Mood For the Day
Today's Mood on Sat, 15 Nov 1997
He walked into the bar, and knew in a second why he hadn't been there very often.
He wasn't particularly delicate or dainty (anyone who'd visited his room or ever seen him eat a slug could attest to that), but certain elements held very little interest for him. A room crowded so thick with cigarette smoke that it masked the smell of stale beer and vomit was one of them.
He reminded himself that this was all many people had to which to look forward, and continued on into the bar. A pool table was on one side; so small it looked next to the regulation size that Mark was almost surprised not to see bumpers in the middle.
A game was in play, and he turned his attention toward it. The man on the table was everything for which one could hope in a stereotype of this bar: forty-five years old if he was a day, his true age was masked both by his excellent physical condition (even his paunch seemed somehow athletic) and by his silver hair, just past shoulder length but tied back in the tail which was still apparently in fashion. He talked as though he'd seen eighty years' worth of living, and this impression was reinforced by the gaps in his mouth where his teeth should have been.
The Man was also a marvelous pool player; at least on this night. He gave the impression that he'd been playing pool in this bar for longer than most of the others were old enough to attend: he made quick work of his opponent, who never got but one shot. He called for his next victim. Five more aspirants came to challenge the man, and each was defeated skillfully.
(Even Douglas, Mark's friend who often needed a muzzle, had little to say after watching two games' worth. For this Mark was extremely grateful, and resolved to thank The Man before he left.)
The next man to approach the table was clearly older than the man running the table, and yet he too carried with him an air of vitality not commonly found in an age of sloth and decadence. Where The Man was fairly short and stocky, this man (who introduced himself as Paris) was much taller and extremely wiry. When Paris walked, he leaned back slightly, as if an older habit of protruding his chest hadn't quite left his posture. A pint of beer (unusual in a bar which served beer only in short, thin, greasy glasses) was perpetually present in Paris's clutch, and no matter how he gesticulated, swayed, or twitched (which he did quite frequently), he never spilled a drop. A cigarette was in his mouth as often as not, and when he wasn't drawing on it his jaw muscles worked as though he were gnawing on the tip.
Paris seemed full of vitality, which was difficult to imagine for anyone who'd seen him in the bar for the last half hour. Until the promise of a game was present, Paris was sitting in a corner of the bar, pulling on his beer and munching his cigarette, and wearing a pair of shades so reminiscent of Ray Charles that some onlookers weren't sure if he could see at all. But as soon as the man playing pool arrived, the transformation began working, until presently Paris was roving the bar like a caged rooster, walking with his odd gait and drawing anyone available into the promise of the spectacle yet to come.
The game started between Paris and The Man, and it was over quickly yet it lasted forever. The Man began the game, and ran the table up to the eight ball, which (naturally) was difficult to sink around the other seven of his opponent. Paris then stepped up to the table and did the exact same thing: with each shot he made he left the cue in the exact position he needed for the next shot.
Paris's last target before the eight was on the table, mere inches away from the pocket. With a touch as light as a breath of summer air he sent the cue on precisely the right angle: the ball rolled tantalizingly slow toward the pocket. The cue had already stopped moving, set up as it was for the winning shot, but the target ball still rolled.
Not three inches it had to travel in total, and not three inches did it make: it rolled for as long as it took to create the Heavens, and it stopped short of the pocket by the whisper of a breath. Were there a fan directly above the table the breeze would have finished the job.
As The Man sank the (perfectly lined up) eight ball, Paris began a series of rants and invectives which embarrassed even the barkeep. He was polite in his speech -- he rarely used profanity -- but the images he evoked in the mind of the listener made one's flesh crawl and one's hair stand straight on end. As Paris went back to his corner to explain to the nearest barstool why he'd set things up as neatly as he had, The Man walked back to the chalkboard to see who was next.
"I'm getting hungry," The Man said to nobody in particular, at this biker bar notorious for its nightly fights and its greasy glassware. "I need some sushi."
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