Hey Les, look at what the cat just dragged in.
As soon as he walks through the grated front door of The Four Aces a shadowy figure in the back begins to point a mocking finger in his direction, calling him out, and he turns his head to find an older man behind a bar counter frowning at him with obvious displeasure.
"Listen kid," the bartender begins as if by rote, his lined face betraying years of late nights and long hours, "this place is for adults only. So go home, okay? It's gotta be close to your bedtime; your parents are gonna be worried. You shouldn't be out all by yourself at night-bad things can happen. Come on" he says, waving a hand dismissively towards the front door when there's no sign of retreat, "off you go."
But he bucks up his courage, squeezing and thumbing the life out of the ten dollar bill his dad has given him for good luck, and starts reciting the words he's been practicing over and over in his mind since he left the house.
"Sir, my dad told me to get him a six-pack of Schlitz." He's hoping he got the order right, or there'll be hell to pay later.
"Really cold, please" he remembers belatedly.
The bartender looks him over carelessly, with the jaundiced eye of someone who's been turning away hooky-playing kids from his place of business for years. No way does he believe him.
He senses the failure coming right along with his dad's disappointment, when he suddenly remembers the rest of what he was supposed to say.
"He told me to tell you that I'm Hank Jr.'s son and it's okay to give me the stuff. He says he's too tired to come by tonight…it was really busy at the barbershop." That last part he throws in himself to make the story sound more convincing, although it probably isn't true. From the comments his dad's been making lately about how money's tight and how they can only buy the things they really need, business has been lousy.
When he mentions his dad's name the pool playing around him stops and the cavern-like room goes quiet, and it feels like every hardened, bloodshot eye there is trained on him, on Hank Booth Jr.'s son.
He knows that look. He sees it all the time now, and he hates it-it's pity. Just like he hates being in the spotlight, especially over things that weren't-and still aren't-within his power to control.
The bartender finally relents and cracks a smile, but there's pity in his eyes too.
"Hank Jr.s son, huh? Must be Seeley, the oldest one. You're gonna have to wait a minute son. Willy's throwing out the trash in the alley. When he comes back in, I'll tell him to go down to the cellar and get you what your dad wants. I can't go down them steps no more. We keep the six-packs in the big cooler down there-no room up here. You wanna soda or something while you're waiting?"
He crumples the bill in his hand-his dad's expecting all his change back.
"No thank you." But his eyes can't seem to leave the shiny soda dispenser right there in front of him.
"It's on the house." The man pours out a Coke into a skinny glass, pushing it across the polished wood surface of the bar. The clear ice inside sparkles brightly through the bubbles, making him feel a thirst he didn't know he had when he first walked in.
"That means it's free, son" the bartender adds with a nod and a gentler voice when there's no move towards the glass. "Take it-it's alright. You can sit here for a little while and drink it."
So he ends up perched high on a barstool and takes his glass, sipping it with a growing mixture of pride and awe. He's in forbidden grown-up territory now, he knows, and that only adds to the appeal of tonight's adventure.
Wait 'til he tells Jared.
On second thought, no. Because Jared would probably tell Pops and Pops wouldn't be happy. He's heard the arguments between his dad and his grandpa about stuff like this before, about how he and his brother should be watched after better, not be on the loose and on their own so much, and he doesn't want to get his dad into any more trouble.
He loves his dad-even if lately that feeling has been tainted with other emotions that are just as powerful and not nearly as nice; flashes of ugly, twisted things that on some days are almost unbearably frightening.
The Coke tastes good, sweet and cold, but as he's taking another gulp it dawns on him that it's getting harder and harder to breathe. The air all around him is dripping thick and stale with the stench of thousands of cigarettes, both old and new. It's a smell that seems to be seeping from the walls and the carpeting and just about every other surface in the place, along with the patrons; he must have been too distracted to notice before. No wonder his dad's clothes stink so much when he comes home on some nights, even though he tells them not to smoke because it's bad for you. He's warned both of his sons that he'll tan their hides if he ever catches them doing it and they believe him, so they've never tried-their dad's a pretty intimidating sight when he's mad.
Well, his dad was right-the smoke is nasty, burning his eyes and throat, but the way it melts with the overhead lights makes all those green-topped tables in front of him look something like magic, with the colored balls on top all neat and tidy appearing to be floating on an ocean of grass. He can't tear his eyes away from those tables; he would really love playing on one of those things one day.
No way he's even thinking of leaving the safety of his chair and Les' protective circle tonight, though.
So he keeps on sipping his drink, leaning into the bar, and little by little time begins to stop; those pool tables seem to have put him under a spell, whispering all the while for him to come closer, telling him that if he does they can make all his problems fall right into their dark pockets.
The tension he didn't even know was wracking his body ever since his dad sent him out of the house begins to ebb slowly, and for once he finds he's got no worries-he's suddenly content with his life, even to the point of forgetting that in a few minutes he'll have to go back home to resume the daily grind.
It's an amazing feeling, and there's an unvoiced wish in his head that things could stay this way forever, just him and those pool tables drifting lazily over the mess of his life. No burdens, no responsibilities, no fear-just him and the game.
