This one came together a little differently than do most of my other flash fictions. I wrote it at the keyboard, whereas usually I write longhand. I also wrote over the course of two days. Not fair, I know, because I had a little longer to think about it.The first seven paragraphs happened in 20 minutes on day one. The last two paragraphs happened in ten minutes on day two, so I still stuck to the thirty minute rule, and I still did not do any editing other than spellcheck (because I’m such a poor typist). This is one of the pieces I’d consider revising and turning into a longer piece. The ending felt rushed to me.

Bar Fight

The pool cue felt heavy in my hand and I knew I had chosen well. I let the chalk nuzzle the tip of the cue, then blew on the tip. I chalked my hands on the spool near the window, alive with beerlights and cracked slightly to allow a breeze to blow the otherwise still air of the bar. The smokeaters had stopped working ages ago and the stagnation hung heavily all around.

The lights had come up, signaling lastcall, but the bartender hadn’t officially announced it yet. The jukebox goes off when the lights go up, and the drunks are too drunk to notice. The game at the other table had just ended, and the bouncer swept the remaining balls into the pockets, turned off the lights and thanked them for coming in, dismissively, trying to get them to leave the bar.

I was glad that I had paced myself all night, as I could see the tightly racked balls at the other end of the table without closing one eye. My opponent was not so lucky, I noticed, looking up at him and staring him hard in the face as I shot the cue ball squarely into the waiting triangle.

It’s all geometry and luck. Yes, there is some skill, but when you play pool, you’re just trying to draw a line from the tip of your cue to the ball, and extend that line into a perfect angle to cause the ball you’re attempting to strike to sink into a pocket. Sounds easy enough. But pool is more than geometry. It’s flirting, it’s fighting, it’s blocking out the external noises and hearing only your mind telling your hands tell the balls where to go.

Even without the jukebox, there was plenty of external noise. The two oldtimers at the table behind me had been in the bar since around three o’clock. So, almost twelve hours. They were drinking pint after pint of Bud Lite with the occasional whiskey shot. They must have been in their seventies, but they acted like they were in their twenties, flirting with the pretty girls, dancing with each other. One of them said, “…and that’s what I’m talking about, Dennis. Experiencing God is too painful for most folks. They don’t have the gift of the Divine, they aren’t ready, aren’t prepared. And God wants us to know Him. So He only reveals Himself to us when we are drunk enough to feel only His Love and no other pain in the universe.”

As with the other sounds and distractions, I acknowledged this thought and let it go. I had only now to sink the eightball and I will have beaten this guy, a guy I’ve been waiting to see walk into this bar ever since the last time he walked out fifteen years ago.

He was mean drunk, then, Shane McIntyre, but that was no excuse for his behavior. He had backhanded Imogene, and she was crying when I jumped over the bar. I was working here, then, before I got fired for the drinking. We like you and all, but we need to cut you loose. The drinking’s getting out of hand.”I remember jumping over the bar, though. I knocked over a few of the drinks when I jumped over the bar, spilling them on some of the patrons. He skipped out the backdoor, and I tended to Imogene, who had a cut under her eye. Yes, I called the police, but Shane never did turn up.

Conjuring that image again, Imogene crying, holding my frayed handkerchief to her eye, the door swinging closed behind Shane, allowed me to block all distractions. I felt again the heaviness of the cue in my hand and imagined breaking it across his back, imagined poking it through his throat, the splintered wood making the piercing easy.

“Seriously, it’s time for you to finish up and leave,” one of the bouncers said to me as I sunk the eight into the bottom corner. I nodded at him. He walked away, thanking the other patrons for coming in, herding them out the frontdoor. I went to shake Shane’s hand. Shane took my hand and smiled. I spun him around, wrenching his arm up behind his back, breaking his arm. He fell to the ground. The pool cue was heavy, and it did not break when I thrashed him with it. Before I could crack his head with it, though, the bartender had me in a headlock. I did not fight. I stood in his grasp, limp.