Sally Breslin: My Life: MYSTERY SHOPPING AT THE BOWLING ALLEY FROM HELL

One of the things I have missed during this pandemic is going candlepin bowling. Before all of this madness began, I used to go bowling at least once a month (that’s when I was able to convince my friends that their backaches afterwards would last only "a few hours").

There was a time, however, when I actually got paid to go bowling. It might sound like a fun job, but the only way I can describe it is…scary, very scary.

At the time, back in the late 1980s, I was working for a mystery-shopping firm, where I received weekly assignments to shop at different locations throughout New England and then write up reports about my impressions of the employees, the establishment’s cleanliness and signage, and much more. As a result, I visited a lot of banks, supermarkets, restaurants, hotels and malls throughout four states.

So when I was assigned to mystery shop a bowling alley in Massachusetts on a Saturday night, I thought it would be a refreshing change from questioning bank employees about money-market accounts or home-improvement loans.

The owner of the bowling alley was from another state and owned several businesses, so he said he needed “fresh eyes” to observe the operation of the bowling alley because he rarely was able to visit Massachusetts in person.

Well, my instructions said I had to bring another person with me, so my first choice, of course, was my husband.

“It’s a free evening of fun!” I told him, my tone overly enthusiastic. "All we have to do is bowl a string each, eat at the snack bar and then have a drink in the lounge – all paid for. It will be like a free date night for us!”

“Yeah, but we’ll have to drive 80 miles one way just to get there,” he said, looking less than convinced, even at the prospect of getting free cheeseburgers, his favorite food.

“I also get paid for mileage, plus an hourly rate," I said. "You can't beat that."

Upon arriving at the bowling alley in a rundown section of town, my husband and I honestly were afraid to get out of the car. Sprawled across the littered front steps leading into the building were several leather-clad, boom-box blasting teens, who not only looked like extras from a documentary on gang wars, their bodies had so many piercings, I wondered how they could take a drink of water without springing leaks.

Even worse, they stared at us as if they were saying, “We dare you to set foot on our turf!”

When my husband and I finally entered the building, little did we know our evening would end up being like an episode straight out of the Twilight Zone.

The first thing we noticed was the bowling alley’s security guard, in full uniform, seated at one of the tables. There was a young woman on his lap and they were passionately kissing. I was pretty sure I could have emptied the cash register at that point, and he wouldn’t have known the difference.

My husband and I walked over to the counter to rent our bowling shoes. Back then, even though smoking still was allowed in public areas, we still were surprised to see the female employee (and I’m totally serious here) with a lit cigarette dangling from her lips as she used a can of aerosol spray to disinfect the shoes. I braced myself for the explosion.

We bowled our one required string, which took about an hour because the ball-return kept sticking. Our hands were so filthy afterwards, I decided it might be a good time to check out the restroom, which I’d been instructed to examine for cleanliness and upkeep.

That’s when I noticed the ladies’ room had no outer door on it and neither did any of the stalls inside. When I later asked an employee why there were no doors, he shrugged and said, “Vandals. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

I prayed that my bladder would have mercy on me for the rest of the night.

At least the sink was in working order, so I washed my hands and then my husband and I headed over to the snack bar. As we sat at the counter and waited to order, I reached into my purse and discreetly checked the notepad on which I’d jotted down some of the client’s list of questions. The first one made me giggle.

“What’s so funny?” my husband asked.

“The owner’s first question is, ‘What was your first impression upon entering this bowling alley? Did it appear to be family oriented?’”

My husband chuckled. “Yeah, for the Manson Family.”

At that moment, the server, a young blond woman, approached and asked what she could get for us. We ordered cheeseburgers.

“Sorry,” she said in a monotone. “It’s been a real busy night and I haven’t had time to scrape all of the crud off the grill yet. Can I get you something else that doesn’t need the grill?”

I was tempted to say, “Yeah, a stomach pump.”

We ordered cheese sandwiches, which had been pre-made, wrapped in plastic and stored in the soda cooler. The bread was so dry, it was curling on the edges.

Finally, we headed to the lounge, which was larger than we had anticipated. There was a circular bar in the center of the room with tables surrounding it. There even was a small dance area.

We entered just as the female bartender was having a heated argument with one of the patrons, who was seated at the bar.

“I don’t have to put up with this sh*t!” she finally shouted, removing her apron and flinging onto the bar. “I quit!” Spewing a stream of obscenities, she stormed out.

We sat and waited 25 minutes for another employee to come in and take over (after all, I had a report to complete), but the bar remained unattended. By then, many of the other customers were getting impatient…and thirsty. All it took was for one of them to finally get up and help himself to a drink, and the free-for-all began. One customer even stood at the beer tap and filled one mug after another, handing them out to anyone who wanted one.

My husband and I never were so glad to get out of a place.

When I filed my report on Monday, the owner of the bowling alley refused to believe me. But after he personally checked into everything I’d written (in his attempt to disprove my report), he realized I was telling the truth. As a result, I was sent to mystery shop that same bowling alley at least a dozen more times. My husband and I became “regulars” (even though we had no body piercings).

Did things vastly improve with each of our visits?

Only slightly.

They did hire another bartender and also a new security guard, and the grill was cleaned, so we finally were able to try the cheeseburgers.

Believe me, the dried-up cheese sandwiches were a lot better.

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Sally Breslin is an award-winning humor columnist and the author of “There’s a Tick in my Underwear!” “Heed the Predictor,” “The Common-Sense Approach to Dream Interpretation” and “Christmas, a Cabin and a Stranger.” Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.