Cue

Liz took one of the red leather stools lining the wall that ran parallel to the long rail of the pool table. Her eyes hiding behind the drape of her hair as she inspected the foamy remnants of my Bud. There wasn’t much left, but she still drank it. 

“You’re up.” Ward backed his bulky frame from the table and raised his cue. The glance with his steady blue eyes told me that he recognized her mood, too.

I spurned Liz’s invitation to her friend’s baby shower and instead came to the Reno Room down on Broadway and Redondo to shoot pool with Ward. The Reno was a comfortable bar that survived its proximity to Cal State Long Beach by having an eclectic crowd. The smell of refried beans and melted cheese from the kitchen drew in any remotely hungry bodies. Huey, the oversized and extremely bald bouncer didn’t so much guard the door as glance at I.D.s before people headed to the bar. Drunk college students gorged on mounds of nachos, but mostly avoided the pool tables. The locals might mix in, flirt with the coeds but for the most part hung by the tables where Ward and I stayed. We were friendly with Huey. We hung with the regulars, knew their faces if not there names. We shot pool until last call. We did this practically every Friday.

Liz grabbed my sweatshirt off the unused jukebox in the corner and fumbled into it one sleeve at a time. She glared at the pool table, an infantile obstacle. It was the one thing about me that haunted her. Not that I don’t have a multitude of flaws. I fuck up with the best of them. I leave the toilet seat up. I can be distant or insensitive. I have cheated. Not that I’m proud of any of this. I’m not, I swear. Yet somehow those were always forgivable offenses to Liz. 

The cue ball was at the foot of the table. I walked over, choosing between my options. Her hair no longer shielded her face, so I was smart enough to avoid making eye contact with her. She was not so careful.

That was how we had first met. She was completely incapable of hiding what she desired when she was really drunk. Compared to other times when I took a girl home, the walk to her house that first night was different. I don’t want to make it sound like I’m some predatory lady-killer, but you know how it goes. The others were hazy when they were drunk, especially in their eyes. Eyelids narrowed, the pupils were slow to dilate, slow to move at all. But Liz was different. Booze gave her the courage to be clear with her intent even if it wasn’t in her words but in her ferociously honest gaze. There are some guys that get turned off by that directness, which they mistake for being slutty, but I could tell there was a difference, a sincerity of emotion.

“Baby, will you get me a drink?” she slurred.

I lined up the shot, the glare of the table light made me feel like I was in an interrogation room.  She slouched on the beer ledge, her hand propping up her head as if something were actually weighing on her mind. Even drunk and ornery, she was definitely beautiful. Dark brown hair the color of a Guinness, skin the creamy color of the beer’s head, and soulful brown eyes that were always just a touch watery. When she wasn’t smiling she looked inconsolably sad, but those moments when she smiled, she glistened.

She wasn’t smiling now.

“Baby, I just walked 14 blocks and I need a beer.”

Ward wrapped both hands around the cue. It looked like he was speaking into a microphone, giving him reason to raise his rumbling, clearing voice. “Cut the chitchat, Lizzie. Alright? I don’t want Luke-y boy here to have any excuses when I beat him.”

I had to cross a lot of green, but the 6-ball fell in the corner pocket. I stood out of the bright table light and walked back to the head of the table in the bar’s dimness. I didn’t have to look up as I knew her eyes weren’t going to leave me. Ward nodded at me.

“Grab us a couple of beers before last call, Ward. And put it on my tab.”

Liz couldn’t help but interject. “Get me one, too.”

“Lizziegirl, maybe you should have a water,” I said. “Fights the hangover.”

She squinted and waved me off. I raised two fingers to Ward, for my future pool victory and for the number of beers needed, and he shuffled through to the bar. He rarely beat me, not that it stopped him from trying. He was all effort but when it came down to executing, he couldn’t harness the ability to slow things down, get in the zone. Time sped up for him in a way that it was the exact reverse for me.

I had to cross a lot of felt again, but if I knocked the 2-ball in I would line up the rest of the shots. Tricky shot because the ball perched in front of the pocket. If I were to attack it with topspin, it would stay on the rail but would be easy to scratch. I had to cut it, just off center. The alternative involved backing up the cue, but that would leave me in the middle of the table with a tougher following shot. And the cues at the Reno Room had the worn slick tips not conducive for lots of English.

“Baby,” she mewled. Some of the patrons turned around and stared at her. “I just want to talk.”

I didn’t even stand out of the shot. “I’m in the middle of a game with Ward. We’ll talk later. Okay?” I glanced up to see that she had closed her fists inside the cuffs and folded her arms. She looked like she wanted to pout but she was quiet enough that the few barflies returned to their own business.

I knew I had scratched as soon as I hit it, topspin, but on line for the backspin shot. Yep, the cue ball followed the 2 right into the pocket. Shit. As I backed up against the wall, I saw Liz grow more determined. She leaned towards me and whispered, “Needed to commit.”

I knew this was coming. Especially after she had been hanging out most of the night with her stupid, know-it-all friends. Their diatribes littered with “can’t”s. “Luke can’t do this” “Luke can’t do that.” They tore me down and, because she saw what they had, husbands and children, it was more than enough for Liz to believe them. With me, I spoke in hypotheticals, thought about the future, predicted what might happen, but my predictions lacked the tangible evidence that her friends always had.

“Scratch?” Ward set my beer down next to me, picked up his stick, took a swill from his Bud and set his beer on the dark wood counter. “The Pool Gods have finally caught up to you.”

“The cue-ball followed it right in.”

He pointed his cue at me. “Better drink up then.” We had instituted a bar rule: since the coin-operated tables wouldn’t allow the standard ball penalty, when one of us scratched we had to chug at least half a beer, a tangible way to inflict punishment for poor play and added urgency to an ordinary game of Friday night pool. I took a long drink.

The only hard evidence that I had for Liz, proof of our incompatibility, was something that I hated to bring up. A year or so back Liz had come to my apartment early and found me naked, snoring with some bar skank under my arm. Ward and I had gone out and since the tables at the Reno Room were full, we proceeded to get hammered. Maybe it was just an old habit, a girl wants to play a game of pool but she doesn’t have a partner, I get picked sometimes, things happen. Wouldn’t have been the first time. I can’t even tell you what actually happened, I have little recollection of that night. Predictable actions of a commitment-phobe, her friends probably said. Obviously, I wasn’t getting away with that one, so I just apologized and Lizzie, man, she has a big heart, she forgave me. And fully forgave me. She never hinted at the past, she never held it over me. She wanted to believe that I was greater than that, that I was worth more. I mean, I am in love with this girl but she wants more than I’m willing to give. Fuck, I feel like I have already given her my soul. I just wanted to forego the whole “progeny” thing. I’m not exactly the type of guy that we need more of.

My life goal was to play basketball and I failed at it, not that I ever had a chance. But even that, what was the point? To be famous and make millions, buy lots of cars, fly all over the world, own multiple houses, have people know me, point at me and say, “There goes Luke Detmer, star point guard for such and such NBA team?” Sure, it’s entertaining, a respite for the average person, but does it really do any good? I’ve tried to change, do some good, recycle, donate some money here and there, do community service. But really, I’m a wasteful, mediocre person. What makes me think that one of my kids will be any better? And how good are the chances that I fuck up this kid’s life? I’d say pretty good. I can still see the terror and sadness on her face the morning that I cheated on her. Her ability to forgive amazed me, and I’ve been good to her since, but what if I do it again down the road, when we have a kid? Would she be able to forgive me again? What if the kid can’t? And who’s to say that I don’t get bored like so many men do? Maybe I’ll decide that since I got away with it once that I’ll be able to make a habit of this. Worse, maybe one night I’ll sleep with some chick and suddenly things collapse, and the kid turns on me, develops a distrust of all men or relationships. Maybe I even get disillusioned enough to leave Liz for another woman. (I suffered from disillusionment before. On the basketball court, I could really pass because I could see where players would be before they got to their spots. But my lone ability could also paralyze me. I can still hear Coach screaming at me “For fuck’s sake, Luke!” every time I avoided an open shot to make a superfluous pass. Coach was right to say I didn’t have the will for it, but I truly believed for far too long that I could do it.) What the fuck happens to the kid if or when I screw up and leave? I’m basically a ticking time bomb. But Lizziegirl is glued to me. She truly believes in me, and you know what? That’s an attractive quality in anyone, to be able to see all the faults in a person and still think there is more than just fleeting hope, but a foundation to become. It might just be the recycling and a few meager hours of community service, but she makes me a better person. It’s the truth.

“A round says I’m beating you this time,” Ward, really on a roll, patiently sunk the 11, the 14 and the 15. Uncharacteristic of him.

Liz bordered on snarling, well, for her she bordered on snarling. Girls from my past really knew how to snarl. Maybe for good reason. Liz’ snarl softens because it also has a self-deprecating element of “what am I doing wrong?” Not a look I get from her often, but her friends bring the little bit of bite out of her so quickly, and she wonders why I try to stay away from them. They would never understand my story, our story.

Just once, I explained to her that I’d marry her if only she’d agree we wouldn’t have children. Hell, that would be an easy agreement, she could have lied to my face and then once we were married she could pull the goalie, go off the pill, and get pregnant. But that’s not her. Not even close. I told her that if she wanted kids, I was willing to let her go. If we were married, it would be harder for her to separate and she might miss her opportunity. It’s not like guys, where a dude can have a kid any time after 13 and before death, she’s on the clock. And she was born to be a mother, a great one. After I told her, I remember her face. I’ve never seen anyone look so heartbroken in all my life. She was bawling. I don’t mean thin rivulets down her face, I mean so many tears that her entire face was slick like she had been perspiring. And here’s the kicker: she wasn’t sad for herself, she was sad for me. She told me that I would be a great father, that even though I was quiet, I was patient and loving and that’s what mattered. She recounted a time when I was hanging out with her nieces and they were starting to get cranky. I didn’t do anything but play shadow puppets on the wall and the girls calmed down. I tried to tell her it was just one time but she wouldn’t hear me, nor would she even allow a word about me cheating on her. Said her friends had husbands that had cheated, and they stayed. Said I was too hard on myself. The magnanimity of it was unbelievable and yet it solidified my conviction. This was a person that I would want raising a child. Just not mine.

I was pretty sure that she never told her girlfriends. She’s good like that. But it was as much to protect herself as it was to protect me. They would tell her if she really wanted to have kids, she’d have to leave me. But she wasn’t ready to handle that. Since I knew it too, I haven’t brought up the conversation again. But the time was coming.

She hadn’t left her stool, but I could see the tears coming. There was absolutely nothing I could say that wouldn’t make her cry. If I told her I had thought about changing my mind, she would see that as a sign of victory and begin the happy tears and if I told her that I hadn’t changed my mind, the sadness would pour down her face.

Liz got up from her seat. I put my arm around her and tried not to look at her wet-shiny eyes.  Instead, I watched Ward line up a shot on the 12 that was so far beyond his talents, even if he was on fire.

“Hey Lizzie watch this. This is how a real man plays.”

She didn’t even acknowledge him. “Baby, where’s mine?”

“Damn these pockets.” Ward recoiled and rubbed his hands through his buzzed brown hair. “You’re lucky, Luke-y boy.”

I placed my beer on the railing. As I chalked my stick I addressed Liz. “Lizzie, you really shouldn’t have any beer.” Then she smiled, wiped the tear from her cheek with the back of her curled index finger and sat back on the chair, which I had misinterpreted for her calming down.

I studied the shots from every angle. Only the 3, 7, and 8-ball lay on the table. Despite the amount of beer in me, I was confident in my next play. I was going to run the 3 down the rail, the cue would softly bounce off, the 7 would be a simple play and then I would knock the 8-ball in the side pocket for the win. It was so clear that it was the only thing that I could see. I saw each ball’s future, planned accordingly. I knelt over the table and eyed the first shot. The cue ball invisibly big, I focused only on the 3.

And then a hand snatched the cue ball off the table. The ball became the focus for a moment in the sharp pool light. I watched as her hand pulled it off the table, high in the air and slammed it against the floor, cracking the tiles. Surprised screams as the ball bounced into the crowd. Everyone stared at us.

Ward pushed through the observers, looking for the cue.

“This isn’t the best way to prove that you should have a beer,” I said.

“You always think you know what’s best for me.” Liz teared up again, she looked small and alone in the oversized shell of my sweatshirt. “Why couldn’t you have gotten me a beer?”

I cut her off before she could say anything more. “I’m sorry Lizziegirl. We’ll walk to my place, you can have whatever you want there.” I wrapped my arms around her.

She rapped on my chest and sobbed. “No” She pushed away and screamed. “Why won’t you give me what I want?”

I stared at the amused faces around the room, none of them were very helpful — only enjoying our moment of pain, something they were sure to retell their friends later. Even the bartenders were staring, wondering what sort of entertaining eruption they were in for. When I caught the blond female bartender’s eye she regained her composure and yelled for last call.

Ward came through the crowd with the cue ball in one hand and a Bud in the other. He slightly furrowed his brow.

“Here’s a beer for you Lizzie.”

“What did you do that for?” I asked.

She took the beer from Ward and looked at him sympathetically. Ward had this amazing ability to always get along with my girlfriends, a great trait normally, but there were times when things got tough, when things changed from jovial ribbing to serious confrontation that he would switch sides, cede to their demands. Somehow his sense of right and wrong always led to him siding with the girls. And with Liz, she owned him.

Through the tears she managed to smile at me, the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. She craned her head back and took a swig from the bottle. She drank half of it with the crowd still watching. Some even clapped for her. She set the beer on the rail, and just on cue the bouncer appeared.

“Even Ward will give me what I want. Why won’t you?” she pleaded.

I could feel the collective disappointment of all the women in the room as they had another piece of evidence that men were dogs. But with Liz it was again different. Most girls, her friends for sure, would have said “why can’t you?” The word “can’t” haunts me, I guess. No matter how good you are at anything, and I mean you can be great, there will always be people telling you that you can’t do something. That you are unable to complete a task. The word is wrought with a fundamental lack of belief. My college coach, probably for good reason, didn’t believe in me. And my girlfriends didn’t either. Their diatribes were littered with “can’t”s as a way to erode my confidence. But Liz always believed in me, in my evolution, even now after all this time together, even in the crux.

“Say SOMETHING!” She screamed.

The shaved-bald, oversized bouncer had enough at this point. He tapped her on the shoulder and told her to come with him. She stared blankly at him for a moment as if his English were so mutated and squeezed that it had lost all meaning. When he grabbed her arm, she wrenched it free. Had this been a guy, the bouncer probably would have dragged him out by the back of his shirt.

“I’m not going until he answers.” Her voiced softened, pleaded. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and stared at me, continuing to fidget. “Luke, say something. Why won’t you give me what I want?”

It’s not like I was trying to hide things from her, but I needed to say the right thing. Even though she was drunk and might not remember the specifics in the morning, the emotion of it would leave an imprint or a hollow in her that I wouldn’t be able to fill. I reached out for her in an attempt to buy myself some time.

She slapped my hand away. “Why won’t you?”

I stepped back, gave us space, prepared.

It’s impossible to be certain that any decision is the absolute right one. There are an infinite amount of variables that can change the potential outcome. So I searched every part of my being in these last seconds and everything inside me screamed at the same time, with heightened volume that I should walk out and leave Liz, that I should accept my fate, that I had been right. So I prepared for Liz’s ultimate let down, she was not only wrong about me, but about her. It would take her time to overcome the loss, but it’d be better for her. She would meet someone else, have kids, beautiful ones with her dark coloring and hope. As for me, I would get over it, or at least I’d try. Over the course of time, it would be easier, routines would return, pool on Fridays, beers with Ward.

But then: her sparkling, veracious stare, a glistening smile. Her unyielding belief consumed me, a belief so solid and fundamental that I believed anything she believed I was capable of doing, I was capable of doing. 

I said, “I will.”