[Fiction] A Story About Pool
Mike and Bobby
It begins with a phone call from his brother.
"C'mon, man. Let's go out and get a beer and shoot some pool."
Mike looks down at the bottom right corner of his computer screen to check the time, consults his watch's digital display, perpetually three minutes faster than his computer. He wonders why there aren't LCD watches, then wonders if there are and he just hasn't seen them.
"Well?" Bobby's voice is tinny and insistent on his piece-of-shit phone. "C'mon. You need to get out of this funk. You like pool. You like beer."
Both are true and Mike sighs. "Fine. I'll be done here in," he checks the time again, "-half an hour."
"Awesome, dude. I'll pick you up then." The line goes dead with no other sound. Phones used to click. Watches used to tick. Mike reflects that he operates in a strangely soundless world before hitting off the mute button on his keyboard and letting his office fill with sound.
-=-=-
Bobby's ten minutes late, but Bobby's always ten minutes late. He pulls up to the front door of Mike's office in an ancient, battered pickup truck that Mike is always vaguely surprised doesn't have a dog in the bed, nor does a mountain of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans fall out when he hauls open the door. Mike and Bobby were raised in a solidly middle-class family without a whiff of white-trash, but Bobby seems to have missed the memo.
"Hey, Bro!" Bobby greets him as he climbs in. A cigarette is held loosely between two fingers.
"Didn't you quit?" Mike asks, prudently buckling his seatbelt. He knows how Bobby drives.
His brother rolls his bright blue eyes and pulls out of the parking lot, blithely ignoring the curb. The suspension of the truck isn't what it used to be and Mike is glad he's still the smarter of the two when Bobby hits his head on the roof. "Yeah, but Charlene broke up with me. Speaking of which…"
It's an opening that Mike doesn't want to take, and says so. "Can we not talk about it? We broke up. It's over. We're done. Final. Caput. Finished."
Bobby casts a him a shrewd glance and shrugs. "Whatever you say, man." He offers Mike the pack of Marlboros, and Mike takes one without even thinking about it, lights it with the lighter Bobby keeps in the cup holder. He takes a long drag off it, the first cigarette he's had in…
He pushes the thought away. He doesn't want to talk so he doesn't have to think. Pool is starting to sound better and better.
-=-=-
Growing up, kids and adults alike assumed that Robert MacDonnell Brown (named for their mother's family) was older than his brother, Michael Nolan Brown (named for their grandmother's people). Bobby was one of those kids who sprouted up fast and just seemed to keep growing, perpetually six inches taller than every other kid in the class. Mike was a slow starter, but even he gained the inches that seemed, for years, to have gone solely to his brother.
Now, the assumption is the other way around, and it's the correct one. Bobby's still taller, but it puts him at a height that Mike can only describe as "crazy-tall". At six-foot-two, Mike's comfortable in his skin. He's slender, athletic. He got all the dark features of the Browns and the Nolans. Bobby's blonde and blue eyed, the only one in the family, but old pictures of the MacDonnell kids show that the genes were kicking around somewhere. He has a gangly quality that makes him seem constantly comical and on the verge of falling over. They both have the Brown stamp across their faces as clearly as anything - the same short noses, high cheekbones and stubborn chins mark them as brothers even if nothing else did.
-=-=-
Mike is grateful when they pull up directly in front of the bar and into a parking space that seemed to be reserved for them, saving them from half an hour of Bobby trying to find a place to park the behemoth of a truck. He remembers the last time this happened and how the two of them had gotten out of the truck and pushed a Taurus five feet forward to make room for the truck. The owner of the Taurus had been very confused when she returned, but Bobby and Mike just shrugged and kept walking, stifling their laughter for another block before they couldn't hold it in any longer.
The bar is an old one in the city and has been named something different for each guy who bought it. No matter how many people have had their hands on it, though, it remains constant, unchanging. The same bartender has been employed there for as long as anyone can remember and the same pool tables have been under the same dim lights for possibly eons. It's not a popular place for pool, but it's a popular place for working alcoholics. White and blue collar guys line the bar, chain smoking and studiously ignoring one another and one of the tables currently has a pair of guys playing each other. The other table is free and Bobby negotiates with the bartender for drinks and balls.
Had Mike been planning to shoot stick tonight, he'd have brought his own cue with him. As it is, he finds one of cues the bar has that won't make him crazy and calls it good enough. He racks the balls efficiently, gives Bobby the break, knowing even as he does so that it's an effort ultimately doomed to failure.
Mike considers himself an adequate player. He has a good sense for the table, understands the mechanics and physics. He enjoys the game, enjoys the cerebral nature of it. He even enjoys the feel of leaning over the table and the way the muscles in his back stretch.
"Jesus fuck! You call that a fucking break?"
Bobby's in it for the shit talking and is not above aiming it at himself. He has an easy way of laughing at himself and everything else that makes other people laugh with him. The guys at the other table look at them and while Bobby talks to them about their game, Mike examines the table, debating between breaking up the balls and taking the easy shot. He decides to help out Bobby's break and is pleased when the twelve sinks cleanly into the corner pocket. For a moment, all talking ceases while Mike clears a couple more balls before missing a long shot.
The game goes quickly. Bobby misses as much as he sinks. Mike drinks his beer in short sips between shots and pays more attention to the other table where the two guys, shorter than Mike by a head and have the compact look of professional thugs, play their own short and perfunctory game.
By the end of the second game, Mike is practicing and Bobby is getting drunk. He takes shots he wouldn't normally, talks as much shit to Bobby as he's getting back. The thugs take an unusual interest in their antics. By the end of the third, one of them asks Mike if he wants to play for money.
Mike's been easily buzzed for awhile, but this sobers him. He's about to decline, but what's the worst that's going to happen? It's not like his girlfriend is going to object. He downs the last of his beer and asks how much. When the thug tells him, Bobby's eyes half bug out of his skull. Mike nods and accepts and cash is put down on the table.
Mike suspects that the thugs have an idea of how he plays but he's willing to bet (and has) that it's an incorrect one. With money on the table, he plays conservatively, competently - far more than they were expecting. Within the first few shots, they've come to realize that they're in trouble. A few more and they're looking nervous. They shoot glances to Bobby who is now watching the whole thing with a supremely amused expression and is remarkably silent. Inside another five minutes, Mike has cleared the table, is collecting his winnings and the truck keys from Bobby, ushering him outside before the thugs manage to figure out what the hell just happened.
It begins with a phone call from his brother.
"C'mon, man. Let's go out and get a beer and shoot some pool."
Mike looks down at the bottom right corner of his computer screen to check the time, consults his watch's digital display, perpetually three minutes faster than his computer. He wonders why there aren't LCD watches, then wonders if there are and he just hasn't seen them.
"Well?" Bobby's voice is tinny and insistent on his piece-of-shit phone. "C'mon. You need to get out of this funk. You like pool. You like beer."
Both are true and Mike sighs. "Fine. I'll be done here in," he checks the time again, "-half an hour."
"Awesome, dude. I'll pick you up then." The line goes dead with no other sound. Phones used to click. Watches used to tick. Mike reflects that he operates in a strangely soundless world before hitting off the mute button on his keyboard and letting his office fill with sound.
-=-=-
Bobby's ten minutes late, but Bobby's always ten minutes late. He pulls up to the front door of Mike's office in an ancient, battered pickup truck that Mike is always vaguely surprised doesn't have a dog in the bed, nor does a mountain of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans fall out when he hauls open the door. Mike and Bobby were raised in a solidly middle-class family without a whiff of white-trash, but Bobby seems to have missed the memo.
"Hey, Bro!" Bobby greets him as he climbs in. A cigarette is held loosely between two fingers.
"Didn't you quit?" Mike asks, prudently buckling his seatbelt. He knows how Bobby drives.
His brother rolls his bright blue eyes and pulls out of the parking lot, blithely ignoring the curb. The suspension of the truck isn't what it used to be and Mike is glad he's still the smarter of the two when Bobby hits his head on the roof. "Yeah, but Charlene broke up with me. Speaking of which…"
It's an opening that Mike doesn't want to take, and says so. "Can we not talk about it? We broke up. It's over. We're done. Final. Caput. Finished."
Bobby casts a him a shrewd glance and shrugs. "Whatever you say, man." He offers Mike the pack of Marlboros, and Mike takes one without even thinking about it, lights it with the lighter Bobby keeps in the cup holder. He takes a long drag off it, the first cigarette he's had in…
He pushes the thought away. He doesn't want to talk so he doesn't have to think. Pool is starting to sound better and better.
-=-=-
Growing up, kids and adults alike assumed that Robert MacDonnell Brown (named for their mother's family) was older than his brother, Michael Nolan Brown (named for their grandmother's people). Bobby was one of those kids who sprouted up fast and just seemed to keep growing, perpetually six inches taller than every other kid in the class. Mike was a slow starter, but even he gained the inches that seemed, for years, to have gone solely to his brother.
Now, the assumption is the other way around, and it's the correct one. Bobby's still taller, but it puts him at a height that Mike can only describe as "crazy-tall". At six-foot-two, Mike's comfortable in his skin. He's slender, athletic. He got all the dark features of the Browns and the Nolans. Bobby's blonde and blue eyed, the only one in the family, but old pictures of the MacDonnell kids show that the genes were kicking around somewhere. He has a gangly quality that makes him seem constantly comical and on the verge of falling over. They both have the Brown stamp across their faces as clearly as anything - the same short noses, high cheekbones and stubborn chins mark them as brothers even if nothing else did.
-=-=-
Mike is grateful when they pull up directly in front of the bar and into a parking space that seemed to be reserved for them, saving them from half an hour of Bobby trying to find a place to park the behemoth of a truck. He remembers the last time this happened and how the two of them had gotten out of the truck and pushed a Taurus five feet forward to make room for the truck. The owner of the Taurus had been very confused when she returned, but Bobby and Mike just shrugged and kept walking, stifling their laughter for another block before they couldn't hold it in any longer.
The bar is an old one in the city and has been named something different for each guy who bought it. No matter how many people have had their hands on it, though, it remains constant, unchanging. The same bartender has been employed there for as long as anyone can remember and the same pool tables have been under the same dim lights for possibly eons. It's not a popular place for pool, but it's a popular place for working alcoholics. White and blue collar guys line the bar, chain smoking and studiously ignoring one another and one of the tables currently has a pair of guys playing each other. The other table is free and Bobby negotiates with the bartender for drinks and balls.
Had Mike been planning to shoot stick tonight, he'd have brought his own cue with him. As it is, he finds one of cues the bar has that won't make him crazy and calls it good enough. He racks the balls efficiently, gives Bobby the break, knowing even as he does so that it's an effort ultimately doomed to failure.
Mike considers himself an adequate player. He has a good sense for the table, understands the mechanics and physics. He enjoys the game, enjoys the cerebral nature of it. He even enjoys the feel of leaning over the table and the way the muscles in his back stretch.
"Jesus fuck! You call that a fucking break?"
Bobby's in it for the shit talking and is not above aiming it at himself. He has an easy way of laughing at himself and everything else that makes other people laugh with him. The guys at the other table look at them and while Bobby talks to them about their game, Mike examines the table, debating between breaking up the balls and taking the easy shot. He decides to help out Bobby's break and is pleased when the twelve sinks cleanly into the corner pocket. For a moment, all talking ceases while Mike clears a couple more balls before missing a long shot.
The game goes quickly. Bobby misses as much as he sinks. Mike drinks his beer in short sips between shots and pays more attention to the other table where the two guys, shorter than Mike by a head and have the compact look of professional thugs, play their own short and perfunctory game.
By the end of the second game, Mike is practicing and Bobby is getting drunk. He takes shots he wouldn't normally, talks as much shit to Bobby as he's getting back. The thugs take an unusual interest in their antics. By the end of the third, one of them asks Mike if he wants to play for money.
Mike's been easily buzzed for awhile, but this sobers him. He's about to decline, but what's the worst that's going to happen? It's not like his girlfriend is going to object. He downs the last of his beer and asks how much. When the thug tells him, Bobby's eyes half bug out of his skull. Mike nods and accepts and cash is put down on the table.
Mike suspects that the thugs have an idea of how he plays but he's willing to bet (and has) that it's an incorrect one. With money on the table, he plays conservatively, competently - far more than they were expecting. Within the first few shots, they've come to realize that they're in trouble. A few more and they're looking nervous. They shoot glances to Bobby who is now watching the whole thing with a supremely amused expression and is remarkably silent. Inside another five minutes, Mike has cleared the table, is collecting his winnings and the truck keys from Bobby, ushering him outside before the thugs manage to figure out what the hell just happened.