Tag Archives: pool

Hindsight

Pabst

Somebody warned me to watch out for that guy. Said he was no good, had done some time before. Then another girl who went to high school with Trevor said she heard he got off from those charges, but neither one told what he supposedly did in the first place. His smile made me want to believe it was nothing.

He looked like a decent enough guy, kinda cute in a baggy sweater and clean blue jeans with no holes. Almost looked sorta preppy for a burner kind of dude. That short, spiky blonde hair with sleepy blue eyes that peered up from the pool table really got me. Looks can be deceiving, though.

“That one’s starin’ at you, girl.” My friend brought it to my attention. I set my mug down on the bar top and glanced to where she threw her head to point.

The group shooting pool shoulda been a warning in itself. None of them had a job and probably had to scrape together the dollar it cost to play their game. His partner might have even just got out of jail himself.

After we talked awhile, he asked if I wanted to take a little ride. I don’t know why I went out there. Shoulda known better. Maybe it was simple boredom.

“You and your friends oughta watch out who you talk to at that place,” he warned as we pulled out of the parking lot. The shiny white teeth that showed when he grinned surprised the hell outta me considering the string of chew he spit out the window.

“Like you?” I asked. Shrugging his shoulders, he tried to wink at me but just looked goofy instead of cute. He turned his attention to the steering wheel and swerved back into the right lane. Maybe we both had more to drink than I realized.

He said, “So, Candy, what’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ at a dive like The Bottoms Up bar?”

“It’s Brandy,” I corrected him. That was the second time he got my name wrong after I’d already told him once inside and again when we walked to his truck.

“Yeah, right. Like brandy the drink, not Candy the … cane. You know, at Christmastime.” He laughed a little and scrunched his face up weird, maybe trying to be sexy but failing miserably. I just nodded and watched the headlights stake out the route in front of us.

We passed the east side city limits sign en route to his little country house. A turn onto gravel and then several lefts and rights followed before we finally arrived. I didn’t remember having been that far out in the boonies before.

I looked toward the horizon when we got there and parked in the driveway, trying to get a sense of the direction back to town and hoping not to need to know. A rickety step gave under our weight as we stepped onto the porch, and the screen door creaked so loud I thought it might fall off the hinges as he opened it.

“It ain’t much, but it’s mine,” Trevor said. He crossed the threshold into a dimly lit living room with dirty hardwood floors. Scuff marks made me think a Great Dane or similar monstrosity might charge out of a backroom. “Make yourself at home.”

He got me a PBR and about drank his own in one swallow after we sat down on a sagging couch. The tweed fabric scratched the back of my legs as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders to pull me toward him. I noticed lines of chewing tobacco between the straight, white teeth of the mouth moving forward to engulf my own. After a long, saliva-filled kiss that I hoped was clear instead of Copenhagen brown, he got up and half-stumbled backward toward a hallway.

“Gotta take a piss,” he said. “Be right back.” He tried the pathetic wink again. I hate when people do that. Reminds me of Uncle Thurman who wore plaid pants and sold used cars at a lot over in Summitville when I was a kid.

Considering my bad choices that evening, I figured lots worse could happen besides a slobber-crusted kiss. After a swallow of beer to wash away tobacco taste lingering in my mouth, I opened the door as carefully as possible to not give myself away as I slipped into the darkness. Damp grass soaked my Keds when I sprinted across the yard and onto the lane. A half moon overhead spilled just enough light to show me the way.

I heard that door creak open and Travis holler behind me, “Hey, Candy! Where’d ya go?” Not daring to look back, I trudged on down the road with gravel crunching under my wet shoes.

Cutting across farmers’ fields to shortcut meant risking an electric fence in the pitch-black path or meeting a guard dog along the way, so I resigned myself to the road. I’d get back to town eventually if I just followed the telephone lines. It would just take a long damn time.

Hoping I was far enough away to not be heard, I mumbled, “How the hell do I get myself into this stuff? I need to find some other shit to do.”

If I didn’t laugh, I woulda cried. Maybe I’d get home by the time the sun came up.

***

Two Word Tuesday prompt at Our Write Side – boredom

Image: Brian Wilkins via Flickr

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Taking a Shot

pool“That fella ought to know the law. He is the Sheriff, after all,” Jamie said. They’d been given carte blanche to drive to the next bar, even though the authority figure in question knew how much they’d had to drink. They’d even confessed to it. The hour was late, and they’d gotten plenty liquored-up already, but the Sheriff himself had just practically given Odell and Jamie an engraved invitation to keep the party going.

Everyone knew Jamie as The Iceman, a nickname he’d earned with his occupation, and nobody in town called him anything but The Iceman. Only a few people paid much attention to the poor Schmo — particularly those who ran low on stock at their convenience store, restaurant or bar. He was, in fact, quite popular at the bar. Plenty of room temperature Jack-n-Coke if it weren’t for Jamie.

The Iceman became Odell’s hero. He told anyone who’d listen what a great guy he found his buddy Jamie to be. The night Odell came to idolize Jamie, he’d watched Odell and a young woman play one another in pool for over an hour.

Odell noticed her when she ran the table earlier in the evening. Her name was Cami, but Jamie didn’t know if that was a moniker for the skimpy tank top she wore or her actual name. Jamie had a daughter about her age who tended bar down at the Salty Dog, or Jamie would never have recognized the word as a piece of clothing.

Cami was a good pool player and beat all her friends, but they grew aggravated with her increasingly obnoxious behavior the drunker the woman became and proportionately annoyed with Odell’s ogling their bodies as each one reached over the billiard table to take aim at the cue ball. In her inebriation, Odell’s final partner didn’t seem to mind and almost seemed to welcome his attention.

“Nice bank shot, honey,” he told her. Wearing sunglasses inside the dark bar obscured Odell’s glance up and down her young torso and limbs, lingering long on her breasts and much longer on her ass when she stretched across the felt to aim at a particularly difficult long shot. She offered him an old-fashioned curtsy and a tip of her straw cowgirl hat, one spaghetti strap dipping down over her shoulder as she did. Odell about shot his wad right then and there.

Jamie watched the pair from the opposite side of the Budweiser Clydesdales on an oblong tableau lamp dimly lighting the smoky room, in disbelief someone like her hadn’t yet slapped Odell, and hoped the man wouldn’t make a fool of himself. He overhead Odell extend an invitation to take Cami down to the Salty Dog where a band played and they could dance some more.

Long story short, the woman’s friends broke the girlfriend code of “leave no woman behind” and left her at bar. All the cajoling in the world couldn’t get her to go with all the ill-fated attention she was getting at eight ball. Odell offered her a ride home, which she obliviously accepted after only having casually been acquainted with the man a couple hours.

Light spilled in a circle under the street light of the town’s lone intersection with Odell’s old Chevy Luv pickup rattling at idle in its illumination. Cami, long gone, must’ve set off for on foot when she couldn’t get Odell to come to at the wheel. He sat slumped in the driver’s seat when Jamie drove up and found him. He’d have lain there for posterity, sunglasses askew, if The Iceman hadn’t happened along the road. Even though the Sheriff claimed the night was a free-for-all after the street dance let out, he’d have surely hauled Odell down to County if he’d spied the truck instead of Jamie.

“You sure are the best,” Odell told him after Jamie parked his vehicle and drove Odell on home. “I love you, man,” he said emphatically, his voice slurring and head bobbing before it careened to rest on the roll bar of The Iceman’s little side-by-side. He’d driven all the ice to the dance at the beginning of the evening but never imagined he’d deliver a person to his door later on that night.

Jamie shook his head hoping that girl Cami made it back to her friends. Odell’s antics never ceased to surprise him. At least this time Odell never made it down to the Salty Dog, a relief to Jamie. His daughter was safe from Odell’s lecherous looks and the Sheriff’s wife wouldn’t have to watch out for him when she got done playing her set. She wouldn’t have to call her husband on Odell this time and have him sleep it off overnight in jail … again.

Studio 30+ writing prompt – nickname            (photo courtesy: Mary Dobbs)

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