Chapter 2 – Pool Hall Blues
Evvy pulled open the heavy door of The Paper Tiger, and was assaulted by the rock music pounding from the speakers. A light haze of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling, drifting out from the back room where regulars played poker for low stakes. She hesitated before stepping into the bar – this was so not her scene, and she couldn't imagine what had led her to accept Marco's offhanded invitation from earlier in the week.
Yes, she could, actually. Three and a half days with her mother, trapped in her tiny apartment, with short trips out to see the local attractions. Three and a half days of the usual passive-aggressive comments that had typified their relationship, particularly in the past eighteen months, as Daphne Wayfair had realized that she couldn't talk her daughter out of her chosen career and steer her toward something less blue collar, preferably involving relocation back to the family home in Philadelphia. Three nights of stilted conversation over dinner, avoiding any direct discussion about the specifics of Evvy's job. Instead, Evvy had selectively pulled safe anecdotes to describe her crewmates – whom she referred to only as her "friends" – such as Cap's quiet humour, Mike's sly seriousness, and Chet's penchant for immature practical jokes. Daphne seemed just a little bit mollified when hearing about Marco's large, close-knit family and Roy's settled home life; those qualities almost papered over the realities of Evvy's unconventional living arrangements when on duty. She had no words to adequately describe the walking eccentricity that was John Gage, so she mentioned him only in passing as Roy's paramedic partner. And anything implying how dangerous and uniquely satisfying her role as a lineman could be was ruthlessly censored and left on the cutting room floor of Evvy's mind.
It was exhausting. And so, on Saturday afternoon, as soon as her mother had pulled away in her rental car to head to her niece's house for the balance of her stay on the west coast, Evvy had stretched out in the super-flexible way that had earned her the odd nickname from John, stuffed her feet into her sneakers, and gone for a long-distance run in the opposite direction from Santa Barbara. Returning with her mind clearer, she'd showered, finished off the doggy-bag from the previous night's meal, and headed across town to the Paper Tiger. She looked around the bar now – it wasn't quite a dive, but close – searching for a familiar face.
Marco, John, and birthday boy Chet were already there, occupying a booth near one of the pool tables. She traversed the floor, populated with knots of customers, all men, in various stages of recreation and intoxication. Although none were in uniform, she know that this bar catered primarily to firemen and cops, whose circles of duty often intersected in more extreme circumstances. She hustled over to 51's table, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and sidled up with a shy, "Hi."
John was immediately on his feet, a wide smile breaking out. "Gumby! Hey, thanks for coming!" He patted her shoulder and slid back into the booth, all the way to the corner to give her ample room to sit down. Marco and Chet, sitting opposite, greeted her warmly as well.
"We just ordered pizza," Chet said, "so I hope you like sausage and mushroom and peppers."
Not her favourites, but she could pick them off. "Sounds good," she said, and then slid a small, wrapped package across the table. "Happy birthday."
Chet's eyes widened. "Now, see, at least Evvy here understands the importance of birthday presents," he chided the other two. "Thanks." He ripped the colourful paper apart to find a cassette tape of the newest Jefferson Starship album. "Cool!" he exclaimed, "I've been meaning to check this one out." Evvy smiled, pleased that her gift was well received.
"Hey," John said, "we were just about to play some pool while we wait for the pizza. Up for a game?"
"Uh, I . . .don't really know how to play pool," Evvy admitted. Before she knew it, she had been hauled out of her seat and was headed over to the nearest unoccupied pool table, her protests being completely ignored. Marco sized her up and walked over to choose a suitable length cue, while John, in lecture mode, began grilling her on what she did know about the game. "Um, you use the stick to hit that white ball, and it's supposed to hit another ball into the hole? And the white ball can't go into the hole?" This, truly, was the sum total of her knowledge, and only came from watching that Paul Newman movie that one time.
John snorted, took the cue from Marco, and placed her hands into position. He maneuvered her to lean over the table while Chet racked the balls, both men talking—and giving opposite advice––the whole time. Taller than her by inches, John scrunched down to her eye level, covering each of her hands on the pool cue with one of his, seemingly oblivious to the intimacy of his body pressing her against the table. "Don't grip it like a baseball bat, Gumby, it's all about the smooth follow-through, like you're playing a cello."
She turned to find his face an inch from hers. "You play the cello, Pretty?" Her mouth curved up slightly as she reflected on this being the third up-close-and-personal encounter she'd had with her shift-mates that week.
"Well, uh, no, but you know – you know what I mean," John stuttered, then snapped playfully, "pay attention." He nudged her feet into a slightly wider stance for balance, then guided her elbow back and let her take a shot. Chet let out a low whistle as, on her first try, the cue ball gently broke the triangle apart and a red ball dropped into a side pocket. John looked as astonished as Evvy felt, while Marco murmured to Chet, "Two on two. I get Evvy."
Evvy found herself playing a loose version of Eight-Ball, laughing hysterically as none of the other three were significantly better at pool than she was. It was obvious that they disregarded a lot of the rules and made others up on the spot whenever it was convenient. Chet and John, on the same side for once, trash-talked Evvy and Marco mercilessly, although Evvy suspected that Marco gave as good as he got, only in Spanish. The game ended in a draw when the piping hot pizzas were delivered to their booth.
Marco looked around the table at the mostly empty glasses from the men's previous rounds. "I've got the next one. Evvy, beer?"
She nodded, the exertion of bad pool-playing making her thirsty. "I'll help carry." She and Marco headed for the bar. The place had filled a little more, as it was nearing nine o'clock. This round would be the last, so everyone could get a good night's sleep before their shift the next day. Marco ordered four beers on tap, and was informed that the barkeep had to change the keg first. "I'll wait here," Evvy offered. "You go back and eat while the pizza's hot."
"You sure?" Marco hesitated.
"Waitressing is one of my many skills," Evvy said smugly. With a smile and shrug, Marco headed back to 51's table. Evvy rested her elbows on the bar, watching the bartender disconnect the house brew tap. She felt someone slide onto the barstool right next to her, close enough to touch her elbow. She shifted her arm over in irritation; there were plenty of available seats along the counter that were not all up in her personal space.
"That your boyfriend over there," a gruff male voice said in her ear, "or are you up for grabs?"
She ignored him, and instead examined the array of liquor bottles on the wall shelf in front of her. A hand landed on her knee. Without shifting her gaze, she said, "Move your hand."
"Sure, darlin'," the guy drawled, and slid his palm up her jeans-clad leg to the top of her thigh. Evvy stiffened. "If your boyfriends have no use for you, I can find something for us to do. We can talk about price later," he added, "too many cops around right now."
She pushed off of the seat, flicking a glance toward her crewmates' table, and the man, sporting dirty-blond hair and a cheesy mustache, got a good look at her navy blue "LACoFD" t-shirt, with its distinctive white logo. "Oh, I see," he said, his voice hardening. "You're a fire-groupie."
"Actually, I'm a firefighter," she snapped, then mentally kicked herself for taking the bait.
The man scoffed, "Yeah, right. I bet you put out some fires." He leaned toward her suggestively, blocking her way, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath as she tried unsuccessfully to duck around him.
As he put his hand on her arm to keep her from walking off, she heard Marco's mild question behind her, "Everything okay?"
Evvy groaned inwardly with embarrassment. She should have known that coming to a place like this was a terrible idea. Before she could answer and steer Marco away from the bar, the drunk sneered, "Don't tell me – you're a fireman, too, just like her."
Marco looked him up and down dismissively. "Yeah," he said simply, then asked Evvy again, "You okay?"
The drunk clearly didn't like Marco's attitude. He raised his voice to reach the nearest group of patrons. "See, this is why a regular white man can't get a foot in the Fire Department." He gestured toward Marco and Evvy with his chin, spilling a little of the amber drink clutched in his left hand. "Too busy hiring coloureds and Mexicans, and now they're bringing in women." He took a step toward Marco, who showed no signs of backing away. "Used to be, a normal white guy could get in there and have a good career, and you people would be cleaning the floors and—"
"Hey, watch your mouth," Marco warned, and Evvy had a sudden vision of the calm and focused lineman, who could easily carry a hundred feet of hose up six flights of stairs, pounding this intoxicated tool into the floor. She looked up and saw John approaching and thought, Okay, White Man, now you're really outnumbered. She took advantage of the drunk's distraction and slipped around behind him to head the paramedic off before this turned into Custer's Last Stand and the Alamo all rolled into one.
"What's going on?" John asked, taking in the aggressive stances of the other two men, as well as the interested postures of the variously inebriated onlookers hoping for a fight. Oh, John, you're a lover, not a fighter, she thought, slightly hysterically, and staggered as the drunk made the mistake of pushing Marco against the bar with his free hand. Marco shoved him back, harder, and Evvy instinctively placed a hand out to steady herself against the jostling. The drunk whirled around at the touch and let loose with a clumsy, angry roundhouse punch, maybe aiming at John, and clocked Evvy full on the side of her face.
Evvy spun around like a hapless extra in a Clint Eastwood movie, and landed in John's arms. She barely kept her feet, and realized that "seeing stars" was not just a cartoon invention. John steadied her carefully, clearly torn between his paramedic instincts and his desire to throw a few haymakers himself. As it was, the fight was brief; the off-duty cops closed in and separated Marco and the drunk with ease. Marco threw his hands up as if in surrender, saying, "Okay! I'm done!" as he was walked to a neutral corner. The drunk continued to struggle against the restraining hands, deploying an unimaginative string of epithets directed at both Marco and Evvy.
John walked Evvy back to the booth and sat her down, sliding in next to her. She kept a hand over her throbbing left cheekbone, silently cursing the tears that streamed out of her eye. "Let me see," John said quietly.
Evvy bristled, beyond humiliated. "Don't paramedic me, John." She was even too exasperated to use his nickname.
John waited a beat, then gently peeled her hand away. "Let me see, Gumby." He made that distinctive rumbling, gravelly sound in his throat as he examined her face, turning her head slightly to catch the light. "Yeah," he said finally, "you're gonna have a shiner." He didn't have his penlight on him, but he checked her pupils anyway by covering first one eye then the other, having to pry open the rapidly swelling left lid. He wiped the escaping tears away with his thumb.
"I'm not crying," Evvy muttered.
"Didn't say you were," John said diplomatically, deploying his trademark crooked grin, "tough guy."
When he was done, Evvy looked up (with one eye open) to see Marco and a cop standing next to the table. The cop handed her a dish towel full of ice cubes from the bar, then flashed his badge. Evvy went cold. Had she just gotten Marco arrested? But the cop, Detective Frank Graves by his ID, just said amiably, "I hear you're a lineman out of 51s." Evvy nodded. "You wanna press charges against that guy? He's already caught a drunk and disorderly." Miserably, Evvy shook her head no. She really just wanted to disappear. Detective Graves shrugged. "Yeah, I figured, but I had to ask anyway. Take care of that eye, there. Guys," he indicated Marco, John, and Chet, "see you around. Oh, and Kelly – happy birthday." He ambled away to take his collar in for booking.
Evvy realized that in all of the action, Chet had never moved from the table. He still sat as she'd left him, munching his way through what was probably his third slice of pizza, blue eyes full of amusement. "Sorry I ruined your party, Chet," Evvy apologized in a low voice.
Kelly burst out laughing. "Are you kidding me? I got a great gift, dinner, and a show! You can come out with us any time, Wayfair!"
The bartender appeared at John's shoulder, carrying a tray with four large glasses of ice-cold, foaming beer. "No charge," he said.
"Thanks, Fitz," Chet said happily. "This is turning out to be the best birthday–"
"Not for you, Kelly," Fitz interrupted. "In honour of the lady. Anyone who can take a punch to the head like that and stay standing deserves a round on the house." He tipped an imaginary hat, winked at her, and walked back toward the bar.
Chet grabbed a glass and took a big grumpy swig, covering his bushy mustache with white foam. Marco and John lost it laughing. After a moment, Evvy started to chuckle too, ignoring the pain of her bruised cheek under the makeshift icepack. At least now she had another work-related anecdote to not tell her mother about. She picked up a slice of sausage, mushroom, and pepper pizza and took a big bite.
