Fall 1999 The Anthologist
Shooting Pool
Luke Tsai
I like pool.
I like the way the table stands in the middle of a room - immovable, king of its own domain. Sometimes I think I hear it whispering to me. Pssst...Blockhead. Yeah you...come here. Let's play a game. And I always come - I like playing games. I like running my fingers over the mossy green surface, letting them linger for just a second - so soft...yet hard, inflexible underneath. Heh. She was like that too.
I like the way the cue rests on the groove I make with my thumb bent backwards slightly, pressed tightly against my forefinger. Back and forth, back and forth - I take it slow as I measure up my shot, the wood cool against my hand. I take a breath and crack! - I give it all I've got. I like watching the little balls shoot out in every direction - red, green, yellow, blue, black - hitting each other, bouncing into walls, some finally landing in pockets with a thud.
I even like the way the word sounds in my mouth. Pooool. Like some kind of exotic drug...or a contagious disease. Yeah, my aunt came down with pool a couple years ago. Terrible coughing fits and sores all over her body. Passed away before we even knew what hit her. Heh heh. Pool.
Every week it's the same. I walk into Angelo's Tavern, the whole place reeking of smoke and beer and vomit and cheap perfume, all mixed together so I can't tell which is which. I take it all in as I push my way past the crowd at the bar to the back. Push my way to the pool table in the little room in the back. My table. The dim lights flicker above me as Metallica screeches in the background. My head is spinning, but I feel good - like I could get high, get wasted, get laid, get my head beat in, and it wouldn't even matter. I'm on top of the world.
The regular crowd is here - I know them all even though they don't know me. The tall guy with the menacing scowl, dark eyes set as he leans over, poised to take a shot. Across from him, the wrinkled old man with the beat-up brown overcoat and the smirk forever plastered on his face. Along the far wall, the chubby black man with the irritating high-pitched cackle, talking away like he always does even if no one's listening, this time at the quiet, pale-faced guy who always stands on the side and smokes Marlboros, one after another. In the corner to my right, on the ragged, crap-colored sofa by the jukebox, there's that skinny little prick, his reddish hair slicked back, making it with some brunette.
None of them acknowledge my presence as I work my way around them to take my place in the far-left corner. Been coming here for six months and not even a glance or a nod. Damn. Six months. Seems like it was just yesterday she left. Left me here by myself. I let myself get drawn into the game, watching the balls shoot back and forth, landing in pockets almost magically. The old guy is winning, but the tall guy hasn't missed a shot since I started watching. The tall guy always wins.
He ends it on an improbable bank shot that still doesn't wipe the smirk off the old guy's face. The chain-smoker moves up away from the fat man to take the next game, but I cut in front of him and pick up the cue. He looks at me and shrugs, moving back, still smoking his Marlboro. Looks like today's going to be my lucky day - the feeling starts deep in my belly and grows and grows till I feel like I'm going to explode. The tall guy's saying something to me about money. Fifty beans? I just smile and nod as I rack up the balls. Let's get it on, tough guy.
He breaks. Hits one shot. Two shots. Three shots before just missing a fourth one. The fat man whistles from along the far wall. Wish he would stop talking. I scarcely breathe as I measure up my shot. Four-ball, corner pocket - it's a straight shot. I tap it lightly, and it goes right in, the cue ball following it, dangling on the edge for a moment before dropping into the pocket with a thud. Scratch. The brunette snickers. Guess they finished their business in the corner. Damn broads always laughing at me. They say that straight shots are the hardest. The tall guy slams in three more before he misses again.
My shot.
One-ball, corner pocket - it's a tough cut. I take a breath and shoot. Thud. Perfect. Three-ball, bank shot into the side pocket. I put just a little spin on it. Thud. I can feel it now as I hit shot after shot. Seven-ball, corner pocket. Thud. Five-ball, side pocket. Thud. It's a wonderful high - I hit some softly, others full force...I'm in total control, king of my own domain, and I hear nothing but the sound of the balls click-clacking together and dropping into pockets.
Finally I miss one, and the tall guy quickly finishes up. The tall guy always wins. As I turn to go, I hear someone laughing ever so softly. Must be that damn chick again. But now I hear them all laughing - cackling - as if it were the funniest thing they had ever seen. And I start to laugh too, gleefully, harder than I've ever laughed before, as I turn to face them. Fifty beans? I'll show you fifty beans. I'm in total control. They come at me, so I swing my cue stick around, smacking the fat man in the head. Thud. That's what you get for laughing at me. She laughed at me too, only once. Suddenly, they're all around me. Thud. I feel a pain in the back of my head as I fall to the ground - it's a wonderful high. And as I lie on the floor, I see my cue stick, broken in half beside me.
Damn.
I like pool.
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