I introduced myself to her friends then retired to the periphery. In dress and spirit I felt in absolute contrast to the bodies around me. Wearing faded shirts of their favorite local metal bands; wallet chains fastened to stained and shredded jeans; and tattoos of spiderwebs, hemp leaves and scorpions, the roughly half dozen of them stood loosely. Always one eye on the crowds around, they never appeared completely at ease -- for good reason too. It was common knowledge on weeknights this bowling alley was harbor to individuals described here. Their deprivation was smug; respect had to be earned. I respected myself enough not to try.
I sat without notice at a sticky table colored with neon pins and balls. Samantha was different. I knew she was, but I was naive. Surely, being alone around friends she would miss her boyfriend, Ben, not yet two weeks underground. She had deep disarmingly cold eyes. Almost common if one were to look at them for only a moment. However, a long gaze, the kind we presently shared from opposite sides the table of spilled drinks and pizza scraps, gave those cold eyes a quantifiable value. We held each others' gaze. Was what I saw sadness, fear or a mournful indifference? Could she see the insecurity and youth in my eyes, or were they, as I hoped, well masked by a supportive and concerned face?A ball crashed into the pins. We looked down the lane. "Spare," shrieked one of the girls in our group. I looked back at Samantha. She was talking to the man next to her. I listened intently and waited to join the conversation. Wondering how, or when, she will introduce me. Am I the friend, the date or simply Adam. The conversation started with sympathetic apologies and condolences to the still somewhat grieving girl across from me. It quickly digressed.
"Dude got ten months for slammin' Nick face to glass," Matt said. He thought Nick deserved the 18 stitches from Dan. I couldn't keep the whole story together. Samantha looked at me knowingly. "After all, fucker slashed his Honda after the split with that bitch sister of his," Matt justified. "I miss that car," Sam said. I looked at her and shrugged. I couldn't piece together the names and faces and criminal records of everyone I'd met since we arrived. I didn't know these people or their lives, and I didn't want to. I knew Sam, and they meant something to her.Another crash of the pins.
Why did we come if we didn't intend to bowl? I must have been invited to meet her friends. If not, she felt bad leaving me at the ice cream shop. Haven't decided which. But was I being presumptuous allowing myself to fantasize of a place in her life. I looked over to Samantha, about to ask if we should go buy shoes to start a game. She was looking beyond me with warning.
My chest struck the table edge in front of me. Samantha gasped. I spun around. Fists up and head down, the man who was pushed into my chair charged toward his aggressor, a stocky Native American man with long dark hair and an aged jean jacket who belong to another larger group of people several lanes down. I jumped up and took several steps back until I was alongside Samantha.
We watched as the bald-headed man who crashed into me took a long-winded swing at the Native American. The dark haired man stepped back. The punch hit the air with force and Tim lost balance. He swiftly hit the wooden floor. His friends, or my friends by way of Sam, quickly stood him up and restrained him. Darin, the dark haired man, said they should go outside to finish. Matt suggested a parking lot in Bismarck. He led Tim out to his car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Sam and I jumped into her messy Saturn. We were now in a line of several cars en route back to Bismarck to watch a fight.
