This short story is a work of fiction. Part II to follow…
It was a typical Thursday afternoon. The regulars were shooting pool in the back, coming to the bar every so often for another round. There were a few tables filled with patrons having a late lunch.
Jerry leaned on the rail with his back to the bar. He almost felt guilty about not being more productive.
Fuck it, he thought. Let the next guy worry about it.
Instead of starting a round of dishes or dumping ashtrays or checking the kegs, he turned up the volume on the television that was hanging from the ceiling behind the bar.
Just as he began to get into the E! True Hollywood Story about John Holmes and the Wonderland Murders, he heard the tell-tale jingle of the door slapping against the brass bell mounted on the inside of the door jam.
I ought to call the police and report this one for disturbing the peace Jerry thought as a short, bearded man stumbled into the pub. He took his time walking to the bar, not in a straight line, but kind of wandering around like he had never been there before. Jerry sure didn’t know who he was. He just knew he was messing with his TV time.
The short, bearded man wasn’t as drunk as he seemed at first, but he was drunk. He reeked of whiskey, cigarette smoke and maybe a little piss Jerry surmised. Those were three smells that Jerry knew all too well. Along with the odors, the short, bearded man had the requisite light brown stain on his oxford cloth shirt that had three buttons missing at the top.
“What can I do you for?,” asked Jerry, not really caring to know the answer.
“Dewar’s, a double, warm,” said the short, bearded man in a tone that suggested he was surprised that he was being served.
It had been a long day for him and it was just 3:21 p.m.
He rubbed his temple with both hands and tried to get his eyes to focus. No luck. He then scavenged through the pockets of his brown, wool sportcoat for his pack of Kools. The soft pack was smashed and just one smoke remained. He took a paper book of matches that was stuck in between the cellophane wrapper of his Kools and bent one match backwards and struck it without tearing it out of the book.
He lit his bent, crooked cigarette, inhaled deeply and tossed the matches on the bar top. Sighing more than exhaling, he sent a thin blue line into the afternoon sunlight that was invading through the window. He crushed the soft pack tightly in his palm before letting it drop to the bar.
Jerry brought the double shot of Dewar’s to the short, bearded man in a short, square-bottomed glass. He had poured it fat in hopes of a good tip since his shift ended in less than an hour and his day had been for shit so far.
“Six fifty,” said Jerry, noticing the matches with the bulldog logo on them. “You been to Hank’s today?”
“What?” the short, bearded man said while working his wallet of his back pocket.
“Hank’s, the bar. Your matches are from Hank’s,” Jerry said, his voice trailing off giving the man a chance to respond.
“I’ve been to a lot of places today, bud,” said the short, bearded man, handing Jerry a crisp $20 bill.
Walking back to the register, Jerry glanced at him in the Guinness mirror that stood in front of the various bottles of rum, vodka, whiskey, gin and tequila. Jerry noticed the desperate look on the man’s face, but he had seen that a thousand times. There was something about him.
Jerry laid the man’s change down on the time-worn mahogany bar just in time to see him down the rest of the drink. The man, who had spent the early part of the morning in court with his ex-wife, did not show any sign of relief from the double shot. He did not exhale, whistle, cringe or slam the glass down.
He just looked at the empty glass and ran his tongue over his front teeth. Back and forth three times over before motioning for another drink.
“Another double, bud,” he said.
“Fresh glass?,” Jerry asked, while reaching for the Dewar’s.
“This one will do,” he said listening to the hard crack of a new game of pool starting in the back room.
Jerry began to pour the drink, a healthy, four-fingers of whiskey and almost chuckled out loud, but caught himself on the safe side of a grin. In his time tending bar, a dozen or so years, he had always loved watching a man drink silly amounts of whiskey.
“Take it out of this?,” Jerry asked, pointing to the money still resting on the bar.
“Tell you what, bud, you keep that change,” the man said while grabbing for his wallet and pulling out a $100 bill from a stack of money that looked out of place in his raggedy wallet. “Let me know when this runs out and keep those drinks a coming.”
“No problem there,” Jerry said. “Since we’re such good buddies and all, what’s your name partner?”
The man pushed his wallet into the back pocket of his black dress slacks that seemed a burden for him to wear and drank half of the glass down as smoothly as could be.
“Joseph,” he said as he began to feel the warm rush of the whiskey bring him back to life.
“Nice to meet you Joseph, I’m Jerry.”
“You sell smokes?”
“In the machine in the back room,” Jerry said. “There’s a quarter changer next to it.”
Joseph finished his second drink, placed it gently on the bar and slid off his stool. He picked up a $5 from the change of his first drink that Jerry had yet to pick up and showed it to him, letting him know that he hadn’t forgot he was giving him that change one way or another.
Joseph, feeling much better now, slinked back to get a new pack of Kools. The sounds of the pool room, the click-clack of the balls against each other, the shit-talking of the players and the low rumbling of the blues coming from the jukebox, became much louder now that he was paying attention.
The cigarette machine was on the far wall, in the corner, below three small rectangle windows that were covered with wooden blinds. The blinds were half opened, so layered beams of sunlight shot in to the otherwise dark room. A green glass lamp hung from a chain over the pool table, but its light did not extend much past the table.
The song on the jukebox was familiar, but all blues songs sound familiar. It could have been Buddy Guy, Stevie Ray Vaughn or Bo Diddley. Joseph didn’t really care. It was slow, sexy and full of pain. Each pull of the guitar strings gave Joseph a jolt as he made his way towards the cigarette machine.
He noticed the five men in the room. Not as much as they took a look a him, but Joseph saw them none the less. There were the two men playing nine ball, one of them leaning on the fall wall with one foot flat on the wooden surface. He was tall and skinny, wearing a striped colored shirt unbuttoned over his crisp white wife-beater T that was tucked neatly into his pleated slacks. He looked like a pool shark from his polished shoes to the cigarette resting behind his right ear.
His opponent was working the table. He was an average looking younger guy, going bald but wearing a golf visor and sporting long lamb-chop side burns. This average looking guy did not have an average game apparently, working quick too, pocketing three balls before Joseph got to cigarette machine.
Joseph waited for the average looking guy, who Joseph thought was probably still in his 20s because of the baggy jeans he was wearing, to hit his next shot before he slapped the $5 into the changer. As the quarters started pinging down into the tray, the younger looking player shot a glance at Joseph before slamming home the nine ball, a little harder than necessary.
“Now what?!,” exclaimed the younger player, slowly stepping towards the shark. “That’s five straight Curtis. By my math, and I love some math, that’s $150. Pay me now or forever hold my piece.”
“Cool your jets son,” said the shark. “You got a bus to catch or some shit? Yeah you won your couple games or whatever. The question is, are you ready to play for some real jack?”
“Jack these,” the younger player said grabbing his balls and laughing nervously. “If I wanted to do this shit all day I would get a job. Plus, I’m not falling for your shit today Curtis. Pay me. Pay me. Payyyyyyy me.”
For the first time, Joseph felt a little tension in the room as he put the 18th and final quarter into the machine and pulled the knob. Joseph picked up his pack, began packing it against his palm, and walked over to the jukebox.
He began looking over the selections on the jukebox as the pool players continued to argue.
“You saying that you’re too much of a pussy to play me again, son?” said Curtis. “Is that the problem? You win a couple games and now you want to run away.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah whatever you say Curtis,” said the younger player who was now putting on his hooded sweatshirt. “Look, I have to go. You owe me money. It’s damn simple. I’ve never welched on you before.”
“True enough my man,” said Curtis laughing slightly. Curtis liked the kid’s spirit. Curtis appreciated his skill. The kid wasn’t as good as he was, but he won fair and square.
“Chris, pay the man,” said Curtis to the broad shouldered man playing solitaire at the corner table.
Chris was just as tall as Curtis, but had the build of a weight lifter. He had his head shaved as clean as a marble floor, but had a full, neatly trimmed beard. As he walked around the pool table, Chris pulled a thick money roll from his neatly-pleated slacks.
Chris was kind of in slow motion all the time, but then again he didn’t have to move fast if he didn’t want to. He didn’t smile unless he was making money. He didn’t laugh unless he heard something new. He just was not to be fucked with under any circumstance.
The money roll Chris took out of his pocket looked fake. A half-inch rubber band held what had to be thousands of dollars. He took his thumb, licked it once and peeled three $50 bills off and laid them on the pool table. He then snapped the rubber band back into place, tucked the roll back in his pants and went slowly back to the corner table without saying a word.
“There you go, son,” said Curtis, waving towards the door. “But I tell you this much. There ain’t no more $30 games, son. No, no, no, no, no. The next game you and I play will be for $150 and so will the next one and the one after that big man.”
“Aiight, whatever fellas,” said the now richer younger man. He put his earphones on, pulled his hood up and put his backpack on before leaving the room.
Joseph had made his two selections and started to make his way back to the bar.
“Hey son, you want to play?” Curtis called after Joseph.
“No thanks, dad,” Joseph said without turning around.
“Come on now it’s just a friendly game. Shoot some stick now, it’ll make you feel better.”
“Who said I was feeling bad?” asked Joseph, spinning back on his heels and almost getting fired up until he saw Chris and thought better of it. The whiskey was giving him a mighty buzz and a spot of onory to go with it. “I’m feeling pretty damn good as a matter of fact.”
Joseph downed the rest of his drink and chuckled, more to himself than out loud.
“Shit faced you are, I’ll give you that,” said Curtis, rubbing blue chalk on his tailor-made one-of-a-kind cue. “But no man that drinks whiskey like that and drops quarters on blues songs at 4 o’clock in the afternoon is feeling pretty damn good. Say I ain’t telling the truth.”
“You ain’t lying bout shit,” said Chris without looking up or stopping his solitaire game.
Joseph turned and walked out of the room, ripping the top off of his new pack of Kools, popping one out and lighting it almost in one smooth motion. He made his way back to the bar, where he found Jerry had already laid another four-fingers of Dewar’s in a fresh glass.
“I love your work, bud,” Joseph said. He slid the old glass towards Jerry, who was ringing up one of the tables of people who had a late lunch. They were professionals. Professional what, Joseph couldn’t tell. They were suits. Doctors, lawyers, accountants, whatever and who gives a rat’s ass.
His own suit was feeling awful on him at the moment. A bad morning and a bottle of scotch later, there wasn’t much room to expect anything to the contrary Joseph supposed. Where did he go wrong? Didn’t he always do the right thing? Sure he did. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you. It’s a crock of shit, that’s what it is.
He mashed his cigarette into the previously pristine glass ashtray and took a pull off of his drink.
He watched Jerry give the people their change for each separate bill. Each of the four suits had to have their own bill. Bunch of non-trusting fucks. Couldn’t possibly pick up the check for the others or split it somehow. Maybe it was easier this way.
He watched as Jerry made a roady, an electric lemonade he thinks, for one of the suits. Two-thirds Minute Made, one third Stoli and lots of ice in a Styrofoam cup. Just what the doctor ordered. That made Joseph laugh. Maybe the suit was doctor. Maybe this doctor suit was going back for surgery and just couldn’t manage without a good pop right before.
He watched Jerry go pick up the glasses, plates and silver wear the suits left on the table. What a mess. There was half of a spilled Bud Lite with the bottle still laying on its side. There were crumbs and ketchup and all sorts of condensation marks. If cleanliness is close to godliness, then these suits are Satanists Joseph thought.
He watched the television for a few minutes as he polished off another drink, totally numb now to the warm relief it had given him just an hour earlier. But then again that was a baker’s dozen of shots ago too. He spun his glass on the coaster, mindful that it didn’t tip over. SportsCenter was back from commercial and it distracted him enough that he didn’t notice that Jerry had poured him another drink and it was sitting right in front of him.
“You’ve been pretty quiet for a while now,” Jerry said as he began to wash glasses in the sink behind the bar. “Fuck me running,” he yelped, shaking the hand that he damn near scalded in the sink.
“A little too soon for that, bud,” said Joseph, still amazingly not slurring his words in the slightest. “Let me ask you something. The fellas in the back. The one shooting pool is a hustler, isn’t he?”
“Not that I know of,” Jerry said in his for the record, yes sir, no sir tone. “I can tell you that he is a damn fine player. A virtual virtuoso of the felt lined-arts. Not a bad character altogether though. Why are you asking?”
“I’m getting an itch to play a few friendly games,” Joseph said, emphasizing the word friendly.
“I’ve never known Curtis to play friendly games before. Don’t let me stop you though. You’re still in the clear with me Joseph. In fact, here’s another Dewar’s for your trouble.”
Joseph smiled as he pulled another Kool from the pack. He smoothed over his beard with his other hand a few times before popping the match and inhaling deeply. Taking a step back off the stool, he grabbed the drink and began to stride to the back room.
For whatever reason he was smirking. Sure as shit he didn’t have a good reason to smile. Liquid cockiness he supposed. Can’t go play with this shark without a little strut to myself, a little pride on the outside as his high school coach used to call it.
As he walked into the back room he saw Curtis putting his stick into its titanium case and snap the fastenings shut. He was worried that he’d missed his chance until he saw that Chris was still playing solitaire. If the big man was still sitting down, then those two weren’t leaving yet Joseph supposed.
“Looky here Chris, our man has come back to play,” Curtis chirped with an ear to ear grin. “You do want to play don’t you? Yeah you do, I can smell it.”
“I can smell the whiskey on ‘em, believe that,” Chris chimed in.
“Yeah man, let’s play. Any of these sticks on the wall worth a shit?”
Curtis didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed all the balls out of the pockets and racked them up. Joseph walked over to assortment of cues placed haphazardly against the wall, some in the rack, some leaning in the corner. Most of them had worn-out tips. He found one that had good enough balance, better than his own anyway, and walked over to one of the corner tables on the opposite side of Chris and placed his cigarette into the ashtray.
“What are you smoking, son?” Curtis asked.
“Kools.”
“Mild or Kings?”
“Mild”
“My man, may man. Don’t you know that’s my flavor. Dammed if I’m fresh out though. Bust me a square son and lets get this game started.”
Hustling me already, Joseph thought as he walked over to Curtis and handed him two cigarettes to save himself the trouble five minutes from now.
“Oh shit Chris, we got a generous cat here. But is he generous with his paper? That’s the question. Or more accurately, that’s the $20 question.”
“Twenty is it? Twenty it is.”
Curtis strolled to the end of the table and re-racked the balls. With the nine ball locked firmly in the center, Curtis carefully picked up the rack and spun it between the palms of his hands, grinning the whole time. Curtis had this guy pegged as an easy mark. Whatever the case was, Curtis needed to get back some of that money he just lost. See, Curtis had the last guy pegged as an easy mark three weeks ago. Shit done changed.
He hung the rack under the table on its hook and walked back over to where Joseph was standing. Curtis reached into the right pocket of his pants and produced a silver dollar.
“Call it in the air, Kool Mild.”
“Heads,” called Joseph.
“Tails it is. Man listen, that wasn’t fair. That was my lucky silver dollar there. Tell you what, I won the flip but I want you to break.”
“Mighty kind of you, bud,” said Joseph, smashing out another smoke in the ashtray. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re trying to hustle me, bud. It’s just that I really don’t give two shits.”
“Fine, whatever.”
Joseph went to the front of the table and began chalking his stick, hoping that maybe today having chalk on his stick will actually make a difference. Some days his pool game is about as useful as a two-legged dog. He blew the chalk dust off the tip and bent down to line up his shot.
Looking down the crooked shaft of the stick, he sees the cue ball appear and disappear from behind the bobbing, blue tip of the stick. Bob, bob, hesitate… Bob, bob, hesitate… Bob, bob, CRACK-CRACK! He sent the nine balls caroming around the felt, sinking the seven into the right corner.
“Well, well, welcome to the game Mr. Whiskey Kool Mild,” said Curtis. “Hustle you? I don’t know Chris. This man looks like the shark to me.”
“He ain’t a shark Curtis. He just whooping your ass like everybody else today,” Chris said in a not-so pleasant tone. “I’m working up a damn lather walking back and forth between paying out for you losses. That’s the damn truth.”
“You, are not funny,” Chris said feigning like his feelings are hurt.
“That’s just enough of the act,” said Joseph, while searching out the one ball. “I don’t want to hear all this yapping while I shoot.”
“Oh you don’t? That’s too bad, son. My table, my room, my mutherfuckin mouth talking as much and as long and as loud about whatever the fuck I want. Shoot, this is just a plain ole regular type of friendly game we got going here. This is friend-ly. I don’t play $20 games man. This is for sport. Shoot, tell me to shut up. You don’t want this to be un-friendly.”
Curtis was worked up now. Try to show a little compassion for the drunk stiff, build a rapport, make some conversation, be friend-ly and what does he do? Act all angry, disturbed.
That burns Curtis’ ass. It’s on now.
“Easy Curtis. Come on bud, you’re right, let’s just play,” said Joseph. “I’m sorry.”
“Damn skippy you’re sorry. Better take your shot and miss it so I can do my thing. Now I’m fired up. You done messed up now, y’hear.”
Joseph wished he had held his lip and just played pool like he was going to. The trash talk didn’t bother him really. At least it usually didn’t. It never bothered him when the bigger kids in grade school picked on him and made him cry in front of the class with their jeers and taunts. It never bothered him playing football in high school when some punk ass little safety would run his mouth after making a tackle. It never bothered him when Lydia, that cunt of an ex-wife of his, would come home all liquored up and talk shit until she passed out.
It never used to bother him. Never again would he just sit there and take it. No sir.
He looked the table over while taking a big pull off of his smoke. Walking over to the cue ball he called out his shot, lined up the three-to-one combo shot and click-clacked the one home. The two was buried behind the five on the far rail. Joseph couldn’t sink the ball, but he could play a safety, which he did.
“Just go ahead and take a seat, now,” said Curtis, strutting to the cue ball, not that he had a shot. Joseph had put the screw on real tight. Not that Curtis was worried. He had a feeling about this game and this dude. Uncle mo’ was swinging back to Curtis. That’s just the way it goes. Has to. He did all he could with the shot, but he left a slight angle for the short, bearded whiskey drinker with the superior taste in cigarettes.
What happened to me today thought Joseph. Was I in the wrong courtroom? ONE BALL RIGHT CORNER, ONE RAIL, clip-thud. Is that I’m an asshole? That I don’t make enough money? What the fuckety fuck fuck? TWO BALL, MIDDLE POCKET, clip-thud. A giant shit storm rained down on me today, bud. That judge has some nerve taking my boy away from me. And for what? Because I’m a man? I work. I pay bills. I never stayed out late. Shoot, I never go out at all. THREE BALL, STRAIGHT SHOT, clip-thud.
Bet ole Curtis is a shade worried now. Should be. I hope I don’t look like a fool. Just cause Ima drunker’n piss don’t mean I see crooked. What a mess.
“Say Curtis. Since you getting whooped again, why don’t you go grab me another pitcher of iced tea,” said Chris. He wasn’t asking. Joseph picked up on that a couple minutes ago. Chris was the heavy. Curtis was the mouth, the hustler. A shit-assed excuse for one at that.
“And don’t forget the pink packets this time either. You bring some Equals back here, there will be some reprecus-ions.”
“What? Fuck you Chris. I am concentrating on this game.”
Chris just glared over at Curtis with a look that expressed pure disappointment. People should know their place in the world Chris thought. Curtis knows damn well he wouldn’t talk that shit if someone else wasn’t there to hear it.
FOUR TO THE NINE, STRAIGHT, click-clack-thud.
“I’ll be a shit house mouse,” bemused Curtis as he began walking towards the bar. He walked the long way around the table. The way that wouldn’t bring him past Chris.
“And a fresh glass too,” called Chris with a gleaming smile.
While Curtis was fetching the tea, Chris kept playing cards and Joseph just leaned against the back wall power smoking another Kool. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.
The room was starting to get dark, the shadows from the blinds had moved all the way across the table. Joseph looked at his watch and couldn’t believe it was already a quarter past five. He thought about getting another drink, but what good would that do. It wasn’t that he was developing some late-afternoon temperance. It was the fact that he couldn’t feel that burn anymore. It might as well be water. He could still feel a different burn that all the whiskey in every still in Tennessee had no remedy for. Every which way he thought it over, he had received the fucking of his life that morning. Raw, hard and without warning, his whole life was ravaged with the stamp and approval of the state of Indiana. That makes a difference too. The first time you see your name on official documents it doesn’t seem real. The fill in the blanks, methodical sound of the transcripts makes you feel unimportant and little.
He had no idea where he would go from here.
In the literal sense, he had no clue how he was going to get home from this bar. He was beyond drunk and didn’t really remember where his car was. There were several promising locations that he could check, but that was more walking than he had in him at this point. Taxis would not take him to his house out in the sticks or at least not without taking every last penny and he was close to being down to that shiny fucker at the moment. As he rubbed his temples with his rough hands, callused from years of hard work, he hoped some sort of clarity would arrive. Of all the thoughts surfing on the river of Dewar’s in his mind, none of them was close to the serenity he desired.
While the literal question of what to do when he eventually left the bar was far from answered, Joseph skipped right on to the figurative question of what to do next with his life. Curtis came back with the fresh pitcher of tea with a fresh glass filled with ice and a handful of pink packets of sweetener. Joseph didn’t hear Curtis the first three times he started in with his new line of chatter, but broke the balls hard and effectively, sending the five into the corner pocket about a second after Curtis picked up the rack.
“Damn, son! You bout broke my fingers with that shit. Hurry up and miss. I haven’t all day for your weird moods.”
“Did it cross your mind that I might not miss Curtis?” asked Joseph as he searched for his next shot. “It didn’t. Wow you don’t judge talent too well.”
It felt good to take somewhat of the upper hand with Curtis. It felt even better to control the game. ONE BALL, SIDE, CUT SHOT, clip-thud. He once had control of his life. That’s the way it always seemed. In control. Work, play, love, fight – it was all at his discretion. He made the rules because he followed the rules. TWO TO THE SIX, CORNER, click-clack thud. All his life, the comfortable life he always wanted, was on the verge of falling in or already in the shiter. His son was gone. TWO, CORNER. click-thud. His ex was taking more than her fair share of everything else. SEVEN TO THE NINE, CORNER, STRAIGHT, click-clack-thud.
“Got-damn, whiskey man. Seems that you have more game than you let on.”
“That’s they way it is sometimes Curtis.”
Joseph began walking towards the cue rack to put his stick away. He felt good about taking the two games from the hustler. One for the good guy. A small piece of solace for a shitty day.
“Where the fuck are you going son? Tell me you’re getting a new stick. I know you’re not leaving. No fucking way. You’re up $40. That ain’t shit.”
“I got to go man. Take your loss like a man.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Chris without looking up from his game. “He doesn’t have that ability.”
Joseph smiled as he paused at the corner of the table. He liked Chris’ calm demeanor. Here was his partner losing his money all afternoon and he still had a sense of humor. That meant two things; either he was just an affable type of guy or the type of money he’s losing might as well be coins.
“Tell you what. I’ll call it even for a favor.”
“Favor this motherfucker,” Curtis said while grabbing his crotch and acting a lot tougher than he possibly could be.
“I wasn’t talking to you Curtis.”
For the first time since Joseph walked into the room, Chris made eye contact with him. Still shuffling the deck of cards, grinding a thick wooden tooth pick in the corner of his mouth, Chris waved Joseph over to the table. Curtis was visibly pissed off at this. He had a really bad day. He wasn’t in the hole, but he had come too close to even in the last few hours.
“So you’re a quick learner. Most suckers take me for a body guard,” said Chris.
“It seemed obvious to this sucker.”
“So what is this favor. I am a man of many favors. Most are a lot more expensive than two twenties.”
“Well all I need is a ride home. I lost my car somewhere in between my first and fifteenth drink.”
Chris picks the deck of cards up and begins shuffling as he thinks it over. On face value this is a no brainer, an easy out. But Chris didn’t get his paper stacked so high by making hasty decisions. This drunk stranger, if indeed he is drunk or even a stranger, could be taking him for a ride.
