The Power of Ten

The closet is hot but I shut the door behind me. 

 

I’m in.

 

Lemony floor wax scents the air, while a humid breeze slides up my bare thighs.  Weather’s right for bowling.

 

Far away, at the end of alley, all ten pins stare at me, those petulant little sluts.  Their lower lips stick out, daring me for some action.  And it’s action I shall give them, because my curveball will slap the earth right off her axis and melt polar ice caps with the sheer gravity of its spin.

 

But I am taking my time.  Because this, my friends, is not about Craps, with its simple sevens and elevens.  Nor about Blackjack’s twenty-one.  No nine innings.  No four quarters.  No three furlongs to the second.

 

Bowling is a game entirely devoted to the Deep Mysteries of the Number Ten.

 

 

Ten Commandments of Exodus.

 

Ten Lost Tribes of Israel.

 

The Ten Martyrs – one of them, a rabbi rolled up inside a life-sized copy of the Torah and burned over a pile of green wood.  The original Kosher doobie. 

 

Ten:  the exact number of fingers on both hands.  And Ten is also the atomic number of neon.  Our very chemistry, cosmically entwined with both the buzzing Budweiser sign, and the sweaty hands wrapped around the beer.

 

There Are Ten Cents In A Dime, Which Is Itself 1/10 of a Dollar.

 

Ten, the Highest Score in Olympic Gymnastics. 

 

Ten Girls on a Roller Derby Track.

 

And when driving a race car, “Ten-Tenths” means driving as fast as the machine will possibly allow – ten toes inside a heat-resistant boot, pressing pedal hard to red-hot metal.

 

But here in this strange walk-in closet, I feel the electricity of the number Ten in this ancient game of Bowling — so ancient that remnants of it have been found in the graves of long-dead Egyptian children:  a parting gift from parents, choking on their grief, who sent along home entertainment for their dead little ones’ trip across the sky in Ra’s barque.   

 

The Power of Ten:  let the multiplicity of it blow back your hair.  Resist it not, like dog ears fluttering in the car window.

 

The Power is Thus:  Ten bowling pins, looking radiant and pure like ten shiny bottles of milk.  Knock them down.  Demolish them.  Do each one of them grievous harm.  Do this the best you can, ten times in a row.  For most people, the game ends here. 

 

But for the Initiates of the Perfect Game, ten perfect demolitions results in a cosmic pregnancy, a virgin birth from which springs an eleventh chance.

 

Let those who have dog ears hear!

 

A second strike in the tenth frame brings forth the final and majestic Truth:  that from ten frames can come twelve strikes, and from twelve strikes, comes 300 points, and 300 points delivers to your table a free pitcher of Budweiser, a chili-cheese dog, and an HSBC-sanctioned ring which wields a mighty power in certain circles. 

 

The tape recorder cranks up to life.

 

“You think you better bowler than me, babeeeeeeeee?”