Digby's Era of Eminence, Chapter Four

The next day was a scorcher. The white sun shone mercilessly on the surface of a twinkling fountain, and scattered all around to blind the innocent pedestrians in the plaza. Pop was sitting over the edge, tossing silver coins into the pool. He had been wishing that Digby would come back to see him. After dropping in a coin, muttering the wish, and subsequently finding that Digby was nowhere around, he would pull out another coin and repeat the process. By now he had run dry on the quarters Digby had left him in the arcade, and he jumped to the pavement and hunted for hints of shiny objects on the sidewalk.

After four minutes, he had found two pennies, a dime, and two objects that appeared to be some kind of seashell. Pop recognized that there was something odd about them, and also something familiar. The texture and color resembled the goat's blossoming curly horns, although this was just a thin layer. It was as if Digby was shedding his horns. Then Pop had a revelation: Digby ­was shedding, and these shells would mark a trail with one end at the goat himself. He scoured the plaza for a third molt, and when he found one on the street to the north, he raced away in that direction.

The traffic whizzed by along Main Street. Pop waited at the crosswalk, scanning carefully for the next clue. When the light turned green he made his way across, and immediately found the fifteenth one by the curb. He bent over to retrieve it, his back now aching. Before he could straighten it, another shell landed on his head and bounced to the ground, where it rattled to a halt. Pop looked up at the goat, whose horns were now merely short, wiry branches, and whose body hair had grown shaggy all over, each strand six inches or longer, drooping from the relentless pull of gravity. He was wearing sunglasses and chatting on a cell phone, apparently ignorant of Pop's presence.

The sight of his old friend filled Pop with a nourishing warmth. He just became conscious of how much he missed Digby already. Then a colder emotion washed over him, as he recalled the events of the previous day, in which Digby had walked out on him, leaving him all alone. "Digby," announced Pop.

Digby glanced downwards, and, seeing the the little blue person there, told whomever was on the line that they would hear from him later. Then he tapped the screen and tucked the device away somewhere in his mass of fur. "Pop, it's good to see you." Pop wanted to smile, but he held back with all his strength. "I'm sorry about how I acted yesterday. My social skills were still limited, and I was disrespectful. If it really means so much to you, I can participate in the tournament, though it would only be as a favor to you, my friend."

"You've changed, Digby," said Pop.

"Indeed."

"You're not even the friend I've known all this time any more. I don't know you."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. If it helps, I still remember all the experiences we shared, and I'm grateful for the hospitality you've always given me."

"Well, it doesn't help! We came to this planet to take on the championship, together. We were a team. Now you don't even care anymore. You don't even care about me -- you just don't want me to get mad."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Drop this whole charade! Take of those stupid sunglasses, and get a haircut. Stay with me in the hotel, and practice bowling with me. I just want the old Digby back."

"I can't do that. I met a girl, and we're going to start a business together. I have commitments here."

"You have a commitment to me," Pop shouted. He breathed a long breath. "You know what, I'm done with this. I'll take your spot in the tournament. We're done, Digby. Have a good life." He whirled around and strode away, but only managed to get a three paces before he reached the street, where cars were streaking by. Digby watched him as he awkwardly waited for a walk signal. Finally the sign flashed white. 

"So yeah, have a good life," Pop repeated, then stomped through the street dramatically.

"I don't need him," Pop assured himself. "I can play just fine without him. After all, I made him." He ordered a lobster and a spicy onion-potato dish for lunch at a restaurant on a dock. When he had eaten his fill, he made his way to the practice facility.

The practice facility consisted of six long, wide hallways stacked on top of one another. In each one existed thirty full-sized, fully-equipped lanes. All of them on the first four floors were occupied with a variety of interesting characters, most of them taller even than Digby. Pop rode the elevator to the fifth floor, and located an empty lane halfway down. The mass of pins, situated just above the ground by the far wall, casually drifted around and around. Pop wasn't sure he had ever thrown any kind of ball that far, even his ever-trusted blue three-pounder, which was now broken thanks to the epic match which landed them the trip to this luxurious place. Now he was forced to select an alley ball from among the ranks which lay in wait on the huge rack. He found a shiny blue ball which was not too heavy for him to carry, although its weight felt imbalanced. He lugged it to the line, and hurled it with all his might. 

Miraculously, it flew a great distance through the air and caused seven pins to tumble from their posts, although they belonged to the next lane over.

The girl who was practicing in that lane had been about to make her throw, and now she was giggling insensitively. Pop's apology echoed through the chamber, but was muffled by the pervasive thunder-like echoes of heavy balls and pins. She retrieved his ball and delivered it back to him.

"I recognize you," she said curiously, narrowing one eye. Pop received the ball graciously. "You're the goat's manager, right?"

Pop realized that she was the girl he had met at the bar, who had had flowers in her hair. She was wearing the same jeans, but now was fitted with a sleeveless exercise shirt and hair tied back in a ponytail. "Yes," said Pop, pointing up at her. "That's me."

"My name's Tanni," she said, holding out her hand.

Pop had to drop the ball to shake. It landed with a thud and rolled a bit away. "Pop. It's short for Popcorn."

"Nice to meet you, Pop. I didn't know you played."

"Oh, yeah, I play alright." He wanted to impress her with wild claims about his skill level, but it occurred to him that he might have to prove any such assertions, probably embarrassingly, so he said nothing more. "Hey, are you playing in the tournament?"

"Yep, I sure am. I know, I don't look the type, do I?"

"No, you look like you have very... skilled hands. I wouldn't doubt for a second you could win."

She laughed. Pop beamed. "I'm flattered. You, on the other hand... you look like you could use some work."

He felt a twinge of anger, and almost talked back to her, but the realized that she was joking. He offered a laugh.

"I guess you never got lessons from that goat friend of yours."

Pop felt the weight of her words pressing the air from his lungs. He steered the conversation away from Digby. "No, but I wouldn't mind a few pointers."

"That's a good attitude," she said. "Trust me, by the time I'm through with you, you'll be as good as him, or better. Um, your ball..." She indicated towards the wall, where the blue ball he had picked out was chilling in the corner. Pop pranced over to pick it up, and returned to the head of the lane, where Tanni was waiting with her own ball.

"The key is to follow through," she explained, demonstrating in slow motion with her right arm. She held the ball away from her body effortlessly as she moved it around. "Of course, being able to send the ball in the direction you want takes experience, and you have to familiarize yourself with the particular ball, too. That's why I always use my own." She took a couple of steps forward and launched her ball, which flew straight at first, but then caught the wind and curved up, connecting with the head pin and two behind it. It plowed through around forty before it emerged on the other side, and generated an outward cascade, bringing down another two hundred before the motion was finished.

"Wow," said Pop.

"Your turn," she said.

"It's kind of a tough act to follow."

"Don't sweat it. I'll help you."

With some effort, Pop lifted his ball over his head. Tanni caught it from behind him and supported most of its weight. "Are you right handed?" Pop confirmed that he was. She gently guided the ball to his right side and pulled backwards. "Turn to the side. Face the right with your legs and forward with your upper body. When you swing, carry the ball from behind you toward the front and upwards. You'll get more power in the throw this way." She let go, and Pop's arm jerked down a couple inches so the ball collided with the wood floor. He lifted it again, determined to throw harder than he'd ever thrown. He stepped forward and chucked it, following through for extra power. He swung his arm all the way around to the left and released it, so that the ball jetted a little behind him, and crashed into the rack of balls. The frame came undone and a hundred balls poured out, rolling to the four corners of the facility and clogging the pin depositories.

"Look at that," the girl said jokingly. "That was some power, to break the rack." Pop looked at her skeptically. "You could definitely take the cup... next year."

"I suck," mourned Pop.

"Just keep working at it." Her smile was infectious, and Pop let out a laugh. She joined him. "Well, I ought to get back to work. The tournament's only four days away, after all." A disappointed look emerged on his face. "But..." she went on, "I'm going to a party on the beach tonight. If you meet me in front of the souvenir shop on Surfside Boulevard at sundown, we can walk there together."