a way
to be

Sometimes the ball knows where to go before your hand does. You do not force it. You do not explain it to Walter. You do not look back at The Dude to see if he noticed. You just let go and the lane receives the thing you made.

I got three strikes in a row tonight. Walter said it was “fucking impressive,” then immediately told me to shut the fuck up about it, which is how you know he meant it.

I think that is what they mean by a way to be. Not winning exactly. More like rolling something heavy with enough trust that it can leave you.

The Dude keeps talking about his rug. How it tied the whole room together. I went over there once. It was a nice rug. Persian or something. It gave the room a center, which is not something every room gets.

My apartment has carpet that came with the apartment. Beige. One stain shaped like Florida and another stain shaped like someone trying to apologize but deciding not to.

The nihilists peed on The Dude's rug. That is fucked up. A rug has no politics. A rug is just trying to hold the room in one piece.

I don't remember much. One second I was telling Walter about this new ball at the pro shop. Nice weight distribution. Pearl coverstock. The sort of blue that looks like it has weather inside it.

Then everything got quiet in a way that was not peaceful. More like someone had unplugged the whole bowling alley and forgotten to tell the pins.

They say I had a heart attack. I don't know. I was just trying to finish my sentence. I never get to finish my sentences.

— Donny, still a good bowler

Maybe the point is not to finish every sentence. Maybe it is to keep becoming the kind of person who starts one.

The Dude abides. I think I abide too, but more quietly. Like a spare waiting behind the strike everyone is looking at.

Bowling is simple. You aim. You release. Gravity and physics do the rest. No amount of yelling changes where the ball goes once it has left your hand.

That might be the whole thing right there.