Writing Fiction
Awakening
"Goddamit mother fucker! Oooh, that hurt."
Yeah, pinching your finger in a car door does hurt. If the stupid car didn't have that rain gutter on it I wouldn't have done that. At least we're done with the car. Sampson and I have been working all week on rebuilding the transmission in class. That the theme of the month, transmissions.
"What did you do, Maxx?" asked Sampson as I walked back into the shop holding my hand after parking the car.
"Nearly smashed my finger in the door," I replied.
Sampson and I have been in Seattle Automotive/Technical College for the last two years. His first name is Jeremiah, but his last name is easier to get off the tongue. Fewer syllables I guess. Anyway, we went to high school together and didn't know what to do after that so we decided to try the Auto/Tech. After about a year and a semester we are due to graduate in about two months. This would mean that we need to start looking for something else to do, probably a job.
"What are you doing tonight?" I asked Sampson as we washed up to go home. We get out of school at seven, which leaves us just enough time to go home, shit, shower, shave, and eat before we go out for the night.
"I dunno. Did you have something in mind?"
"There's a bar I found on the north side. Thought we'd go an check it out."
"Sounds good to me. Meet you at your place?"
"Yeah, 'bout 8:30."
I get home and park my rice-burner in my spot. The covenant at the apartment complex dictates that you can only park in your spot. I paid $200 for a year's rent of this spot at the annual parking spot auction. I hate the spot, right by the mail boxes at the back of the building, and I want my money back. The panel that sells the parking won't give me my money and said that was too bad, so I told them to go procreate with a goat.
I shit, showered, and skipped the shave. Walking out into the living room in my boxers I filliped on the TV to ESPN. They were talking to some coach about how their basketball game went. I changed to Speed Channel as I made my way to the kitchen; It was a stadium truck race I watched last night.
I opened the fridge. Not much appetizing. Checked the freezer and found a pound of ground beef. In the cupboard I found a pack of Hamburger Helper. Well, I guess it's better than nothing. The pasta will come in handy tonight and the beef is good eatin'. I made the meal and ate the whole thing in front of the TV. After pilling all the dishes in the sink I plopped down on the couch again and lit up a cigarette. There's nothing better that a smoke after a good meal.
At about 8:30 I hear the rumble of the catback exhaust we put on Sampson's car last weekend. Sounds good and the extra power comes in handy on the Friday night cruses. We both take good care of our cars and demand some high performance out of them.
"We want to drive, or take a cab?" he asked as he got out of his car.
"Cab, duh. I don't plan on being able to drive."
"Good, me neither." He replied.
We went out on the street and hailed a cab.
"You know where the Lone Wrench is?" I asked the driver.
"Yeah, sure. You two goin' there?"
"Yeah. You ever been there before?" asked Sampson.
"Couple times. Good place. Watch out for the sharks."
"Sharks?"
"You'll know when you get there."
We arrived to the place around nine. From the outside it looked like an old garage with it's windows painted over. There were hot cars and cool bikes on the curb and on the side lot. You could tell this place did double duty as a service station when the sun was up. You just can't get the oil and gunk out of the black top.
The inside wasn't too bad. When you walk in the small service counter serves as the bouncer's booth and the waiting room a little antechamber of sorts. The double doors of the shop were thrown open for easy access to the rest of the bar/shop. The lifts had been raised to a good height and pool tables set on top. A bench had been moved in front of a door that seemed to lead to a storage room. The bench now served whisky and beer instead of grease and oil. There were bar stools in front of the other work benches and some old dinning tables surrounded by wooden chairs. Most of the people had black elbows, black leather, or a short skirt. Others were just other patrons.
We bellied up to the bar. I ordered a whisky neat and Samson started with a wheat ale. From the 'bar' I could see more of the place. The clientele had been spared the floresant lights, which would have been harsh on the eyes, and white Christmas lights had been strung around the place with abundance. Smoke from several tables let me know it was a smoking establishment. As I light up I paused to think, did they secure all the flammable shit? Oh well.
"Hey, what's that?" asked Sampson pointing to the last bay where a bunch of people had gathered.
"I dunno. Let's go find out."
We shouldered a place in the group and found what the center of attention was. Instead of a pool table on the raised lift it was just a simple plywood top laid over the arms and some chairs gathered around. At the far end, in front of the big door, was a larger screen TV currently displaying an amateur stockcar race.
"Where's this?" I asked nobody in particular.
"Seattle National." replied a short guy standing next to me.
After a few minutes Sampson walked off. He wasn't the biggest race fan. I noticed that my glass was dry and went to get it wet again. As I walked back to the TV I noticed that Sampson was playing a game of pool with the short guy that was standing next to me. He looked up at me with a look that clearly read that he was loosing. I simply shrugged and gave a look that said he was on his own and went back to the TV. There was a chair vacant and I sat down and watched the last 15 laps of the race.
When the race was over a few of us moved from where we were to the bar for another drink. This time I changed for a tall, cold glass of water. Sampson walked up looking like he just drank something bitter.
"Who won?" I asked.
"He did." Sampson replied sourly, "I just lost three large. I don't have that kind of cash on me. Can you loan me any?"
"Now you know that we don't get paid till next week. See if you can play him for double or nothing."
He walked back over to the short guy and asked, the short guy nodded his head, and they racked 'um up again. I got my drink and grabbed a stool next at a table next to the pool table. The break and the first half of the game went in Sampson's favor; he dropped half of his balls in the first dozen shots. This is when his opponent came back strong. He dropped 'em and filled the pockets in four shots while Sampson seemed to shrink on the stool he had propped himself on. My friend was now out of six grand and had no way of paying. That was about four and half months' pay.
When the smaller gentleman went to collect he became irate and began harshly berating my friend. Now, I'm all for a man standing up for his debts and I'm all for collecting on owed debts, but this was wrong. You don't simply start being mean to someone who can't pay, you start being cruel, threatening, and use some mob extortion tactics, but you just don't insult someone without the parts too. It simply isn't as effective. I got up, maybe a little too fast, my steps were not as steady as usual, and went over to intervene.
"Hey, quit bothering my friend." I said.
"He owes me eight thousand dollars, whatdoya mean 'quit bother him'?" retorted the short man.
"Eight?! Wait a minute, you told me three." I said to Sampson, giving him a surprised look.
"So I fudged the figures a bit." He replied shrugging.
"Listen mister, he can't pay and neither can I, but…"
"Then why did he play? You know you shouldn't bet money that you don't have" the man inturupted.
"BUT, I happen to have the pink slip to my car in my wallet. It's worth about eight grand. I'll play you one game. You win, you get my car. I win I get his debt to you. Deal?" I asked trying to think of something I heard in high school geometry class about angles and billiards. I am pretty good, but I always look for something that will give me and edge on an opponent.
"Sure, why the hell not, it'll make a good night out on the town, a new car and money to spend." He accepted with a big grin. "You break."
He racked the balls and I went to find a cue. After finding one that suited my tastes, I chalked to tip thoroughly and turned back to the table. To my supprise the man was lifting a highly polished and expenisive looking cue out of an equally expensive looking felt lined box.
"What's that?" I asked.
"This? This is my good friend Alice. I bring her out when the stakes get high."
Now I remember what the cabbie said about sharks and wish I had kept my big mouth closed. I turned to Sampson and instructed him to get me a double. When he came back I downed it in one gulp. A few moments later I seemed to go straight to my head; I felt the alcohol affect me as it usually did when I begin to get a really good buzz going.
I broke and sunk two stripes and moved on to my next shot. When I started to set it up I felt myself slip into a trance of some sort. I seemed to know exactly where every ball was on the table. I could see the table in my mind with my eyes closed and I seemed to be able to feel exactly how to set the shot up and exactly how hard to hit the cue ball. This didn't seem new to me; I often slip into shallow trances when I get drunk, but I knew I still had a few to go. Maybe it was the fact that I was playing for my car.
I went with the feeling and hit the shot. Two stripes fell off the table and into pockets to my pleasant surprise. I made ready for my second shot and decided to go with the feeling again. After going off two rails another stripe found it's home. With the next shop I decided to wing it and ignore the trance. The result was a scratch leaving my opponent in a very good position.
He sank one with his first shot and two with his second to tie us up. His last shot put him square in the middle of all my balls and left him without a shot so he simply angled it off a rail and tapped a solid ball that came to rest on the cusp of a side pocket.
He left me in good position to sink one of my balls which I did with little difficulty. Unfortunately this left my next shot blocked by the ball he left on the cusp of the pocket. My trance seemed to become stronger and the table seemed to come into sharper focus. I decided to try to jump his ball and into the pocket. I set up for the shot and let 'er rip. The ball jumped up, landed on his ball such that it shot across the table and off the rail, and landed with a satisfying ker-plunk in the pocket.
Sampson, the man, and a blond that was looking on, all had an expression of astonishment. I simply smiled innocently and walked around the table for the next shot. With my buzz and the trance still going I knocked one more in and counted the balls that were still on the table. There were four of his, two of mine, and the eight ball. I felt buzz start to fade and I lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply. With the exhale I could feel the buzz return and looked for my next shot. I'd have to angle off a rail around his ball and hit mine with an almost 90 degree angle. Trying to ignore the buzz and stay out of the tance I took the shot. The shot went wide of his ball, off the rail, and between the two balls.
His next three shots put one each off the table leaving it one to two in his favor. Just as he was stroking to hit his fourth shot someone shouted at the television and he jumped, nicking the ball making it roll away in a strange direction. He went to grab the ball to replace it for another try for the shot.
"Hey! What are you doing?" I asked.
"I was distracted. The shot doesn't count."
"Sure it does." I stated.
"But I was distracted." He complained.
"So what; I have to deal with the same thing that you do." I retorted. "What do you think Sampson? Does he get a do-over?"
"Not for eight grand and your car he doesn't" said Sampson vindictively.
"Of course he's going to say that, he's got something at stake here. His opinion doesn't count." The man ruled.
"Ok. Fine. What do you think?" I asked the blonde who was watching, "Does he get a do-over?"
She looked at the man and smiled, "Of course not. Come on Tim, play fair."
"Come on, Silvia, I always play fair." Tim replied and let cue ball come to rest where it will.
The buzz was strong and the trance couldn't be ignored now. The feeling of where everything was extended so that I could feel the chairs, the balls in the pockets, the lift under the table, as well as the Samson, Tim, the shark, and Silvia, the blonde. For some reason I could also feel the electricity in the little lights flow and the hydraulics pushing up on the table.
I set up and took the shot with my eyes closed, hoping for the best. I opened them in time to see two of my striped balls drop with a satisfying ker-klunk ker-klunk. There were two striped balls left and then the black one. Making my way to the opposite side of the table I decided to see if I could use the feelings to my advantage. The shot looked like I could hit the cue ball into one ball, have that ball angle off to one corner pocket, and if I'm lucky come all the way down the table and get the last ball at the right angle and into the opposite corner. I let fly again and watched as the ball zoomed down the table hit the ball, the ball went into the intended pocket, the cue ball come all the way down the table and tap the other ball. Four pairs of eyes watched the last ball slowly roll in the direction of the pocket. The ball seemed to stroll over to the pocket and looked like it was going to come to a rest on the cusp, but at the very last possible moment it fell in.
"Ooh, yeah! You da' man! You da' man!" Sampson said getting up and doing a little jig.
"Nice shot, but you got one left." Tim said with a smile and pointed to the table.
I looked over and the situation looked almost impossible. I had left the eight ball at the other end of the table in front of a pocket that was guarded by Tim's last ball. They were close enough that I couldn't jump the ball and I wasn't on that end of the table anyway. I knew that I couldn't make that shot, even with all that was riding on it.
"You wanna give me a sec?" I asked Tim.
"Sure. I've got all night."
I propped my cue up against the big door and walked over to the bar. I got a pint of Guinness and went back to the table to analyze my situation more. I took my time and finished my pint, picked up my cue and went to set up. If I couldn't make this shot Tim would win the game on his next turn, I would loose my car, and Sampson would have a debt he couldn't pay.
"You ready?" asked Tim with a smirk.
"Um, yeah. Sure."
I bent over and pretended to line up trying to by some time and figure out what the hell I was going to do. My buzz reasserted itself and I suddenly got a strong feeling to hit the ball hard and angle the eight ball towards the rail. What the hell, I'm fucked anyway. I drew back for the shot and things seemed to slow down.
I could see the tip of the cue hit the white ball with a thunk and a little puff of blue chalk. The white ball went down the table and impacted the black ball with a loud crack. The black ball hit the rail and went off. I could see the indentation as they met. The eight ball hit Tim's last solid with a slightly softer crack and jumped. Again, all eyes were focused on the game, but this time it was more that just us four; a few others noticed the game, with it's high stakes, and watched. The eight ball landed on top of the rail, right where the felt met the hardwood of the table. It started to roll across the top of the rail to the other corner. I could see the reflection of a million tiny Christmas lights off the glossy surface of the rolling ball, kind of like the reflections off a disco ball. Just as the ball reached the plastic liner of the other corner pocket it hopped over it and fell into the pocket, taping against the other balls that had been holed there.
For a minute everyone watching just stood there looking at the pocket like a small child had been dragged into it by a gremlin. I couldn't believe that I made that shot. It seemed an impossibility and I don't think anyone would ever conceive of such a shot. Silvia was open mouthed and Sampson had a shit-eating smile on his face. A biker that was looking on shook his head and walked away. Tim seemed upset. He had his jaw set and slight frown was on his face. I looked back to the table and his ball was resting a few millimeters from where it had started with the cue ball in a straight line at almost 45 degrees from the corner. A perfect shot.
"Well, that was the best shot I've ever made." I told everyone, "I'm glad I used it here and not later tonight."
It took a moment for mouths to be closed, grins to be widened, and jaws to be unclamped.
"Nice game. How the fucking hell did you pull off a shot like that?" questioned Tim.
"I don't know. I just had a feeling and thought 'What the hell?' and gave a good hit. Everything else took care of itself." I replied.
Tim went over and whispered something in Silvia's ear and she shook her head. More whispering and more a nod came from both. Both their expressions changed to something serious and the discussion seemed to be important. When they were finished she gave me a look that had more to it that just a look. Tim started putting Amy back into her case.
"Very impressive. I don't think that I've been swindled by another hustler before, at least not that good." He said.
"Thanks, I guess that's pretty good coming from a pool shark, but I'm no hustler."
"What do you do then?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm at the Auto/Tech."
"I guess that would make you a mechanic. You any good?"
"Sure I guess. I'm top in my class I think."
"Cool." He said, "You want to play again?"
"Naw, I've had my fill for the night." I replied and countered with, "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure."
After drinks were ordered and received we sat at a one of the tables and socialized. Proper introductions were made between the four of us and the talk started with me and my work and schooling at the Auto/Tech with Sampson. Then came the story of the two of us growing up in junior high and high school and some of our adventures there. Next was some family stuff from each of us, how we hated our parents for a while and then figured out that they were pretty cool. The conversation progressed to different areas of life and to politics, philosophy, science, hobbies, and miscellaneous bullshit that just happened to come up. I ordered two more rounds of drinks. Tim and Silvia politely declined the last round. We talked so late that last call was sounded and everyone got up and made for the door. By this time Sampson and I were quite drunk and took a cab home. Tim was nice enough to make sure we got on our way. Sampson spent the night at my place and we both went back to school the next day with nasty hang overs.