And just when he's been lulled into believing that things can stay this way indefinitely, calm and distant and comfortable, the fleeting illusion of happiness is shattered to smithereens by the jarring whack of a cue stick slamming into a ball. It's a hollow, clicky sound that resonates in his ears over and over as reality kicks back into gear and the room comes alive with players once again.
They've forgotten all about him, and he's glad. He likes it when people aren't looking at him, taking notice of him for all the wrong reasons.
One solid hit after another and the balls on the table nearest to him are disappearing fast, sometimes two at a time. It's exciting to follow the progression of the game, seeing how one ball tells the others just where to go. After a while, his eyes look up from the table to sneak a curious peek at the man who's doing all that expert shooting; tall and muscled and a little scary, with his scraggly, way past five-o'clock shadow and greasy, unkempt dirty-blond hair hanging too long down the back of his neck.
His dad wouldn't approve-he hates those holdover types from the hippie days, and it cuts into his business.
But no matter what the guy looks like, he's good-really good-and he can't help but feel a surge of admiration at the way he's wielding that cue, moving confidently from one spot to another, unerringly making shot after shot after shot over the frayed green surface of the table.
By the time the last ball is all set to go in, he realizes that the rest of the people in the pool hall have been watching the action right alongside him, because apparently everyone else thinks that the shooter is pretty amazing too. And when the game finally ends, they begin whooping it up and clapping the winner on the back.
It's definitely your lucky, lucky day, Vinnie, everyone seems to be proclaiming at once.
He can't remember if the other guy even got a chance to play.
"Lucky bastard," the loser says under his breath as he hands over a roll of bills.
It looks like it's a lot of money. A lot of money. It would be nice to be the one getting to hold it, to spend it, to be the one not having to worry about penny-pinching every day. Tonight's actually been quite the eye-opening experience; a couple of minute's worth of effort, and you get to go home with spending money you didn't have when you first woke up in the morning. Maybe not just effort though. What you really need is skill, which can be acquired, and luck, which can't-it comes and goes how it pleases.
He's still daydreaming about that green pile of cash and what he would do with it when Vinnie catches him staring and smiles, a smile that doesn't quite make it all the way up his face.
"Hey Les, how about letting the kid there have a shot? What do you think, kid?" he asks in a laid-back tone that reeks of condescension. "You ever play pool before?"
He shakes his head; this is the closest he's ever gotten to a real pool table, not anything like those pretend ones that some of his friends have in their moldy basements all covered up with junk and dust and odds and ends.
"Betcha a dollar you can't sink a ball into one of the pockets on your first try."
It's a taunt, and a challenge.
And as intimidated as he is by Vinnie and all his posturing, he's finding that he's also very, very tempted by that offer. Because they may all assume that he's only a boy, but he knows that's changing fast; and maybe, if he really puts his mind to it, he can just catch them all off their guards and prove to each and every one of those pitying, disbelieving eyes inside that pool hall that they got him all wrong. No matter what, no one needs to feel sorry for Seeley Booth.
