The building that housed the old bowling alley was a massive structure with tall brick exterior walls and a half dome style roof. It was built in the 1930’s and was a social hub. Business dipped during the war years, but came back strong when the men and women returned from the fight.
Urban sprawl and other commercial developments created a wider variety of entertainment options for the locals and caused a serious decline in revenue. The expensive and desperate need of updating the equipment coupled with competition from other venues was not fiscally sound so the owner decided to sell it off.
Asmall partnership of area businessmen had the interior gutted and remodeled into a dozen separate spaces for retail. A grocery store anchored the project and occupied the northwest corner; our restaurant had the southwest. The other shops along the strip included a jeweler, a barber, an insurance agency and a beauty salon, to name just a few.
There was a corridor that ran along the rear of all the businesses. One door lead into the room where supplies were stored for our business and was securely locked, allowing no access from the others. The door at the opposite east end of the long hallway leads to the outside and into a ten foot wide strip of brush and tall grass. A heavy chain link fence separated the thick growth from the increasingly busy Interstate-29. No one ever used that door, there was no need. I was probably the only exception.
After closing time and before we began the nightly chores, I’d walk the tiled hallway and step outside the east door, briefly escaping the noise of the kitchen and let the adrenaline subside. The routine rarely changed.
On one warmish evening, I took my walk and exited the door expecting to relax for a few minutes. The traffic on the interstate was relatively light at that hour and was mostly just a quiet hum; vehicles heading north or south. An unexpected rustling in the bushes to my right caught me by surprise; a raccoon or an opossum or some other critter of the night I supposed. Keeping a safe distance, I rattled the taller branches hoping to scare it away. “Shoo. Get outta here. Go on!”
Partially bent forward and peering into the undergrowth, feeling more in flight mode than fight mode, I wait. A tiny pale hand reaches out and pushes the leaves aside. It’s a human, a girl, probably in her mid-twenties. Startled, I jump back. “What the…why are…are you okay?”
She slowly crawled toward me, stayed on her knees but not fully exposed, wearing a long dirty white sun dress. Her soiled hair lay lifeless across her thin skeletal shoulders. “Are you okay?” I asked again. She only offered a slight nod with her head, her eyes looked tired and sad, confused and looking like she hadn’t eaten much for a while. “Food! You’re hungry. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
Racing back down the corridor and into the kitchen, I grabbed a TO-GO order on top of the oven, a soda pop and back out to the girl. Inside the sack was bag of chips and a pastrami sandwich; she devoured it, her eyes looking up at me from the ground. “I have to go lock up. Stay here. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I’ll help you. Stay here,” I said, and with that, I left her.
When I returned, she was gone. The sack and the drink both empty, lying exactly where she had been kneeling. Her climbing the fence toward the interstate or making it through the dense shrub and into the parking lot was hardly possible, but I searched for her as did the Sheriff’s department. Nothing.
I imagined her to be a “Moonie,” a follower of Sun Myung Moon, head of the Unification Church based in South Korea, a popular cult in those days.
I think about that night occasionally, like today. I hope Jesus got her to safety. I tried.
