“Don't try to be so clever.  Just find out what you care about and do that.  Write about something you care about."

-- Charles Schulz’ advice to an aspiring writer
 

And so, with the death of Charles Schulz, an era has ended.  This, not to put too fine a point on it, sucks.  You must realize that “Peanuts” has been an important part of my life since I was a very small child.  Compilation books of the “Peanuts” strip were a constant in my childhood.  And they’re a big part of my adulthood.  It’s been my experience that there are very few books you can pull off the shelf and read, and re-read, every year, and still smile again and again, even laughing out loud, even though you long ago memorized the set-ups and punch lines.

But to reduce “Peanuts” to mere set-ups and punch lines does it a great disservice.  At its core, “Peanuts” was about you, and me, and the parts of us that never grew up even though we got older.  It was about what it means to be human, to have hope, to feel fear, to want to be loved, and to seek the love of others.  We all have a security blanket; look around – there’s probably an equivalent in your life within ten feet of you now.

That was what made “Peanuts” so special to me.  It had that rarest of qualities – a genuine empathetic resonance with the characters that made you feel what they were feeling, and what we all at one time or another had felt.

Even my latest encounter with the latest in a long string of little red headed girls brought home to me just how much I’m going to miss new adventures of Charlie Brown, because in so many ways, he’s me.

It’s bowling night, Friday night, time for an after-work party.  Bunches of people from the office are headed out, but the cutest girl from work hesitates, before saying to me, “Well, I’ll go if you go.”  Well, of course, then, I’m there, if only so she will be too.

(A side note which in no way should detract from this story:  This girl, like many of the great girls I know, has some form of boyfriend, somewhere, but he’s out of the picture for tonight and she’s got a bowling jones she wants to feed with me.  And as a side note to the side note:  What’s that all about?  Trouble?  Factor in she had previously sought my counsel on a “making up” gift for him.  Hmm.)

So we head out.  It’s a popular place we’ve chosen for our bowling, smack dab in the middle of Koreatown.  We arrive at about 11:30pm, and the joint is fully jumping.  There’s an energy in the air, and no doubt, some of it is coming from the imagined sparks I could see flying off this girl, were the situation different.  (Okay, one last side note:  The situation isn’t different, and believe me, I understand that.  Still, when you’re going through a bit of a dating drought, any sparks are welcome, even the false sparks of an ostensibly committed co-worker, if only as a reminder that sparks do exist in nature, and have not been abolished from your reality.)

The bowling goes well for me, better than it ever has before.  I’m not a big bowler; I go maybe once or twice a year, but for whatever reason, I’ve got it tonight.  Strike, spare, spare, and strike.  That sound you hear all night is the cacophony of pins falling on my lane, a symphony composed of Mica Reactive Urethane and Surlyn-coated maple.  (Uh, that would the ball and the pins.  Sorry, got a little carried away.)

A note about that sound.  There is a sound unique to bowling alleys everywhere.  It’s the impact and rattle made by a strike – a “pop and scatter” that signifies perfection to the bowler.  Once you’ve heard it, you never forget it.  And I was hearing it a lot this night.

With a large group from work in attendance, we were bowling on two lanes.  I had joined up with the group on the left hand lane, and she, with those bowling to the right.  We had four bowlers, they had five.  And so, the laws of mathematics being what they are, eventually we both were ready to bowl at the same time.

There we were, standing side-by-side, having a fantastic time, bowling balls in hand, both looking at a fresh set of pins.  And I’m thinking, This is a moment which calls for something cool, something wonderful, something where someone looks down from the heavens and says, yes, just once, just this once, I’m going to put a little magic in to these kids’ lives.

So, with the best bit of Han Solo-ish self-confidence and charm I can muster, I say, “Hey, I’ve got an idea.  Why don’t we both throw strikes?”

“Okay,” she says with a smile, and sparkling eyes.  (Do they ever not sparkle?  I wish she’d stop that.  Or at least, go sparkle them at someone else, because damn, that’s a tough sparkle to resist.)

“You first,” I say.

Whereupon she reaches back, approaches the lane limit line, slides her right foot ever so gracefully in her perfect-bowling-stride technique behind her left foot, and nails it.

Pins fly everywhere.

The sound.

Strike.

She passes me as I’m standing there, holding my bowling ball and my breath, suddenly with the sinking feeling that not only have I bitten off a bit more than I can chew, but in fact, am now choking.

“Your turn,” she says, and again, there’s that damn twinkle.

Well, okay, I think, it’s not impossible for me to throw a strike.  I mean, I’ve been doing great, with a couple of strikes and a whole mess of spares so far, so matching her feat is not out of the question.

“Relax,” I tell myself over and over, “just take it easy.  Easy ... you know how to do this.  Just let it happen.  Visualize ... just relax ... ”

As I begin my stride, the world, as it so rarely does, started to slow down and perhaps (and this was a new twist, at least to me) go in to some sort of kaleidoscope vision.  I could see the pins at the end of my lane, but why were they spinning like that?  This was disconcerting to say the least, but I pressed on with my approach, determined to simply use the same technique I’d been using all night long, and let fate sort out the results.

I remember the ball leaving my hand.  I remember seeing it head straight down the center of the lane ... and I remember thinking that maybe, just maybe this was meant to be.  That this was Destiny’s way of hooking me up with someone, through an event as simple as bowling.  That maybe when all ten of my pins rattled around the lane with that sound which is so unique to bowling allies, that maybe, just maybe, this little red haired girl would look at me differently.  No more would I be that gender-neutral friend in whom she could confide everything.  She would see me as a man, a special man, a confident man, someone with a lot to offer, someone worthy of building a life with, and someone who deserved to be with someone as special and cool and funny and wonderful and charming and beautiful as her.

And that’s when I noticed my ball starting to fade off to the right.

Fade, fade, fade ...

There is a sound unique to bowling alleys everywhere.  It’s the sound you never want to hear – a “plink” caused by the crash of a mightily thrown bowling ball striking a single pin.

Plink.

The ten-pin didn’t stand a chance.  Pins one through nine, however, were quiet, immobile, and unimpressed ... much as I imagined she must be.

Is there a worse look than the look of mock disappointment she greeted me with?  “I thought we had a deal?” she said with a smile.  And I thought, “We could have.”  But there was no time for pithy byplay.  Nine pins were waiting for me, and despite whatever fantasies I’d painted about the repercussions of a single bowling frame, she was not.

Charlie Brown, dear friend, I know where you’re coming from.  These are the battles we fight every day, whether it’s a kite-eating tree, a line-drive hitting batsman, or a golden opportunity washed out in a “plink.”

Thanks, Charles Schulz.  And so long, Charlie Brown.  I will miss both of you so much.  But I’ll keep fighting the good fight.  And I know that some day, some little red haired girl, whoever and wherever she is, will come around for both of us.

Links:

http://www.peanuts.com

http://www.brunswickbowling.com/