talking about, is we need signals and lighting on that highway. But it makes no sense accusing people about something that couldn’t’ve been prevented. Accidents happen. Why is that so hard to understand?
After my lawyer told me about the daughter’s crazy accusations, I thought about visiting the restaurant next door and having a word with that young lady, telling her how she was mistaken about the whole thing. Miss Perry talked me out of it, though, said it would only make it seem like I had done something wrong. And I hadn’t. I was trying to do the right thing.
People were different, back in my day. I remember another accident, in ’75 or ’76, a couple of years after Helen and I opened our bowling alley, and it didn’t end up like this. It happened on Family Night. The special ran on Thursday afternoons from three to six p.m., but we still called it Family Night, so it would fit with the other themes Helen posted on the board out front. One day, a family with six kids came in. “You might want to get two lanes,” I said to the father. He had a thick mustache, the kind that was popular in those days, and he looked so young it was hard to believe he had six children. But he wouldn’t hear of paying for two lanes. He and his wife took their little tribe to lane 8. It took them a long while to play their games, especially since the youngest kid looked about three years old, and afterward, their seating area looked like a pigsty. The seats were covered with potato chips, even though the sign at the front clearly said that no food was allowed in the bowling area.
I had two parties waiting in the concourse, so I told my porter Greg to hurry up and clean up after them. He was sweeping the floors when he hit the bumper rail with his broom. It went down and so he kicked it back up with his foot, not thinking much of it, but the bumper fell right back down and sliced through his shoe. Greg is a big, burly guy from Moreno Valley, and yet the pain was so bad he passed out. I ran to his side, helped him up, and Helen got him some ice water. We drove him to the hospital—back then, that was High Desert Memorial in Yucca Valley—and waited with him to see what the doctor would say. They didn’t have the technology they have nowadays, though, and he lost two toes on his left foot. Greg was a champ, he went back to work a couple of weeks later. We put up new signs about keeping food off the bowling area, and we were strict about enforcing safety rules. But we understood when something was an accident. We didn’t go around trying to blame other people for what happened.
This town has changed a lot since then. Hardesty’s Groceries is gone, and so is Steeley’s Sporting Goods. We have a Walmart and an Applebee’s now. We even got a Starbucks. All kinds of people have been coming here. All kinds. I go to the store these days, I don’t recognize anybody. Used to be I always ran into friends or neighbors or even acquaintances from church. Not anymore. And the changes are happening so fast. Ten years ago, you could still have some peace and quiet around here, but now you have lines of tourists, their cars idling, waiting to get into the national park, or getting rowdy in their Airbnbs, doing drugs or God knows what. Some people say I should be grateful for the business that the newcomers are bringing to the town, but the way I see it, they’re changing this place and wanting me to be grateful for it. They didn’t ask if we wanted them here, they just came.
Coleman
When I don’t have all the evidence I need, I trace a story from the few details I have, and see if it holds up. Late one Sunday afternoon, after I found Miles sprawled on the couch again, staring longingly at his Instagram, I told him that he could invite his new friend to dinner. As soon as Brandon texted that he could come, Miles ran off to clean his room—made his bed, picked up his dirty laundry, brought out the trash.