made into nothing. He waited for Claudia to come up behind him, rub his shoulders, pat his ass again, whisper, the Ice King. the Ice King. No flap in you.

Surrounded. He could feel their hot breaths. A lump formed. Tried to swallow it away, but there it remained, pressed against his throat, cutting off breath. And then, he heard it, didn’t he, didn’t imagine it—a sneeze.

He looked around, smiles, a thumbs up. Looked back at Claudia. She pushed her chin forward. Go, the gesture said. No fingers pointed. No gasps. Such tragedies don’t linger in places like Philly. They dissolve into the jogger fighting off her rapist, the family who starved only their boys.

The Ice King’s frozen, Tim yelled out. Frozen.

He closed his eyes, tried to conjure up the vision of the strike, but couldn’t. Rocket Man, he is shouting, Rocket Man, flying along the Schuylkill, through the construction corridor, Rocket Man. He waited, waited. Still nothing, heard Claudia calling do it man, do it, pictured in his mind a red X, blinking above him on the screen, a distant siren, approaching, waiting for him to lose control. The thought flashes about growing old, of being the middle-aged guy belting out old, dead songs. Oh well. He’ll just deal with it. That’s what he does. Deals with it. Don’t choke, Doc. Not now. He reaches to turn up the volume, sneezes . . .

Air left his body—heavy, a boulder, a fallen rock. . . . the knob turns, ROCKET MAN! Muscles twitched, began to spasm, urging him to move, his back, his triceps, his calf, poised.

Felt his eyelids flutter, his body sway. The car has swerved, and he bounces off the construction barrier. Felt the fall forward. No, not that, he must move, now, in the midst of the horror, break through it, prove that it’s nothing. Bounces back, into the other lane, their silver Bug flips over him, spins in a circle on its back. But black, just black, the black of the sneeze, the most infinitesimal of lost moments, an ocean of nothingness through which he fights to breathe, breathe, just breathe, and he spins too, slows, sees the truck bear down on them, squash them into nothing.

His eyes flipped open. Only the whoosh of cars passing, of air spinning around him and on the road, a red mitten, tiny, alone.

He had to move, and he did, his arm moved back, his foot stepped toward the pins, another, arm back, back, the arrows coming toward him, and he felt the ball beginning to slip out of his wet grasp, felt a rush in his heart, a stone lodge in his stomach.

He slipped, buckled, let go. The ball wobbled, away. He fell to his knees, slid toward the gutter, the ball sliding with him, unable to stop himself, the ball. He reached out to grab something, anything, found only the smooth boards of the alley. Smack. Into the gutter, the median, he slammed.

Air ball, air ball, Tim yelled.

Trembling. His knees, his arms. It wouldn’t stop.

They died. Like that. He sneezed. They died.

He looked up, toward Claudia. Her face hovered in the air, a giant glowing flush for him, for him? The shivers seized his frame and he lay there, watching his body writhe, electric and alive.

§ § §

Randall has fiction appearing in upcoming issues of several journals, and he'll be entering Vermont College’s MFA program in Summer 2004. He lives outside of Philadelphia with his wife Meg, a cabaret singer, and their two children, Jonah and Chloe. He is currently working on a short story collection.

This piece was first published in INK POT #4 - 2004, a literary journal.

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