Down The Lane

I’m not sure why I applied for this job. Maybe it sounded exhilarating to me. Afterall, how many people can say they manage a venue where people go to have a good time, catch up with friends, get a little exercise, and then kick back in the lounge afterwards. Boy, I had no idea how mistaken I was, but it didn’t take me long to learn the truth.

The first day at work was supposed to be spent learning how everything was expected to function. My mentor, the regional manager, called me ten minutes into my shift and explained that he had to deal with an emergency at one of the other locations, wished me luck. and said he would try and catch up with me next week. I hung up the phone, took a calming breath while surveying the facility, and formulated a plan. The most logical place to begin my day, or so I thought, was the front desk.

When I stepped behind the counter the middle-aged woman working there looked terrified. How dare some stranger breach her personal space? I quickly introduced myself and her shocked demeanor slowly melted into one of indifference.

Her icy response was simply, “Oh, so you’re the one who got the job. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard back from anyone. I guess Bowl-A-Rama management doesn’t promote old people, or maybe it’s just older women they have a problem with.”

Stunned by her antagonistic response, I was working out a reply that would lower the temperature when a mother and three pre-teen kids walked up to the counter and asked for a lane and shoes. Gertrude, I got her name from her name tag, responded to the lady in a clipped almost rude tone, “We don’t provide shoes for children. Besides, they couldn’t lift the balls anyway.”

The expression on the mothers face was one of both surprise and anger. Why would someone belittle her children like that? I had to jump in.

“I’m sorry mam but what Gertrude meant to say was we don’t offer children’s sizes, but they can wear sox on the approach area and if you will help them with the bowling balls everything will be fine. Gertrude, please assign them lane 32 so the children will have plenty of space to have fun.”

If looks could kill, the daggers Gertrude were sending my way would have eviscerated me. The mother asked for a size 7 shoe for herself, thanked me for my help, shot an indignant glair at my desk person, and her and the kids happily went to lane 32. Before I could discuss things with Gertrude, the intercom chimed and maintenance requested some help with one of the pinsetters. I was off to play mechanics helper.

Fortunately for me, all I needed to do was help clear the jammed pin feeder and refill it while the mechanic took care of the technical stuff. While there, I introduced myself as the new night manager. Unlike Gertrude, Bob was welcoming and invited me to sit down with him when I had time so we could discuss how things worked behind the machines. I thanked him for his willingness to show me the ropes and made plans to get together during the week. It was time for me to return to the front desk and straighten things out with Gertrude.

That conversation never happened. Just as I reached the front of the lanes I saw someone that looked a lot like Gertrude walking out the front door. A note was taped to the front desk that said, I’ve had it with this chauvinist company. I Quit! I immediately called my boss. He said he would contact H.R. in the morning, suggested I hold down the fort as best as I could, and gave a good riddance to Gertrude.

If this is how things are during the afternoon, I can imagine what it will be like when it’s time for the bar to close and I need to kick out a bunch of drunks. What have I gotten myself into?