It doesn’t count

It doesn’t count

By LuAnn Williamson

               “It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.” These words were spoken by Jake, my friend and sometimes lover.

           I almost scratched. He should know better than to talk to me when I was lining up a shot.

           “It’s not a defeat,” I nodded my head without even looking towards the trophies that lined the wall of the bar. “She needs the win. I don’t. It really is that simple.”

           “You think you’ve got it all figured out,” he shook his head, covered with short curly black hair. It wasn’t quite crimped and it wasn’t quite wavy, but a mixture of the two. He wore it cropped close to his head.  His dark skin glistened in the bar light, a thin sheen of perspiration on his brow. The bar owner had turned on the air conditioning but it hadn’t begun to take effect.

           I bent over the table and took the shot, neatly sinking three balls into three different holes. “Nope,” I said smugly. “Just like pool, there are a thousand different variables.” I lined up another shot. Only two ball in the pocket. It would have been fine except that one of them was the 8-ball. I shook my head. Whether I’d planned it or it was unconscious, I’d just proved my point.

           “What do you want to drink?” the bartender shouted to us across the empty bar.

           “Coke,” I shouted back.

           “Pepsi,” Jake shouted. Even in soft drinks, we were friends and rivals.

           He broke since he won the last round. Three balls came off the table and into the pockets.

           “Where’s the competitive Jen I know and love? Who are you and what did you do with her?” He said this as he moved around the table, agile and graceful.

           I scowled at him until his face sank below his ability to see me. Four balls hit three pockets. He liked to load the back pockets, whichever direction he considered back to be at the moment. It was both his strength and weakness.

           “I’m still here,” my mind was already calculating potential shots. “Think of it as informal mentoring.”

           He looked up from the table long enough to scowl up at me. I love the way his face scrunches up when he makes that face. It probably wouldn’t look so cute in thirty years or so, once the wrinkles started to form where the lines from the most common expressions traced themselves onto clay of the face. But thirty years was a long time from now. Who knows what could happen? Nor was I going to care. My only thought was on pool.

           Pool had been my game of choice since my Dad got the job cleaning up the VFW Club in the morning. He’d take me with him on the weekends so Mom could sleep in. I’d play with the pull tabs and even found a few that someone was too drunk to recognize as winners. Dad would turn them in for me and when we got home, pay me out.

           But once I’d grown tall enough to reach the pool table on my own, even with the help of a stool at first, Dad decided that the only safe thing to do was to teach me how to play.

           Play I did. It kept me busy and out of his way. Soon I was hustling the early arrivals at the bar for money to supplement my allowance. The men, along with a few of their wives, did not discourage me. Rather, they adopted me as some kind of a pet. They didn’t warn the newcomers of the potential pool shark in training.

           “Here you go,” the bartender sat the drinks on the small table next pool area. Mine was garnished with a bit of droopy lemon this time. I guess he hadn’t gotten around to chopping the lemons yet.

           I took a long drink, realizing I was thirsty only after my first swallow. There was no charge for the soft drinks. I could barely remember a time when I paid for my own drinks. Between Jake and me, we brought in more business to the bar than the price of anything we could drink.

           Jake was looking at me with a look that I’d long ago come to know his expectant look.

           “What?” I blinked away the memories.

           “What are you now? Saint Jen, Patron and Protector of random want-to-be famous girls?”

           I made a rude noise at him. The way he was looking at me, I asked, “my turn?”

           He made the same rude noise back at me and gestured to the table. He hadn’t left me much to work with.

           “You’re the one who brought her around,” I countered, lining up what was pretty much the only option available. “What does that make you? Locator of lost souls and potential pool sharks? Saint Jacob, patron of lost causes?”

           I knocked the lone ball into the hole. I knew she was staying with him. I strongly suspected they were sleeping together. I didn’t care. I racked up another round. Sure, we had mind blowing sex whenever we got together. But too much together time and we got on each other’s nerves. The cue ball smacked the other balls with a sound that was sweeter than any music. Let him teach her the finer points of sex. Her next lover would appreciate that, even if he didn’t know the details.

I missed.  How could I miss all the balls in tight formation.  I almost stamped my feet in frustration. But I’d broken myself of the habit years ago. It gave away too much of my mental state. But I could picture myself stamping my foot and that was enough. In my mind, I smacked him so hard I wiped that smug smirk off his face.

What I hadn’t told him, what I hadn’t even told my own family was that I’d enrolled at the community college. I’d managed to trouble shoot enough problems at work that not only had my boss noticed but his boss and the higher management. They put me into a mentorship program. That would pay for my college, Introduction to English. Just thinking about it, made me shudder. But I would also have a geometry class to balance it out. If I could sweat and swear my way through classes with the required “C” I could have most of my tuition payed for on an indefinite basis. All this, while I could keep working the swing shift and using most of my vacation time for the various pool tournaments.

I thought about that song that Jake loved for me to sing at karaoke. The last line, “He was looking for a home and I hope he finds it.” Would he be happy with the girl he called, “The Kid?” I don’t know. Could she give him the unquestioning devotion he seemed to require? I don’t know. What I did know it that she had a plain, old fashioned crush on him. She had the puppyish devotion that someone as highly competitive as me could never have, no matter how hard I tried.

Oh course, I’ll give up pool when I can no longer push my walker up to the table or my arthritic body can’t stand long enough to line up shots. But I think it’s time to broaden my horizons and maybe even plan for the future.