Schooled Proper
by SuniD
by SuniD
This place I hear about, Old School Pool, hosts a tourney on Mondays,
and its only five bones to enter. Everyday players, hustlers, and the
like put up their dough once a week. The more people show, the
bigger the kitty. The hall has a rep for a couple a reasons. Down the
block from the train station, up the street from everyone’s dealer,
it sits on a bad corner of south Tenth. Plus, they say bikers park
there. Don’t get me wrong, bikers got attitude to match mine, but
you got to approach ‘em the right way, and walking into their bar
uninvited is never the way. I do it anyway.
Right off the bat, before I hit the door, this guy decides he’s
taking me home. Talks about my cue case and how he might just have to
play this week, shows me his belt buckle, a creepy vulture, figures.
At least I know this is the spot. “Where’s the pisser?” I ask,
before he shows me his other tattoo. I back away, spin at the door
and break right.
No shame in walking straight to the bathroom in a new bar. Stalls
tell you everything you need to know, intimate shit. I’m relieved
to see skillful stuff magically marked and engraved on the door in
front of me. Real wood grain, and someone took time to carve an
elaborate female with a knot for a nipple. In the hand of the
porcelain goddess rests a bold sharpie statement: Find what you love.
Love what you find.
Someone comes in and I keep the same steady pee stream. Whoever it is
doesn’t use the other stall. They wait for me. There’s another
good reason to head straight for a powder, test the waters. I ease
out of the stall. The door squeaks shut behind me. A heavy blonde
girl with spiky wrist cuffs is mussing up her purple highlights. She
backs up and lets me have the single sink. Bar courtesy in a place
like this is a good sign.
“Thanks.” I lean my case against the wall and slide into the
spot.
“You’re here for the tournament.” It’s not
a question. “I’m Sue.”
“Hi. I’m Stella.” I don’t have to
shake her hand ‘cause I’m still rinsing mine. “How’s this
game work, anyway?”
Sue becomes my mentor, points out the same creepy guy to avoid,
introduces me to the guy that runs the racket, Erick, and the
specials at the bar. I learn all about the ranking from Erick. I’m
a newbie, so I’m a one on a scale to three. I have to
win one game. Twos need two wins, and so on.
“How do you decide who’s what?”
“It’s arbitrary. I watch people play.” Erick exhales cigarette
smoke and watches it twist into the sky above the billiard joint.
He’s tall, has broad shoulders and a beer gut. People are still
inside paying the girl with the cash box to get on the roster. Erick
shrugs, flicks his ash, and admits, “I tell them where they’re
at.”
I nod at that and tell him, “Watch me play.”
Everyone draws a number from Erick’s hat to decide what bracket of
the tiered system we nab. I draw a low number, which puts me up top.
I get the first game out of all the ones, after some twos
and threes get their at bats, takes forever.
Ranked a two, Sue plays all four games against a three.
It’s that close. A couple of balls difference, and she loses.
Everyone gives her space to cool off. Sue finally smiles again and
tells me, “It’s just another game.” I learn she still gets to
play in the loser’s bracket. The top winner and the top loser play
the last set.
I hear my name called but blank out the name of my opponent. Doesn’t
matter who I play, it’s the table needs a lesson. We shake hands
and the guy’s grip is a little too eager, soft, and sweaty. He
mumbles his name and I still don’t bother to catch it. He’s
ranked a two, even though he’s never played here before
either. That’s how I learn Erick’s system is gender biased in my
favor. We flip a coin and I call tails, ‘cause I always call tails.
It lands on heads.
The balls bounce around plenty but nothing falls on his break, so I
jump right in, look for problem spots, like Erick advised during our
smoke session. I want solids, ‘cause I always want solids. They
call ‘em “little ones,” ‘cause the there’s less white
around the number than the stripes, but it makes me think they fit
better in the pockets. I get three balls out of the way and make sure
the rest are spread out thin. When I leave the guy with nothing to
aim for, I find my beer.
Someone I know a little is standing at my table. I nod and say,
“Kurtis,” to him.
“Stella.” He tips his beer. “Nice shootin’.”
“It’s not over.” I refocus on the game. Block him out. He’s
not here for me. I’m not here for him. I’m here to measure
myself. Can I reach that five-ball? Pretty five, looks good on the
red felt. Rolls steady. In.
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” Sue calls from the sideline
when I decide to cut, instead of bank, the eight-ball in the corner.
Tonight, I just want to win.
A victory stogie out on the stoop and my new buddies join me. The guy
I beat says, “Good game,” and leaves. No one thinks they’ll see
him again. Sue wants to stand right by me, show me off, ‘cause she
brought me into the fold. Erick says he should have made me a two,
but it’s too late. I learn the pot is set at two-hundred bucks,
enough to buy the black Akris dress on my clearance wish list. I
never play for money. Money doesn’t matter, unless it’s quarters
in my pocket, but the idea of walking out with more than I brought in
is refreshing. No hustle, no gamble, a clean win.
Kurtis comes outside, lights up next to me, says, “I didn’t know
you come here.”
I take a wild guess and ask, “You playin’ tonight?”
“Every Monday.”
Shit. I can beat Kurtis when he plays my home field, but it works the
other way more than I want to admit. Something about a guy that can
shoot makes me submissive.
Kurtis leans back on his heels and says, “I’m playin’ you
next,” then cocks an imaginary gun at me.
What was it Sue said about any old game? I take a drag and ask, “You
scared, yet?” I can’t talk smack, throws my shot off, and he’s
not psyched out anyway.
We wait for everyone to play once, like its Thanksgiving and we can’t
get second helpings yet. Kurtis buys a pitcher, knows I’ll drink
some, and I get tipsy. Damn it. I switch to cherry soda, but I’m
already checking him out, our names chalked next to each other’s on
Erick’s blackboard. Kurtis has soft brown eyes, a coarse brown five
o’ clock shadow, and lips that looks beautiful when they say my
name. He’s lean, looks good in that Doors shirt and hemp necklace.
Stop smiling at him.
We shake hands and his grip is firm, dry, he lets go at the right
time. I pick tails and it winds up heads, again. He drops two balls
on the break, one of each. He putts the golden one-ball into the
corner and I’m stripes.
Sue swears, “He’ll choke. Kurtis always chokes.”
I think, “Not if I choke first,” and suck down half my soda. I
catch up, pull ahead, try to aim, and feel Kurtis checking out my ass
instead.
He beats me by a single sphere, but he’s ranked higher, so we have
to go again.
“That was too close for comfort,” he says, winks.
Give me anyone else. Stupid flipping quarters have to be rigged. I
rack the balls tight, slide the triangle out from around them. Kurtis
sends me a message when he busts ‘em up like popcorn. Three down.
Damn it, he picks solids again. I might not win.
The onlookers make me wish I were sober, like there’s not three
other games going on at different tables. The only good thing, almost
all the “little ones” are out of my big fat way. A streak of five
stripes puts me at his neck, but I want to be ahead.
Kurtis barely hides his smile when he struts to the table edge.
“Making me work for it,” he says. I imagine the sound of wind
rushing with each shot, cocky bastard. The game ends in the side
pocket with a thud.
I never want to play again.
Kurtis comes at me with open arms. “Still friends?” He rubs the
small of my back softly. I belch in his ear and there’s vomit in
it.
Sue consoles me, “It’s not over yet. Even losers get a shot at
the title. Next game’s you and me, kid.”
I get tanked long before we play. Its fun, but my heart’s not in
it. I tell myself, “Sue’s good enough to get beat by, you watched
her almost stomp a three,” so it doesn’t cut so deep when
I lose. Then lose again.
The room is loud with fewer people in the running. Kurtis is still
alive, and Sue. The dizzy room and new faces get to me. Spin me. I
head for the Jon, tally the night’s scores in my head: one win,
four hands-on training sessions. I remember the women’s is on the
right but forget that I’m turned around, going out instead of in.
The guy’s bathroom has no stalls, just urinals and a creepy
vulture, in full flight. That’s five lessons I won’t forget.
New York Times 2+3=5 "Outstanding Story" Reading. By Sunshine D. Dalton. University of Nebraska at Omaha, Milo Bail Student Center, Omaha, NE. 16 Sept. 2010. Performance.
