In 1959 the new bowling alley in Kiamesha Lake, NY, was about to open.  It was called Kiamesha Lanes.  The name’s uniqueness must have resulted from a very long meeting! 

Well, I was just fourteen, and I had my workers’ permit. My father was friends with the owners and secured a summer job for me at the lanes.  My responsibility was to assign the bowling lanes, issue the shoes, collect for the games played, and perform minor services on the automatic pin setters. So you might say I was a general overall goffer jack of all trades.

My best friend also attained a job there, but I think he got it because the owner’s daughter had what we would call a crush on him. His career opportunity job was to be the soda jerk at the snack bar.  (Soda jerk- look it up)

 It does not matter how or why they retained us for these services, we were together, and they wisely entrusted their investment to us.

I will never forget the first day the alley opened.  One of the owners, Jerry or Manny, took me outside and instructed me on how he wanted me to have the cars lined up in the parking lot.  The parking lot was gravel and had not been paved with blacktop yet; thus, it had no markings.

As he left, going back into the building, he turned around and told me to be careful.  Don’t get hurt or get killed!  Say what, killed?  It’s good to follow instructions.  I didn’t disappoint him.  Parking might not have been perfect, but I was still alive.

Summer was fun.  Many camps reserved time. There were many girls and many dreams.  I was busy with fun.

Now, there was the alley mechanic entrusted to maintain the pin setters.  In off moments from his strenuous work, he would give us pearls of wisdom.  He would say, “Go after the pretty ones; they will give it up faster than the others.”  We didn’t understand what he was saying; nobody gave us anything then.  When we got older, we finally understood what he meant, but we also learned that beauty came in many forms, and if appropriately savored, good things can come from it.

The manager was a retired bowling pro, and I did not see him very often.  However, when he came in, he was in his office giving bowling instructions to some very willing ladies.  I think he perfected the mechanic’s advice.

 Well, he made me his Assistant Manager.  No extra money, more responsibility.  Take note, children, titles without compensation should be avoided. It’s a life lesson.

My friend would make us lunch when we had a break.  A hamburger and chocolate malt hit the spot. 

In front of the snack bar was a jukebox (juke box-again; look it up).  I knew the volume control was on the back.  I would turn it up full when only he and I were the only ones there, and we would play our favorite song Ray Charles “What I Say,” parts 1 & 2. At high volume, that speaker would reach out and vibrate our ribs. The dancing began with him behind the counter and me in front of the jukebox.  We would dance, sing to the rhythm, and immerse our senses in the stereo of the moment.  Try it sometime and play this song if you don’t dance or savor the rhythm, then you are missing the dance gene.  There is no help.  Sorry.

The summer was going by fast.  Now one of the rules I had to operate under is if it was my off weekend and it rained, I had to report to the alley for my presence was required when we would get busy. And it would get busy!  It seemed every local camp would decide bowling would be a good place to dump the little jewels that were consigned to them when the rains came.

Now it was a Sunday, the sun was shining, and I did not have a care in the world. Beautiful day!

My best friend had left the job at the alley to go to a camp. He had been going with his older sister and younger brother for years.  The camp’s name was Chic-A-Lack (not sure about the spelling).  So who comes up with these names, the chief of a tribe?

On my day of relaxation, my friend’s mom called and said she was going to visit them and wondered if I would like to go.  It was some distance; I guess she wanted company, and I would fill the void for conversation.

I debated for a moment, knowing I was on call if the weather necessitated my presence at work.  But it was beautiful out, the sun was shining, and my friend told me there were some “hot” chicks at his camp, “you wouldn’t believe!”  So, the die was cast; I would go.  I mean, what could I do?

You guessed it, while the sun was shining where I was, a humungous cloud burst over the ally and the neighboring vicinity.

The next day at work, I heard about the uncontrollable throngs of little camp brats dropped off and the lack of staff to handle the influx; and further, to my chagrin, I was advised by no other than the  “big boss,” that my expertise was no longer required at the ally.

He came to this conclusion simply because they could not connect with me.

Fired? Me? Yes, you guessed it, I was no longer hired; I was, fired!

Now under normal circumstances, I would have been upset, but I was leaving in a week and a half because it was Labor Day, the official end of summer in the Mountains, and school was about to start.

Was it worth it?  Let me put it this way; the Chicks were “HOT!”