If you look in the dictionary for popular phrases and idioms, and turned to the page with, pot calling the kettle black. Instead of a picture of a pot, there would be a ridiculous selfie of me playing pool. I would tell people that I was forced into doing this. Nobody actually believed me, but it was my story and I was sticking to it. Everybody knew why I was playing. All they had to do was look at my team's roster. I came in the Sunday before to practice with this cue I thought was awesome because it had been signed by Eddie Van Halen. People smiled, said that's cool, but I know secretly they laughed behind my back. The signature was worth a heck of a lot more than the cue. I would have been better off with a fricking tree branch.
Truthfully, I wasn't really there to practice. Oh, that is what I told people, but I was there to drink pretty much. Some may find this hard to believe. I would drink my face off in order to show the fact that I didn't care about the pool part of it whatsoever. I did not need to face the sad fact that I actually sucked at the stupid game. I was embarrassed that I wasn't any good, but I'll be damned if I wasn't going to let people tell me, I told you so. I knew it. You should have been playing all along.
For me, playing pool was a bit more complicated. It just was in the end. First, I had been saying for a long time how much I hated the game. I didn't want to be known as a liar, a hypocrite. As bar life goes, you never want to be that guy. Over the past few years, I had grown to tolerate the game. Funnily enough, as I got older, the only people worth talking to were a select few that played pool. The people that came here just to drink were pretty much douchebags pretty much all of the time. Yet, I also learned by hanging with anyone here, it was being witness to a soap opera much more dramatic than General Hospital and Days of Our Lives combined to the nth power. Why don't we just call it a Univision telenovela on steroids.
Some probably questioned my involvement as well. There were a few people in this league that I pretty much could not be counted as a fan. For example, this one guy Ron, who always came in with his own chair. He did not like the chairs that the bar provided. He would creep around with his chair and deceptively sit down right by you. Seriously? I came in one day with a lawn chair and sat down next to him. Apparently, Ron did not find the irony as hilarious as I did. Another guy, Paul was always complaining about the jukebox being too loud and how it was affecting their pool game. I would always say to him, "The music isn't why you haven't won at 8 ball yet. It is your incredible lack of skill at the game." He would always say, "Get the hell out of here, who invited you anyway?" This brought great joy to my face. I felt like Rocky at the end of whichever one he didn't lose at the end. I would then proceed to play Down With the Sickness on the jukebox, get the bartender to turn the jukebox up, and have a shot in glorious celebration at not giving a fuck. There was this one dude who was not that great of a player, but he always looked pissed off. I think even when things were going well, the dude looked pissed. We used to call him Disneyland, because looking at his face meant going to the happiest place on earth.
We then had groups of people that existed in the league. First, we had the people, who thought they were professionals. These people were annoying because their entire life revolved around the game. Every social media post was about pool. Yet, these idiots acted like every little stroke, every little shot, every close call mattered. This was not the problem as I saw it. It is fine to have passion. I cannot fault someone to have passion. Yet, this is okay up to a point. At some time and place, these people need to look in the mirror and say this daily affirmation. "I need to shut the fuck up about pool sometimes." The other part of it is they do not realize that it is just a game. That is all it is. A fucking game. A game you are not paid for. A game. So if I accidentally walk in front of you during a pool shot, do not look at me as if I just kept you from winning your first Green Jacket at Augusta. As my friend always tells me, grow up.
Another group was the non-professionals. These were the people who lumped themselves in with the good players. They weren't any good, but got visibly upset at the fact that they couldn't win consistently. These folks would get physically upset after missing certain shots. You could see them ranting and raving, cursing up a storm, as if that would help. I always wanted to say, “Calm down son. You weren't gonna win the match anyway.”
You then had the rules nazi’s. These were the people who enforced the rules of the league with reckless abandon to the detriment of all social norms in a public setting. There was this one guy who always played with the official rule book in his back pocket. Oh, crap. My ball hit the wrong fucking rail. Who cares. I understand that without rules, there can be no order. You need them to make things fair. Yet, this BPA league simply had too many rules that certain people took a bit too seriously. Sometimes you wanted to look at them and say in your best Bridesmaids voice, “You gotta be fucking kidding me?”
Alas, we come to a final group. This would be my group. They are more interested in shots of whiskey, rather than shots in the corner pocket. Games were treated more like a cocktail party with jokes, booze, cigarette breaks, insults, laughter, shots, selfies, more cigarette breaks, more jokes. We would treat the league as something we just didn't care about all that much. We always started out with the best intentions, but shots of everything alcoholic tend to cancel out any kind of good intentions. I would hate my group but the thing is…Seriously? I just don't care.
For those of you who remember me from before, I know what you are probably thinking, why in the fuck should I even bother reading this? You hated pool before and probably still hate it. Well, a funny thing happened in the past 3 years. I began to tolerate the game and sometimes crack a microscopic smile. Now, do not get the wrong idea. I didn't go out and buy a $300 cue due to my new passion for the game. I became friends with people who played pool. It was either hang by the tables or sit by myself at the bar entertaining myself. Let me put it this way, I am not that entertaining to myself. My good friends began to slowly push and prod me into playing and I discovered that it wasn't exactly terrible to play a game or two. Now, two conditions needed to exist for this elusive enjoyment to occur. First, I needed to be playing with certain people. Second, I usually had to be pretty much blackout drunk or baked like a fucking cherry pie. I guess now you are asking in your infinite wisdom as readers, who were these certain people? My reply would be, mind your own fucking business. I then remember this is not the bar, but it is a book, which I have invited you to enjoy. As I always promise my friend when hammered at the bar. “Alright, alright. I will behave.”
I arrived my first night in the league around 5:30. You may be thinking that I arrived here early to practice. Ahh, yes, that is what a normal person would do, but I am not a normal person. A normal person would not lie about coming up early to practice either. Yet, there I was telling Jamie, who worked the counter, that was why I was there. Yet, in reality I was here to get nice and drunk before I had to actually play pool. I needed an excuse on why I was so terrible at the game, rather than tell the truth. I walked up to the bar, where only a couple of people were drinking. I always had this idea in my mind of a hilarious thing I would say to the bartender. My stupid ass would say it and 9 times out of 10 it was nowhere near as funny as in my mind. I stood there for a couple of minutes waiting for the bartender. Why is it when you wait for your first drink that mere seconds seem like minutes as you stand there? My theory is that unlike everyone else there, you don't have a drink, which makes you the lamest person there.
The bartender Zen came up to me and took my order. She said, “The usual?” Let me say, if you have hopes and dreams, having a usual in terms of alcohol is probably not a good thing.
I said, “Nah, vodka and 7.”
She smiled, “Oh boy, uh-oh.”
I asked, “What's that mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” I didn't say anything, but began to worry what she meant by this. Zen came back with my drink and I stopped worrying so much about what she said. Alcohol always did this. Any flaws that I had…fuck it, let's get drunk.
I turned around and surveyed my surroundings noticing a couple of familiar faces. Yet, I pondered this thought and reflected there are always familiar faces here. I don't mean this in that all the people are extraordinarily friendly. There are always new people coming in as old faces disappear like some sort of magic trick. For this reason, I am never quick to hand out the status of good friend at a bar. Sometimes, how well do you actually know a dude from the bar? I am always amazed at how quickly some people are out of your life. I guess must not have been that important to you. No worries. I used to stress and get frustrated over this undeniable fact. How dare they decide our drunken experiences together meant absolutely nothing? As someone once told me, no use worrying so much about it, it will not change anything.
I began to walk around the bar trying to look cool with my drink in my hand. I suddenly realized that this was pretty much pointless. There was not a soul here to impress with my coolness. I sat back down at the bar, looking at my phone acting as if I actually had something to do on my phone. I sipped my drink as Fox News played on the television without the sound. I stared at the tv, which was just as pointless because I had no clue what the newscaster was saying. My guess would be this…”Blah, blah, blah…Democrats suck.”
“Hey Zen.”
“Can't you see I am busy?”
“Doing what?”
“Checking my text messages.”
“Can I get a Fireball?”
“I guess. As long as you promise to quit signing your credit card receipts Abraham Lincoln and writing your tips in pesos.” Zen at the speed of a retarded turtle proceeded to get my shot.
“I promise. I will also quit trying to pay my tab with my library card.”
“I totally forgot you did that shit too. I can never track of all the stupid bullshit you pull sometimes.”
“That's why you love me.”
“You keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night. Here's your shot, I just know I am gonna regret serving you later.”
I stared at the shot for a few minutes as the television blared something or other I do not recall. Televisions tend to be just noise at bars. I have always found it very difficult to concentrate, focus, and listen to television sound at the bar. There is so much activity sometimes going on that you simply cannot keep that attention span going for more than a few nanoseconds. Nanoseconds? That is a fucking sick word. Sick? Awesome, badass, dope, boss. I continued to stare at that shot. I was in a staring shot with that evil son of a bitch. I stared through it. I was trying to use every fiber of my being to tell that shot it would not defeat me tonight. It would not send me to jail or the hospital. You aren't going to fuck me up tonight, but instead I am fucking you up tonight. Yet, no matter how hard you try, the shot always wins. The shot reminds me of the house in Vegas. No matter how many times you attempt to beat the house, the house always wins. Sorry George Clooney. The house always wins and Ocean's 11 is just a movie that had too many damn sequels. Shit, some kids probably learned to count from the Danny Ocean movies. I finally took my shot and almost gagged on it. This never fails. No matter how much you try to prepare for that first shot, it always tastes like complete ass.
Zen came over, "You okay? I don't want you throwing up on the bar."
I smiled defensively, "That only happened once and it was a long time ago."
She guffawed, "It don't matter. If we are at the home 100 years from now, I will still remind you about that."
I yelled back, "May I remind you that I went home and changed, then came back out continuing to get drunk. What do you think about that?"
She shook her head, "That doesn't mean anything. It means that you are pretty dumb, if you ask me."
With that, Zen walked away. As she probably forgot about it immediately, I sat there and dwelled. What the hell was going on? She seemed to be giving a little too much attitude and throwing a bit of criticism my way. Here is the thing that makes bar life so complicated. There really is no black and white line between customer and bartender or staff. You can question motives sometimes, and to me there is nothing bad with doing that. Yet, sometimes, the bartender, owner, or staff look at you as if the most egregious sin was committed. How dare you question us? We are above reproach. I just won't serve you then. It is a fucking Goddamn soap opera I tell you sometimes. It's a bar, not a church. Someone told me that once at another bar and I liked it. I later found out why there was such a coldness from her. I had posted a picture that said, I am sorry. I can't make it. I'm too busy talking shit about everyone that I know. She stupidly thought I was referring to her. I would say later that if it was about you, I would put your name in big fucking letter beside it. On the other hand, stop talking so much shit, then you will never have to worry about an ecard.
Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard the words, "Word up douchebag." This meant only one thing. Jackson was here, my esteemed and well-respected teammate, who used the words douchebag and tool way too much for a grown-ass man. From all the friendships and all of the drinking in the recent past, somehow, someway we had remained friends. You always have those 1 or 2 people in your life that it is literally impossible to get rid of, no matter how hard you try. Those friends where it is not the case of wanting to tell them something, but you have to tell them. There is no way around it. You absolutely must tell them, even if it is something trivial like a really good song you just heard they would really dig.
I replied, “Word up tool.”
“Did you sleep here?”
“I haven’t been here for 3 days.”
“Oh, 3 full days. Wow.”
“Lay off. I am in a good mood tonight.”
“Alright, I know that how it goes. We have got to keep you in a good mood.”
I did not say anything after this, but I knew exactly what he meant. He was right, too. Sometimes, I would come into the bar and not be in the greatest of moods. I would not be angry per say but not feel like being social. The bartenders that knew me always waited for at least 2 drinks until they really tried to talk to me. Ones that did not took offense if I gave short, curt answers thinking I was mad with them. I was not mad, but instead it simply took every piece of strength in my soul to give those answers. Some bartenders will ask me, what’s wrong. I will look at them and say, “If there was something wrong, I wouldn’t fucking tell you. No offense. But I don’t know you that well.” Yet, in the end, they seem to always take offense giving me lesser service the rest of the night. What’s wrong? The main problem is that you, the bartender, is acting like a Goddamn amateur, who can’t be a professional. They then wonder why and complain to high heaven that I left a tip in negative amounts. Some will ask, how can you act that way? I do not defend it, but the customer is always right and it is the only place around where I am actually ever right. Too often the line is blurred between bar staff and customer. Sometimes staff tends to forget that it is still a business relationship that they need to honor. The other reason is alcohol. It sounds like a cliché, but everything sounds a lot cooler, a good idea, something to try, a lot funnier when you are trashed. If you are lucky, you will black out, and all your bad behavior never fucking happened anyway.
“Yeah, for sure.”
“You ready to play some pool tonight?”
“Oh, yes. I am so excited. I have never been this excited ever in my life. This is the motherfucking pinnacle of everything.”
“Oh, be quiet. I know you hate it.”
“Nah, I am just kidding. It will be fun to hang with you guys. But let’s not kid ourselves, I suck at pool and plan on getting fricking loaded. So there’s that.”
“Well, let’s get started. Oh, Zen. Oh, Zen. Oh, Zen.”
“Oh, hey, Jackie. When did you get here?”
“I have told you countless times to call me Snake.”
“I am not calling you Snake jackass.”
“Please?”
“No, so what do you want? I have shit to do.”
“2 fireballs please.”
“Oh, come on Jackson. You know the fake politeness is not going to get you anywhere.”
“Well, it should get me this shot.”
“That’s where you’re right. Where you are wrong is I am going to give your shot a voodoo curse, so you shoot absolutely terrible tonight.”
“Uhh, that’s your mistake to begin with. I always shoot terrible. What the fuck difference would a voodoo curse make?”
Zen looked dumbfounded. “Uhh, you’re not good? You told Christie that you were a 5.”
Jackson smiled, “Oh, yeah, that. I really had no clue what a 5 was, but I was really fucked up, so I said it.”
Zen wondered, “Why would you do that?”
I said, “Let me field this one. In the fucked up logic of his drunken mind, he thought that telling every girl with a pulse he was a 5 would get him laid. Truth be told every girl thought he was talking about how hot he was on a scale of 10.”
“Oh, my God, you guys are fucking ridiculous. Never mind the fact that I am saying nothing about the fact that you were probably trying to bang my waitress, while she was working. Other customers do that and do not worry, but you guys…”
I yelled, “Alright, Jesus! The shots are getting warm.”
With that Zen walked to the other side of the bar where at least 3 people were waiting. She yelled back, “You know Jackson, the ratings go up to 7 in pool.”
Jackson’s jaw went gaping, “Oh my God. I never knew it went up that high. That’s why I was getting shot down. My rating was too low.”
I said very sarcastically, “Yeah, right, that is why you didn’t get laid. You failed to fraudulently claim you were a 7. Let’s do these.”
“What should we toast to?”
“How about to us both being 7’s? Yeah, I just became a 7, too.”
“Really when did this happen?”
“About 10 seconds ago. Drink up moron.” We both slammed our shots in a quick motion fighting off the aftertaste. “Alright let’s go practice. Let me ask you something Jackson. Have you ever practiced for league?”
Jackson looked at me with a smile, “No, why.”
I shrugged my shoulders, “I’m not really sure how to do it.”
Jackson soon reassured me. “We’ll just do what we always do when we play. Throw a bunch of balls on the table because we don’t know how to rack.”
“Good idea. We will then order a bunch of drinks and pretend we are playing.”
Jackson put his hand up for a high five. “For sure. Oh, I forgot. You don’t high five, ya weirdo.”
The two friends walked up to the counter. I said, "Hey Jaime, we need some balls."
Jamie replied, “You sure do. You guys are pussies.” He pulled out a tray of balls. I grabbed them and both Jackson and I began to walk away. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I said, “What?”
“I have to assign you a table morons.”
Jackson smiled out of sheer embarrassment. “That might be a good idea.”
Jamie laughed, “What were you guys going to do? Just pick one.”
I said, “Uhh, yeah.”
“No, you don’t do that. You listen to what I say. I say you are at 11. Just remember I am the dictator of pool around here. So you are at 11.”
I replied, “I’ll remember that Hitler of Billiards. Did you say that we should go on 10?”
“Fuck you.”
We walked away laughing to our table 11. Jackson not so slyly just threw all of the balls on the table and knocking them around as if they were dirty laundry. He said, “Let’s play some pool.”
I said, “Houston, we have a problem.”
Jackson answered, “What’s that?”
“Generally, in order to play, we need cues.”
“I thought you had one.”
“I didn’t bring it.”
“Why the fuck not? You own a cue and you are playing in a league, bringing your cue would have been smart.”
“Come on man, I’m not smart. Quit insulting me.”
“Alright. I know you brought it. It’s behind the counter isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“Go get it, assface.”
“Alright.”
Jackson yelled as I walked away, “You are the boy who cried wolf.” Hearing that, I knew exactly what he meant. I was always trying to mess with people. People that I just met, I would do so to no end. My real friends, who knew me well, saw through my bullshit very quickly. Most times people found it hilarious, but other times not so hilarious. One girl slapped me when she found out that my name was not Marvelous Johnson. I had her going for a couple of hours, but she got really pissed when I told her. I bet she regretted making out with Marvelous Johnson at the bar, too.
I came back with the cue and slowly revealed it to Jackson. He said, "Only you would have an Eddie Van Halen pool cue."
"Admit it. The thing is kinda cool."
Jackson guffawed, "Yeah, if it was 1985."
"Aww, be quiet."
"You shoot first, since it is your elegant cue."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I began to survey the table. Everything about my stance was awkward and for some reason I was beginning to feel the effects of the earlier shots of Fireball. I shot what in my mind was a well-suited shot, but in reality, it was a horrible fucking shot. The ball caromed everywhere, except near a pocket.
Jackson said, "Nice shot, Vince."
I yelled back indignantly, "Well, let me see you do better."
Jackson snatched the cue from me. "Watch and learn, my friend."
I smiled, "Friend? Friend? What the hell ever gave you that idea?"
"Oh, for starters, how about that jail down in Mexico?"
I muttered, "Oh, yeah, right. I forgot about that. Just shoot, jackass." Jackson slowly got ready to shoot. He proceeded to completely whiff on his first attempt. "So Jackson, what exactly am I supposed to be learning right now?"
"You best shut your mouth."
Suddenly as I prepared to miss another shot, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and there stood Nick the Dick. Yes, the same name as the minor character from the film, Bachelor Party with Tom Hanks. Yet, he did not get this name from any sort of physical prowess with the ladies. Instead, after a couple of shots, he turned into a gigantic dick. I said, "Hey, Nick."
He said, "So you actually are playing in the league?
In my best Val Kilmer voice from Tombstone replied, "That's the rumor."
"It is so awesome you are. You are going to get addicted to the game."
I smiled, "Oh, I highly doubt that, highly doubt that."
"You'll see."
"Unless it makes me feel high as fuck or makes a hot girl appear, then I doubt about any threat of addiction."
Nick laughed, "It is funny you say that."
I cried out, "What the fuck are you talking about?" Nick continued laughing as he walked away. I yelled to Jackson, "Douchebag, what the fuck is he laughing at?"
Jackson purposefully gave off this quite fake innocent face. "I know nothing." He then shrugged his shoulders quite unconvincingly.
I poked him in the chest. "I know you are fucking lieing."
Jackson pointed to the counter, "Oh, hey, look who's here." I wheeled around and saw Nikki, my weed bestie. She was more or less my real bestie, but if you say weed bestie, then people don't get as weird. The two of us had become partying doppelgangers, where our drunken behavior had become nearly identical.
I walked over to her. "What's up?"
"Oh, hey."
"Wanna do a shot?"
She laughed, "I already got you one." Yes, quite the doppelganger, if I do say so myself. We quickly downed our cherry bombs. I had gotten so bad that I absolutely hated drinking these specific bombs without her. I could now reach my moment of zen. She was the only one that could look at me with just a look when I was loaded and make me behave. I always found it funny that the girls who worked at the bar when unhappy with me would always ask her to talk to me. Unlike Jack Nicholson, she did not make me want to be a better man, but rather a better alcoholic.
One may say that is truly dysfunctional, sick, twisted, but isn't that life anyway. I remember the words of The Comedian from that great graphic novel, The Watchmen. "Once you realize what a joke everything is, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense."
A friend of mine tried to get me into AA once and I promised to go in order to sleep with her. I sat there dumbfounded at how lame AA had made her. It was all this meaningless bullshit like walks, inspirational quotes, church, remaining positive, but I will tell you one undeniable truth about it all. I didn't want to join because it was boring as fuck I eventually could not stand to be around her because it was simply too much fear, too much lame bullshit, too much phoniness, and not enough living.
I returned to the table as Nikki talked to Zen about something unimportant, or shall I say unimportant to me. Jackson said to me, “Can we please finish this game sometime this year?”
I smiled, “There ain’t no way you and me are ever finishing a game like ever.”
“It could happen.”
Nick overheard us. “No way in hell.”
I yelled across the table, “Pipe down Chachi!”
Jackson said, “Can I be Joanie?”
Nick and I yelled in unison. “No!”
I was beginning to have second thoughts about playing in this league. This always happen after I had gone past the point of a simple buzz. I mean seriously trying to be coordinated and use your mind in a reasonable fashion is never really a good idea when doing fireballs like they are going out of style and ending up in the clearance sale rack at the local Walmart. You just get this sense of fatigue that you want to lay down and do nothing, except be fed alcohol intravenously.
I yelled at Jackson. “Hey, don’t we start soon? Where is the 4th player? I don’t want to play any more than I have to.”
Jackson said quite nonchalantly. “Oh. Intoxy is not coming tonight. Too hung over.”
I said, “What the fuck. Do we have a sub?”
He replied, “Yes.” I waited for more words, but the jackass did not say anything.
“Well…”
“Well, what?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Nikki got her.”
I stormed towards the bar. There was something not only rotten in the state of Denmark, but in this pool hall as well.
I poked Nikki in the arm. “Hey.”
She said, “Hold on.” I began to tap my feet vigorously impatient to speak to her. This could not be good. I knew that in my heart. I was about to be pissed off. I just knew it. I poked her again. She screamed, “What!”
I went into my little schoolboy persona and stepped away ashamedly. “Nothing.” I said this quite meekly.
“You are obviously pissed about something. What?”
"Oh, it is nothing."
“Shut up. You always do this…WHAT!”
I said, “What are you guys not telling me?”
“Oh, that. She is coming.”
“Who?”
“She. Need I say more.”
“Oh, her! I have not seen her since the strip club. Why?”
“Well, she is kind of on our team tonight.”
“What the fuck!”
“Calm down.” She grabbed my shoulders. This was serious if she did that. I tried to squirm away, but she yelled. “Wait. Listen. She doesn’t give a shit. You shouldn’t either. Fucked up shit happens when you drink too much. It happens to the best of us. Be a little Goddamn Fonzi and be cool. Your retarded ass can do this.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Oh, come on. You’re fine. Let’s go outside.”
I said, “But I don’t smoke.”
She smiled, “Not that kind of smoke.”
“That sounds pretty Goddamn dreamy right now.”
We walked outside to the beer garden. Things had changed over the years as we no longer cowered in the shadows over smoking. Doing it was much more normalized with vapes, dabs, and medical marijuana. The two of us took seats at the end of the beer garden. She pulled out a giant bag of weed.
I exclaimed, “Holy mother of marijuana Batman.”
“What?”
“Bring enough?”
“Lay off. I lost my weed jar.”
“What’s a weed jar?”
“Oh, my God. The shit you don’t know could fill a bottomless abyss in a black hole.”
“Oh, you mean this town.”
“Haha, yeah right, totally.” She began to coolly fill her chillum with her green as I looked on like a Pavlovian dog. She took some hits from it and made the act look so damn easy. Nikki passed it to me with her lighter. “Do you need help?”
“Well, you know me.”
“I swear I am smoking with a 3rd grader.” She leaned over with the lighter raising the flame. “Now suck.” I puffed easily, exhaled with confidence as she looked on in amazement. “What the fuck! You learned how to smoke weed.”
“Yup.”
“Well, praise the lord.
“I can even light it now, but I like you doing it for me. I feel so special.”
After taking a couple of more hits, “Here, you light it.” I proceeded to easily light the chillum and hit the weed. “Oh, my God. My little baby is growing up.”
“Haha, very funny.”
“I’ll tell you what. I will get you another shot to celebrate this momentous occasion.”
“Now you are talking.” We proceeded to go inside as she put her weed away, but it would not be the last time to bring that out. Far from it, my friend, in my best Marcellus Wallace voice.
We walked in and glanced over at the pool table. I said, “Oh, shit. Does she usually play leagues?”
Nikki replied quickly and quite assertively. “No.”
“Then what the hell is she doing?” Suddenly, the girl in question gave one of our opponents tonight a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, that’s what.” The girl was Jackson’s ex-girlfriend, Pam. We all hated her with intense passion and the fire of 1000 suns. She was fake, annoying, manipulative, and never bought anyone any shots. If anything, that last part was the tragedy of her personality, that made my soul cry a bit. Can you say awkward? Yet, Nikki and I, always remained civil towards her because Jackson for some reason could not see her bullshit. Right now, I am thinking to myself, welcome to the new season of General Hospital.
As we walked over, Nikki whispered, “You better behave tonight.”
“Me?”
“I know how much you hate her.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You gave her a pack of cigarettes with joints in them.”
“Oh, yeah. I did do that.”
“Yeah, you did. I have never seen someone so high. She walked home barefoot and then posted some of the most God awful poetry that night.”
“Totally forgot about that. Our love is here. Just like a keg of beer. His heart so dapper. Just like the keg’s tapper. Our souls now in demand. Let’s go to the bedroom for a one night keg stand.”
“Man, I thought one night keg stand was quite clever.”
“You would!”
We both chuckled as Jackson saw us. “What are you guys laughing about?”
I said, “Oh, getting high, you know.”
Jackson guffawed. “I should have guessed.”
Nikki poked Jackson in the chest. “You are so getting high tonight.”
“You can try.”
“Most people try. I succeed.”
“How do you figure?”
“I totally brought your bff here to the dark side.” At this, I shrugged my shoulders and gave the most evil of smiles.
Suddenly, Jackson's ex, screamed at us. "Are we going to play or what?"
I yelled, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever."
"Jackson, tell your jerk off friend to quit being mean."
Jackson smiled, "Why not?"
"Because it's not nice."
"First, it is funny as hell. 2nd, not nice is from the movie, Roadhouse, which you hate. 3rd, I do not have to care anymore. Our divorce papers say that."
I said, "Alright, alright, let's play. First question, might be an obvious one, how do you play?" Apparently, the opposing team did not find the humor in all of this.
Nikki lightly shoved me. "I cannot take you anywhere."
"Well, just me being me."
"Okay, you get a pass tonight. Jackson and I will keep score. You know the basic rules of 8 and 9 ball?"
"I think so."
"Okay, that is all you need to know tonight. Oh, and don't vomit on the pool table."
"Hey, low blow. It wasn't a pool table. It was foosball table."
"Whatever. It was gross."
"I guess you are right. You can't take me anywhere."
Jackson asked, "Who's up first?"
Nikki said, "Moron who can't score against Ricky."
I yelled, "Ricky Bobby, the legend dies tonight." My opponent smiled as he began to rack the balls. I whispered to Jackson, "Damn, I thought that joke was really good."
Jackson said, "Dude, none of your jokes are really good."
I really did not know much about Ricky, nor did we talk a lot. There were many people here I knew by having small talk with, but I could not tell you one important thing about their lives. One of my best friend's would say, I have trust issues, but I would just say that if you buy me a shot, then my trust issues are thrown out the window and I will tell you anything. Yet, the more I thought about it, why shouldn't I have trust issues at a bar? You know almost next to nothing about these people, then you throw alcohol in the equation, and you have a molotov cocktail. Pretty Goddamn lethal, if you ask me.
We began to play. Wait a second, let me change that. I began to watch. I watched Ricky hit balls in from every angle imaginable. He hit them in straight on, banked them, ricocheted them, curved them, and any other action verb one can think of during a match. I sat in the chair and at one point pretended to be asleep.
Jackson yelled, "What the hell are you doing?"
I screamed back defensively, "I can't fucking play, if he won't let me shoot."
"Want me to do a voodoo curse on him?"
"No, Jackson, No more voodoo curses. And for God's sake, no more trying to pick up girls by telling them that you are in fact a witch doctor."
"But I am a witch doctor."
"No, you are not."
"Haters gonna hate."
"No, I hate the fact that I am in a pointless argument with a moron, who actually believes he is a certified witch doctor."
"I was thinking if I should start a Facebook page about it." With that, we heard Ricky laugh. He had scratched on the 8 Ball. Apparently, our absolutely retarded conversation set him off his game. That little strategy was filed away for later because who can actually concentrate when they can watch pretty much Comedy Central Live right in front of their eyes. I do not mean to be arrogant, boastful, or lacking humility, but we were honest to God fucking hilarious. So hilarious that it was a damn miracle and travesty that we did not have our own television show.
I started to look quizically around, "Do I get to shoot now? Do I get to shoot now? Do I get to play pool?"
Nikki came over, "Shut the fuck up. Ball in hand. You better not screw this up. Win your only game tonight."
"I was just joking."
"I know. You are always just joking. Just shoot, buddy." I went ahead and finished off the game easily with a shot in the corner pocket. I began to think as I did way too much of when I drank as Ricky racked for the next game. Alcohol and self-reflection are sometimes a pretty shitty combination. I began to think to myself. Was she really mad at me? Did I go too far? Sometimes I take things so far that going further really would not
make that much of a difference. If you have already drunk and dialed ten times, then what the hell difference does five more times matter.
Ricky said to me after lightly tapping my shoulder. “Hey, you’re up.” Yes, and so I was up. This was going to be an adventure.
I grabbed the cue ball and placed it right on the dot slowly setting my stance for what I thought would be the greatest break of all-time. Instead, I got the greatest breeze of air this side of the Mississippi. I nervously smiled at the others. “That always happens.”
Jackson knew I was lying. “Oh really? Since when Fast Eddie?”
“Watch this!” I proceeded to quickly whiff at the ball in even more miserable fashion this time.
Nikki exclaimed, “Watch what?”
I laughed, “I think we’re in trouble.”
Nikki said, “This is no laughing matter. Hit the Goddamn ball.”
“Don’t you get it? Han Solo, Princess Leia? It was a joke.”
Jackson interjected, “We get it. Shoot!” I finally was able to make contact on the fifth attempt.
I said as it was now Ricky’s turn. “See, I finally broke.”
Jackson shook his head. “Yeah, broke is a good way to describe it. I have never seen a break where no ball technically moved, not even one revolution. And no Beatles jokes asshole.”
I guffawed, “You really took me to the guillotine on that insult. Get it?”
Nikki sighed and walked up to the bar muttering the words, “Oh, brother.”
Jackson was staring at me with disdain. “What?”
Ricky finished me off rather quickly. I think he was upset that someone who sucks as bad as me won even one game. In my defense, I am just that fucking hilarious. Upon completion of the match I had no chance of winning, I went directly to the bar. I needed to do some shots, multiple shots, lots of shots, more than one shot. I went to the far corner where I saw Nikki standing speaking to Zen. We always saw the far corner as a place reserved for regulars. A privilege only granted to people known by their first name. I guess that theme song from Cheers was actually right. Yet, others would say like my father, that privilege was not a good thing. I used to tell him after one particularly harsh lecture, you are just jealous I am having a better time than you.
I called over to Zen as she spoke to a couple near the Golden Tee machine. And do not even get me started on the tools that still continue to love that game. Excuse me, did I miss the Delorean for a trip back to 2000.
She said, "What's your poison?"
I laughed, "Life is my poison."
"Ha, ha."
"Yeah, can I get 5 Fireballs."
"You got it, kind sir." I watched her begin to pour the shots and thought to myself, Jesus, I am going to put that vile concoction in my body again and again. What the hell is wrong with me?
Zen said, "Do you need a tray?"
I said, "Why?"
"Or are you just doing them here?"
"Here at the bar."
"Who are they for?"
"Me."
"Yes, I get that. Who is doing these with you?"
"Just me."
"Wait a second. You just ordered 5 shots for yourself."
"Is there a problem?"
Nervously smiling and shaking her head, "No. No problem. Have at it, weirdo. Enjoy the hospital later." I smiled and nodded at her joke, but once again, a feeling crept through the back of my mind. This tense, anxious sense that asks the question, what do you mean by that? What is your agenda? Do you have ulterior motives? This is what brings on the drama in bars. Alcohol causes you to tell your ability to judge situations to screw off, but instead tells you to act upon those ulterior motives because people are evil. Alcohol will tell you whatever you want to hear at that time. It will tell you all people are evil and want to get you. On the other hand, alcohol does make you feel really fucking good, too. So there's that.
I began to start my shots, but only got through one when Nikki approached me. “Man, what are you doing?”
“What? Having a shot?”
“A shot? You and who’s army? Most people do one at a time”
“I am not most people.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Do you want one?”
“Hell no. Fireball is not my style. Why don’t you bring your case of shots down to the table? It wouldn’t hurt for you to come down and support your teammates.”
“Why? We suck and there is no chance in hell we are going to win.”
“You’re lying.”
“What?”
“I know when you are lying. You bite your lower lip.”
"Whatever."
“I know what it is. Get your ass down there and face the Brandi music. It will be fine.”
“Sounds like I don’t have a choice.”
“You don’t.”
"When did you get so tough?”
Nikki laughed, "I have seen Rocky III.”
As we walked down to where Jackson was playing, I said, “Do you think she remembers that night at the strip club?”
“Nah, that was a long time ago.”
“Really?”
Nikki reassured me with a smile. “Stop worrying so much. It will be fine.”
I saw her talking to Jackson. My mind had gone over this moment a million times over. Yet, I did not account for all the butterflies. These things apparently have a tremendous effect on your speech patterns. That moment when you have so much to tell someone, but you cannot get anything out remotely close to that. The problem was now she did not seem real to me. I do not want to say a dream or anything corny like that. I had finally started to forget her face, her voice, her laugh. This was not done out of spite, but time. That is the shitty thing about time. No matter how clear that mental picture was taken, life just takes it away.
Jackson turned to me. “Hey man, do you remember that night at the strip club?”
I decided to play dumb. “What night?”
Jackson was just too dense for his own damn good. "Come on, the night Brandi got in a fight.”
Brandi now cut in. “Now kicking that girl’s ass, I remember. The strip club not so much. Totally blacked out.”
Nikki whispered to me. “See. And you were worried. You avoided her for 4 years for no fucking reason.”
Pam came over and said, “Sorry to break up this tearful reunion, but can we play this century.”
Jackson replied quickly, “Hark, fair Juliet speaks.”
“I am not talking to you.”
"Well, thank you for that."
“You ass.”
“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then quit doing it.”
“I will.”
“Awwww.” Jackson walked away towards the bar in frustration.
Brandi began playing her first match as Nikki and I sat there watching. I was conscious of not trying to stare at her. I remember this one time I tried to write a poem in my head while looking at her at a bar. The friend she was with called me a creepy, stalker asshole. I called her a lesbian who doesn't know how to read. That's the thing when I drink too much. My insults are so unremarkable and out there that they should probably have a spot in the special education wing. There was a physical tug of war going on in my mind right now. Okay, look at her, look at her, look at her, oh God, turn away, turn away. If I could compare it with anything, it would probably be the equivalent of staring into the sun without any sunglasses.
Finally Nikki saved me and asked, "So how is work?"
"Awww, yes work. Let me just say that the honeymoon is over. The deadlines are getting harder and harder."
"Sorry to hear that. You in trouble there?"
"Nah, It's all good. And if it isn't, fuck 'em."
"Well, you will figure it out. You always do. What you been writing about?"
"Technology mostly. I want to write my own shit but I have to pay the bills. One of these days that will happen."
Jackson tapped me on the shoulder, He was back from the bar. "Wait a second, you get paid to write."
I turned around. "Yes, jackass. I write for a blog and get paid for it."
"How come I never knew that?"
"You never asked."
"I guess I just thought you partied, ate, and slept. I'm sorry."
I smiled, "It is alright. Everybody does. I don't really like talking about my life. I would rather talk about why there is not a waitress here right now to take our shot order. Right?"
Jackson raised his hand in the air for a high five. "Damn straight my brother!"
I would not help him complete the high five. "Sorry, not wasted enough yet."
Jackson turned away in disgust. "You are such a..."
I interrupted, "A dick, I know." I turned to Nikki whispering, "You are the only one I tell about anything personal, sorry you have to be that one unfortunate person."
She looked at me with a sarcastic glare, "Shut the fuck up, here comes the waitress."
Tess walked up and said, "Can I get you guys anything?"
Jackson said, "What's my name?"
She looked at him with a snarled lip. "Not Snoop jackass."
"Oh, come on. Why you gotta be like that?"
"Do I even have to go into this? Your stupid ass ditched me in a Burger King parking lot."
"I told you sorry."
"Dude, look. I don't care. It happened. It's over. I have to serve you now because it is my job. Do you want anything?"
Jackson looked pained in the face by this point. "I would like a 3 shots of Fireball, Madam."
Tess shook her head. "Quit being a fucking baby. I will be right back."
I walked over, "What was that all about?"
"Oh, last week we were hanging out and I went to use the bathroom, then never came back."
"What happened?"
"Oh, Pam texted me. She needed a ride."
I shouted to the heavens. "What the fuck is wrong with you!"
He looked dumbfounded. "What?"
"You and Pam. What is it with her?" Her, as in Pam, so to speak.
"I really couldn't tell you. She needs me. This feeling goes up inside of me and for some reason I have to help. My gut just won't allow me to let her down. I have to help her. Maybe it just a weird, creepy addiction that I have. I don't know."
I asked, "Do you think it is love?"
"Not sure. But it is a pain in the ass, that's what it is."
Tess came back with the shots basically slamming them down. She walked away so fast that Jackson could not make a smartass comment. He said to Nikki and I, "Get over here. Let's do these."
Nikki said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Jackson said as we raised our shot glasses. "May you never ditch a girl in Burger King because that is nothing but a bad idea, my friends."
Nikki stared at Jackson. "I have four words for you my emotionally stunted friend. Worst fucking toast ever."
"Wait, What? Are you standing up for Tess?"
Nikki smiled, "Hell no. I could care less. You know I hate Burger King. That fucking king creeps the hell out of me."
I said, "Oh right? And that fucking clown Ronald doesn't creep people out."
She defiantly stated, "No. He is an inspiration to us all."
Jackson laughed, "A creepy inspiration." We all had a nice little chuckle over that one as Brandi continued to play. I just realized that I was supposed to be playing. I was wondering why Mario was looking all pissed sitting there.
I said, "I sorry Jort. I forgot we were playing."
"I told you not to call me that."
"But that is your name, Jort Johnson."
"No that is a nickname you gave me after too much Fireball."
I smiled, "Really? Hey, Jackson. Isn't his real name Jort. He is saying we made it up."
Jackson yelled back. "That's his name."
I said, "Sorry Jort. That's your name. Let's play."
Mario went to go break, but I could hear him mumbling something like, fuck these guys. The way we always looked at it as, someone always has to wear the black hat.
After losing a couple of games, I heard those dreaded words. Mario yelled, “Can I get a ruling?” I simply rolled my eyes.
I said, “Dude, does it really fucking matter?”
“What?”
“Look, I suck. Can we just pretend we played so I can go drink?”
“Of course not. I take this pool league very seriously. Every shot, every break matters.”
“Really? Come on?”
“Yes, really. I am going to go to Vegas this year. This is the year.”
“Well, Jort. Take my advice and go on Priceline tonight and look at Vegas prices because paying your own way is the only way you are going to Vegas. Maybe check out some shows when you are out there. You will have more fun rather than getting your ass kicked at a pool tournament.”
“Dude, what's your problem?”
"My problem is you seem to practice all the time but you never get any better.” I guess this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Mario began to pack his cue up. As he began to leave. “Aww, come on, don't be like that.”
Mario snapped around, “I will be filing a formal complaint with the league.”
I laughed, "Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
“Heart attack serious?”
“Yes. Bye.” With that, Mario walked away for the night.
I walked over to Nikki and Jackson, who had not been paying attention. Jackson asked, “Did you win?”
“Sorta.”
He replied, “What do you mean sorta?”
"Well, he left before the match was over. I guess some things were said. But let us not focus on who said what.”
“Jeez, Pam is going to be so pissed…”
“Sorry dude. It just happened.”
“I'm not mad. Why the hell would I be mad? I am so glad you just made that psycho’s night worse.”
Nikki, who had been listening, finally interjected, “You two morons are insane” With that, she walked away and began making her way to Brandi, who was talking to Tedeschi.
I looked to Jackson, “Was it something I said?”
Jackson smiled the grin of the devil. “Most definitely.”
Tedeschi was a funny dude. He always wore this Members Only jacket. I have been coming here a long time and I had never seen the dude not wearing a Members Only jacket. One time, somebody stole his jacket and he actually called the police about it. I believe the cop said to him and I quote, “Maybe one of your buddies in Flock of Seagulls has it.” One time recently, he was wearing a Members Only hoodie under his jacket. Nikki and I pretty much lost it. Jackson asked us, what was so funny. I told him that Tedeschi had just pretty much blew my fucking mind by going Members Only squared.
I walked over and stood there pretending to listen, but Tedeschi was speaking. I don't even listen to him when he is actually talking to me. After a couple of minutes, I realized I was not being included in this conversation. I could have butted my way into the conversation, but I am not a douchebag.That is a total pet peeve of mine.
I absolutely hate it when you are obviously talking to someone at the bar, then Jackass McGee comes by and starts fucking yammering away to your friend. Hey douchebag, go back to the barn you were raised in and get some Goddamn manners. If the person I am talking to begins to engage in a conversation with the interrupter making me wait, I get even more angry. I will refuse to continue talking telling them that what I had to say was not important at all. What can I say, I am a dick sometimes.
Pam's new guy came back in and did not look so good. I knew that look. Pam was on one of her rants most likely. She was grandstanding in the beer garden to anyone who would listen. She needed attention, drama, soapbox, audience, you name it, Jackson saw the look on the guy's face and I believe had a smidge of sympathy for him. The guy said pretty meekly and quite sadly, "Hey Nikki, I think you and I are supposed to play."
She smiled and said, "Oh, come on, buck up little buddy. It's all good. Let's play some pool." This made him smile and feel at ease. Nikki was good at that. She almost spoke through her eyes to him that Pam was a bitch, so fuck her and the snobby horse she rode in on.
Jackson came over to me and whispered, "Dude, I thought he was going to cry." I simply nodded my head because I did not want him to hear us. I am a walking oxymoron sometimes. Some people get the raging alcoholic asshole dick, while others receive the kind, generous, thoughtful allow me to be your bff. The funny part about it is there emerges total fucking randomness as to which one you receive. Fireball also might have something to do with it, but that has not been scientifically proven yet.
I walked over towards Brandi, who was still talking to Tedeschi. This time I was determined to just sit there and become a part of the conversation at some point. They were talking about rankings. Okay, before I go any further, you have to understand about this league that each player has a ranking, which determines a whole bunch of crap that I don't really care about like handicaps for instance. People in this place are always asking each other, what their number is, which causes major eye rolling on my part. In a nutshell, the players rated higher will lose on purpose, so they will get ranked lower and receive a handicap they don't deserve. Pretending to be more handicapped, then you actually are, hmmm? I guess it would be like somebody parking in a handicapped spot at the mall, when they are fit as a fiddle.
Tedeschi said, "Man Brandi, you are so lucky being a 4. I was a 5 last year, but then went to Vegas, and became a 6. I hope to God I don't become a 7. I might as well quit."
"Yeah, I was a 6, but I stopped practicing. That is what you have to do. I went as low as a 2, but being a 7 is not something I would wanna do either. I thought a 6 was bad. I hope tonight I don't become a 5." She turned to me finally acknowledging me standing there. "Oh, hey, what's up. What's your ranking?"
I looked quite serious and said, "69." She began grinning immediately, but not roariously laughing. I like it when people do this. It says to me that you found pretty damn hilarious, but there is no need to laugh endlessly about it.
Tedeschi said, "What? I didn't hear? What is it?"
I replied, "Sorry, I can't tell you. This is a private team discussion. Members only."
"Ha ha very funny." Suddenly, he heard his name being called and had to shoot. Brandi and I walked back to our table.
Rex now walked behind us as we stood around. He was a strong acquaintance because I cannot necessarily call him a friend. Friend. People bandy that term around a lot these days without giving any actual thought to what it means. I can be a tough pill to take sometimes, so becoming my friend can be an arduous, sometimes painful application process. If anyone thinks they are actually my friend I recite the following line from Con-Air. Sorry boss, but there's only two men I trust. One of them's me. The other's not you. Rex whispers to me, "Wanna buy me a shot?"
I said, "No."
"Come on, why not? We're friends."
"No comment."
“Oh, come on. Fine. Be that way.” With that little exchange, he walked away to go and beg someone else. I guess it could have gone much worse, but I always tried to behave around my friends. By behave, I tried not to talk the full amount that I possibly could. Oh, don't get me wrong, I still talked shit, but it could be so much worse. Left to my own devices, I could be quite cruel.
A few minutes later, Nikki came over frustrated that she was losing. “Fucking Rex.”
I said, “What you talking about? You're not playing him.”
“I know moron. But the table he is at is way too close. The retard will not shut the fuck up. Rex keeps talking and talking and talking. He never stops. All I can hear is his endless mouth.”
I said, “Yeah. You're right totally. If he would shut the fuck up for 5 seconds, then maybe his game would be almost half as good as he thinks it is.”
"Oh, don't even get me started. The fucker has a $1000 cue to go with his ten cent game.”
"Want me to kick his ass?”
“Oh, that's sweet, but I know you can't fight. He would probably kick your ass making me feel bad. Good thing you are funny sometimes.” I was a bit hurt by this, even if it was true. Nobody likes to be told by one of their closest friends that they are one gigantic pussy.
Do you ever reach a moment that you are absolutely stuck inside of like a fucking spider web. No matter what you do, in your mind, suicide is the only answer, if you don't do something epic. I was in one of those moments right now. I am not advocating suicide either. I just tend to exaggerate a little bit sometimes, especially when I am within 2.5 miles of any Fireball.
I calmly walked over to Rex and whispered, “Shut the fuck up.”
He answered somewhat annoyed, “
