A REAL SHOOTER

The young man waited for his turn on the pool table. Most of the names were written in chalk, penned by the drunk men around the table. They watched the balls roll up and down the table with hard, shadowed faces.

The young man, Peter, waited against the paneled wall. The eight ball fell and the winner screamed out to his fellow drinkers. The frat-boy stood thick by the table, stick in hand, raising the cue above his head, strutting around the table. The frat-boy called out the next player.

Peter crept up to the table, putting his quarters into the slot, letting the balls fall with a clack. The frat-boy ogled the girls walking on their way to the bathroom.

The shot broke fast but nothing went in. Peter positioned a stripe for the side, but missed when he went for it. The frat-boy, full of fervor, came up, still talking with his friend, fumbled an easy shot into the corner. Peter lined up his next shot when he noticed a man come from the shadows and wrote his name on the list, each pull of the chalk scratched hard on the board.

It read in a thick scrawl: Jack.

There was nothing peculiar about the man save for the way he walked, like he had an anchor wedged on his shoulders. The man’s heel cracked like gunshots on the wooden planks of the floor.

Peter beat out the frat-boy, who took his loss by throwing the pool stick across the table and cursing. The frat boy stood tall up to Peter.

“Yeah, great game,” the frat-boy shrugged.

“It’s only just a game.”

The frat boy huffed. “Yeah, right.”

The men who watched the game in the shadows murmured to each other.

Peter propped the pool stick on the toe of his shoe, and leaned to read the chalkboard.

“Jack?”

At first there was no answer. Some kid came up to the table. He was about to put his quarters in. Peter already knowing this kid was certainly not the next player, approached the kid.

“You Jack?” Peter asked.

The kid backed off in a second when the man appeared.

“Excuse me. I’m Jack,” the man said.

“Sorry,” the kid said, sulking off quickly.

The man nodded, the pool table light shadowing all of his brutal features.

“Rack ‘em up,” Peter said, and extended his hand.

“Peter,” the young man said.

“Jack,” the old man grumbled. Close up the wrinkles slit across his face were as deep as like razor wounds. He eyes were mud brown with little light behind them.

“Good to meet you,” Peter said.

“Same,” the man said.

Jack shuffled around the table, barely taking time to judge the shots. The 1 went down. He followed the drop with three more clean moves. The last one he tried hit the bumper and the 7 slowed just off the corner pocket.

“Good shooting,” the young man said.

Peter took the 12 and the 11 strong. The man’s face didn’t flinch.

“15 side,” the young man said, missing the next shot.

“All you...” Peter told him.

The man stepped up, leaning on his back foot, and positioned the next shot. The 3 went down easy. Jack wasn’t even trying.

“Damn man. You a real shooter, ain’t ya?” Peter said, flashing a smile.

The man leaned on the table.

“What’s that?”

“A shooter. You’re a real shooter.”

The man nodded, raising his busy eyebrow.

“Sure...” he said.

One more ball went down and the 8 slid perfectly in front of the corner pocket. There’s a lot of green between the stick and the pocket, but the young man knew he lost the game.

“8 down the way,” the man said.

Peter put his stick back in the rack. He turned around to watch his demise.

The man waited, stick in hand—not shooting.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked.

The young man froze.

“You got me, man,” Peter said, shrugging his shoulders.

The man stood up straight and stared across the table, his eyes serious.

“You don’t know that...the game is still on. It’s bad luck to put your cue down early.”

“Come on man,” the young man said.

“It ain’t over ‘till the 8 is down, son,” the man said.

Peter pulled his stick back out, stood with it before the table. The man lined up the 8 and put it down.

The young man shrugged his shoulders and slid the stick back.

“I told you,” the young man said.

Jack came over to him and shook his hand.

“Good game,” Jack said, shaking his hand hard. Peter went to pull his hand away, but Jack held onto it. “You’re a good shot,” Jack said, “but listen. You give up too easy. Like you already expect to lose. You’re too young for that.”

“Right on,” Peter said, “Thanks.”

Jack nodded and shuffled back to the table, waiting for the next player.

Peter went over to the bar ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer. The bartender brought the drinks over. She smiled at the young man.

“How’s the night?” Peter asked.

“Okay,” the bartender said.

“Good, good,” the young man said.

“You?” She said.

“Fine. I just lost the game though,” Peter said.

The bartender took a moment to look over at the table.

“Oh,” she said.

He leaned closer on the bar.

“You playin’ Jack?” She asked.

“You know him?”

“Yeah, he comes in late nights.”

“What’s his story?”

She puts up a finger, takes an order, delivers it, and comes back to the young man.

“What’s that?” She asked.

“That guy. Jack.”

“Oh, yeah, him. He plays here sometimes.”

“Who is he?”

She takes a moment, looking back over at the man.

“You’re new around here, right?” she asked, smiling.

“Yeah, I just moved to the City.”

“Where you from?”

“D.C.”

She nodded, grabbing the green bottle of whiskey. She poured both of them a shot.

“Welcome,” she said raising the glass, “to the madness.”

They cheered and put the shot down.

Peter felt the shots beginning to hit him. He moved off the bar and headed to the bathroom. He took a long piss and returned to the bar. All the people leaned against each other with familiarity. He stared at the empty glass in front of him, alone.

Peter took another long look back at the pool table. Jack stood there, emotionless, waiting for the next player.

He tried to imagine Rachel back in Washington, D.C. She probably wasn’t at some bar. She probably was sleeping, getting rest for her classes the next day. He didn’t her call yet tonight. She called earlier, but he didn’t take the call. He suddenly wished she was here, next to him, drinking with him. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, right to her face. She would start crying if she heard him say that.

A couple girls passed and stared at him. Their glance came and he moved from their stare back to his empty glass. He signaled the bartender again and waved some dollars to pay his bill.

He put the twenty down and looked back to the pool table. Jack made the 8 and the opponent slammed the end of his pool cue down on the planks.

The young man watched the shooter move to the back wall, take a slow drink from his pint, waiting for the next player. Peter stared at the shooter. The shooter, after another drink, met the eyes of the young man. There was such dullness to his face, like some desert behind those dull brown orbs. The man raised his pint glass. Peter did the same. Another contender came up to the table and Jack waited as the opponent racked the balls. Peter tapped the bar and left through the double doors.

The air was still as he walked out of the bar. He started down the sidewalk and only the sound of his footsteps surrounded him. He could feel the size and vastness of the City and he wished Rachel were waiting for him sleeping in bed as he slid his arms around her stomach, warm, and fall asleep to her breathing.

***

That night, Jack won seven games in a row. The last player came out of nowhere. When it came time to hit the 8 down, Jack fumbled and scratched. The opponent took the win silently and came over to shake the Jack’s hand. The opponent said, slipping the cue through his hands:

“No way to win...no way to lose.”

“Right,” Jack said.

Jack went to the bathroom. By this hour, the mirror was dirty with the streaks of a nights’ worth of smears. Jack couldn’t make out his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t mind that so much.

Later that night, Jack turned on his shower and waited while his bathroom began to fill with steam. The man undressed, putting one leg into the stream of the shower. He waited a bit and went under the full stream. The water washed over his head and poured down over his shoulders.

Already, he felt it working.

He slowly lowered his body down in the basin, letting the hot water from the stream fall down upon his body. The droplets splashed down from the spout on his chest and face. He felt very good.

In the trashcan by the shower the empty pharmaceutical bottle his doctor had given him to sleep laid under some crumpled toilet paper. Jack felt his heavy lids close and the water splashing over his body.

The pills are working, finally.

He felt very warm. The last thing the shooter could hear was the water running in circles down the drain and the pitter-patter beats of the droplets on the floor.