Patrick jerked his head when the bell rang. He always hoped to see Uncle Paul or Aunt Marie or any of his dad’s friends who frequented Vito’s. His dad showed only the slightest interest, lifting his eyes briefly from his mug. He sat calmly at their table right near the jukebox and drank deeply.

Helga walked quickly inside, hugging herself against the cold. Patrick turned back to his dinner. He didn’t like Helga. She was a small, mousy woman who called him spoiled and laughed at him when he told her he wanted to be a police officer one day.

A chilly wind came in behind Helga and touched each of the dozen or so people inside Vito’s. Most of them didn’t mind. They’d felt the wind of nights like these for decades.

Patrick slurped the bottom of his Coke, and walked to the bar to ask Stan for more. Stan took his drink gun and shot more Coke into the plastic cup. Patrick loved the drink gun so much he’d asked for one for his birthday last year. He got a baseball glove instead.

When Patrick returned to the table, the bell rang again, and again, he jerked his head to see. It wasn’t Uncle Paul or Aunt Marie. It wasn’t anyone Patrick recognized.

New people rarely came into Vito’s, and if they did, it was usually as a friend or relative of one of the regulars. Vito’s belonged to its regulars, and they were hesitant to give even a small piece of it up.

The man wore a dirty jean jacket buttoned all the way up with the collar popped to cover his neck. The few hairs remaining on his head draped long and limp from behind his temples to the back of his neck. He shared the worn look of the Vito’s crowd.

After wiping his feet, he walked quietly to the bar to order a drink. Patrick watched the new man curiously, hiding his gaze by nibbling on his greasy cheese sticks. The new man got his drink and paid. He stood at the bar, still as a cinder block, his eyes locked forward. Patrick suspected he was looking in the mirror at something.

A few sips in, the man turned from the bar and headed for the coat rack.

“Dad,” Patrick said.

“Yeah?”

“Who’s that?” Patrick’s dad always told him not to point at people so he set his eyes on the man instead.

“Uh,” his dad turned to see. “I don’t know. Never seen him.”
The stranger unbuttoned his jacket and hung it next to the others. Patrick watched as he turned, revealing to Patrick his left side. For a moment, Patrick wasn’t sure what he was seeing. The man wore a long-sleeved gray shirt, but his left sleeve folded up above where his elbow might have been. Only a stub of left arm extended from his shoulder.

Patrick had never seen anything like this in his nine years—not that he could remember anyway. He picked up a new cheese stick and quickly turned his head. He wondered if the man had seen him watching.

In his mind, Patrick saw the man yelling at him for staring while grabbing his shirt and smacking him repeatedly. He pled and apologized, tried to shake free and run. He tried to fight the man off, but in his mind, the man was too strong. The man’s face scrunched in anger as he reached back to strike another blow, and Patrick screamed for him to stop.

In the background of the scenario running through his mind, Patrick heard someone push the lever on the pool table. He peeked back. It was the stranger. Patrick looked away again, and allowed himself only periodic glances, as he often did with scary movies.

The man left the balls and went to pick out a cue. He didn’t rack, which made sense because he didn’t have anyone to play. Instead, he placed some money on a side rail, grabbed his drink from a nearby booth, and waited at the head of the table.

A few minutes passed while the man stood sipping his drink. The tension in Patrick’s chest was easing a bit, and he allowed himself to take longer glances, always careful in his gaze for fear of attracting attention. For the most part, the man focused on the empty table. His eyes didn’t wander or investigate the new surroundings. They watched the faded green felt. 

“How’s he going to play pool?” Patrick whispered to his dad.

“Poorly, I’d imagine.” His dad smiled and took another gulp of beer.

The bell rang once again, but Patrick hardly noticed this time. He remained focused on the task of watching the man without watching him.

“Hey,” Patrick’s dad said to get his son’s attention. “I’m gonna go say hi to Marla, alright?”

“Yeah.” Patrick noticed Marla standing near the door.

Patrick’s dad crossed the bar to greet her with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Patrick knew Marla well. Sometimes, she’d help him with his schoolwork or play with him on the nights she came home with them after they left Vito’s.
Eventually, Hicks approached the pool table, set his money down, and shook the stranger’s hand before picking out a cue and racking the balls. The man took another sip before setting his drink on a nearby table. He stood the cue straight up, held the tip and the chalk in one hand, and chalked before positioning himself to break.

Patrick knew how to play pool. He’d watched his dad beat everyone in the bar, and asked questions about how to hold the stick and everything. He tried to imagine how this man might do it. Lean the stick against the rail. Use the bridge, but how will he hold the bridge? Place a part of the stick against his body. Will he use what little he has of his left arm in some way?

The man leaned his stick against the table while he grabbed the cue ball and placed it just off center. By now, Patrick watched intently as the man leaned over the table, his round belly tucked underneath the side. He held the stick roughly three-quarters down in his hand, placed the tip just behind the ball, and rapidly pulled his arm back before shooting it forward. The balls scattered with a loud crack.

The man moved to take his second shot, and Patrick watched again. He didn’t use the railing. He didn’t use the bridge. He didn’t use what was left of his left arm. He just pulled the cue back and struck the ball, as if an invisible hand were guiding the front of the cue and holding it steady.

The man beat Hicks soundly. He missed one shot the whole game. Hicks made one, missed his second, and the game was over. Hicks paid the man and returned to the bar to order a drink. The stranger put more money on the side rail.

Franco and Birdman both took turns against the newcomer. Franco lost two games and Birdman one. Franco managed to keep one game close, but couldn’t finish, and the stranger rallied to win.

Patrick’s dad returned with Marla midway through Birdman’s game.

“Hi sweetie, how are yuh?” Marla asked in her soft, kind voice.

“Good.”

“You know,” Patrick’s dad said. “I think I’ll shoot some before Pat and I head home.”

Patrick’s dad placed some quarters on the table to indicate he would play next and returned.

“He’s good, dad. He just—”

“Yeah?” Patrick’s dad asked before pausing to look at the newcomer. “Well, I’m OK too.”
Marla asked Patrick about school and soccer, and Patrick told her about a substitute teacher he hadn’t liked.

When Birdman tossed his stick on the table and shook the stranger’s hand, Patrick’s dad stood to greet him. He picked out a cue and racked the balls.

The man failed to make a ball on the break, and Patrick’s dad sank nearly every ball before the newcomer got another chance. When the man missed a fairly easy shot in the side pocket, Patrick’s dad put him away. It was quick, efficient, and unsatisfying, a soulless piece of business. The man gave him the money, and they decided to play again.

Patrick’s dad broke this time. The balls exploded, running from the center of the table like marbles from a shattered mason jar. After a few easy shots, he missed, and the newcomer had his turn. He made a difficult shot to start, a combination, and a few easier shots after that, but missed on a long shot in the corner. Patrick’s dad didn’t give the table back.

The man took a large gulp from his drink and hunched his shoulders as Patrick’s dad cleared the table of striped balls. He kept leaning against a pillar and then standing, moving his cue from one side to another, chalking and re-chalking for shots that weren’t coming.

After the second defeat, the man asked for a third game. His face, so loose when mowing down Hicks and Franco and Birdman, tightened while he plugged more quarters into the table. He racked quickly, placing balls onto the table with more force than the previous game.

When the rack was finished the man stood against the nearest pillar waiting for his shot. Patrick watched him as his dad broke, watched his eyes fixed on the table. He wondered who taught the newcomer to play pool. His dad? A friend? Did he teach himself in places like Vito’s?

Patrick’s dad didn’t miss in the third game. From break to the eight ball, he was perfect, and the stranger didn’t get a chance to shoot. Near the end of the game, the man’s concrete posture returned. He watched silently as Patrick’s dad sank a long shot on the eight ball and calmly pumped his fist at his accomplishment.

The man handed Patrick’s dad the money before both men put their cues away. The stranger put his coat on quickly and left. Patrick’s dad returned to the table smiling. He bought beers for Franco, Hicks, Birdman, and himself. They all gathered around Patrick’s table and talked about the stranger and pool. Of course, it eventually moved to football and stories and dirty jokes. Patrick laughed when the others laughed.

After a few victory beers, Patrick’s dad decided it was time to go home. Marla stood to leave with them, and they all bundled up to face the cold walk ahead. Patrick’s dad decided to use the bathroom before the walk home, leaving Marla to watch him. While Marla finished paying her tab, Patrick walked to the empty pool table. He grabbed the cue ball from its home and centered it in front of him on the table. He chose his usual stick off the wall, the smallest one, and faced the ball in his winter coat. He held the bottom of the stick in his right hand and kept his left by his side. The tip shook while he tried to steady it for a clean strike. He pushed the cue forward and missed. He tried again, and the ball squibbed off the tip. He couldn’t stop his right arm from shaking and had to twist his body for any strength. He couldn’t be still like the stranger had been, like concrete. He tried once more and missed again. Before his dad returned and could see him imitating the stranger’s style, he put the cue ball back and returned the stick to the wall.  He sat next to the empty pool table waiting for his dad to return, like always.

 

Marcus Meade is a writer, teacher, and PhD student at the University of Nebraska. He is both a fiction writer and composition and rhetoric scholar with his research interests focused primarily on student-athlete writing instruction and the rhetoric of the body. He earned an undergraduate degree in journalism and a masters in English from Northwest Missouri State University. He was often picked right near the middle in kickball games and dead last in games that require someone to pick clothes that match. For clothing tips or anything else, Marcus can be emailed at meademarcus@gmail.com.