This is a short story. For more short stories, click here.

We drain a few cocktails at the hotel bar and just start walking. We are passersby in Meridian, Mississippi; its red-brick cityscape is terra incognita. But any bar will do. We’re celebrating aimlessly.

Deb’s Watering Hole is a dive somewhere between downtown and Section Eight. It’s the kind of place where concealed weapons and vulpine grins are required by dress code. Where a pair of button-down, comb-over salesmen from Birmingham is liable to end the night outlined in chalk.

But fuck it. We’re young and invincible and we’ve got signed contracts in our briefcases and big commission checks in our future. The world buckles where we walk. We drink where we please.

So we traipse into the place laughing and staggering and slurring our speech, oozing big-city hubris through wrinkled suits.

“Check out these guys,” says a drunk in a swivel-chair. He doesn’t bother to whisper.

“They must be lost,” says his buddy.

We’re the only white people in the place, except for a little old lady sitting at the bar watching a Carter-era television through a nimbus of cigarette smoke. Visually, she’s as conspicuous as a switchblade on a nudist, but she seems oddly at ease here with her malt liquor and Marlboros. She can only be Deb, the bar’s namesake. An unusual breed of slumlord.

We look around. Deb has divided her derelict kingdom – all five hundred square feet of it – into three provinces.

The first of these is a realm of flightless birds; here, a row of wide-eyed video poker hunchbacks roost on wobbly barstools and peck at glowing touch-screens. They avert their gazes rarely, and only to root through pockets and purses for loose change and small bills.

Then there are the drinkers. They are four in number, counting Deb, and they, like the gamblers, sit in a single file. These oily individuals perch on poorly oiled swivel-chairs, sipping dirty beer and telling cheap jokes. There is no bartender. When one is required, Deb rises to the occasion.

The third province is for the bipeds, the uprights. It is the pool table. We quickly lay claim to it.

Scott fetches beers. He laughs when Deb tells him the price. “Christ, we should have been drinking here all night,” he says. “We could have saved a fortune.”

The pool cues are of curiously different lengths, like a grade-schooler’s pencils. Most have flat tips. They’re all warped. One is duct-taped in the middle. I look for bloodstains and bone fragments, but none are visible.

“I bought the beer,” says Scott, handing me a can of something I don’t recognize. “That means you rack.”

During business hours, Scott cleans up pretty nice. He dresses adroitly, shaves closely, and sucks in his gut. But now his collar is halfway unfolded, there’s a wet spot on his shirttail, and he waddles like a guy who’s bankrupted a couple of all-you-can-eat buffets.

He does not possess a monopoly on fat. One of the gamblers, female beneath layers of sexless flesh, has been eyeballing Scott since we walked in. As he chalks his cue, she rises; calories melt off her by the hundreds; she winks at me conspiratorially and tiptoes toward my friend. Somehow this plodding predator catches Scott unaware, and reaches between his legs just as he leans over the pool table to break.

He straightens up like a soldier at reveille.

“Lord, woman!” he yelps, turning to face his handler. He flushes and grins.

She covers her mouth and giggles. “How about a drink, big boy?”

“Already got a full one.”

She steps back and leans against a wall, still beaming lewdly. There she lies in wait while we shoot pool and my friend’s beer gets gradually less full.

Scott and I shake heads at each other. Are we become princes in some Mississippi underworld, where we are fondled and liquored and hounded by behemoths, and where beer flows more freely than water?

I’m outshooting Scott. He’s got more tolerance for booze than me, being twice my size, but I’ve had more practice. And a low center of gravity counts for something in a drunken-spinning universe that’s always trying to knock you off your feet.

About halfway through our third game, something stirs in the Province of Drinkers. A dark shape assembles itself from the cigarette haze and saunters toward us. It is small and broad-shouldered and wrapped in a loose-fitting undershirt, and clenched between two fingers it carries a glittering challenge: a pair of quarters. These it lies like a gauntlet upon the edge of the pool table.

I run my remaining stripes and sink the eight. Scott curses loudly – heads turn – and lifts his can of beer, only to find it empty. Before he can set it down his suitor is in motion, purse in hand, slogging her way toward the bar. Scott follows, leaving me to contend with our challenger.

He collects the balls and begins to rack without speaking.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“E.J.,” he says.

“Trevor.” I extend my hand.

E.J. looks at it with drunk, uneasy eyes. His lips collapse into a frown. He sticks a cigarette between them, then, reluctantly, offers his own hand.

I figure he just doesn’t like me. I’m an intruder in Deb’s tenderloin, a suburbanite in four-hundred-dollar shoes and a leisure-class smile. I’m a convenient adversary on the opposite end of a pool table, not some cordial acquaintance at a cocktail party. No point hobnobbing and handshaking.

I’m wrong, though. As soon as our palms meet I realize that it’s shame, not resentment, that’s behind E.J.’s tension. His index and middle fingers are badly deformed, twisted and truncated like desiccated fruit. I try not to squirm as I shake the man’s hand.

“You from around here?” I ask, chalking my cue.

“Born and raised.”

I nod. “We’re passing through. From Birmingham. Pretty nice little city, Meridian.”

“It’s all right.”

I break in a solid, then pocket two more. Scott and his leviathan are at the bar, giggling and toasting and touching each other between swills of beer like a couple of post-prom seniors with a pair of fake IDs.

E.J. is a decent pool player, but I’m better. I win the first game handily. When I offer to pay for the next one he balks. “Loser pays,” he says. And he makes those two words sound like an article of faith, like an answer from a catechism you memorize as a child.

“So what do you do, E.J.?” I ask while he racks. Racking, like paying, is a loser’s chore.

“Auto work, here and there.”

“Yeah? What do you drive?”

“A Civic. It’s a piece of shit. Bet you got a pretty nice ride, though.”

“Not really,” I say. “I’m in sales, so I’m always on the road. Drive all my cars into the ground. Why own anything nice, right? I’ve got a Jeep.”

He nods. “Where’d you learn to shoot pool? You’re pretty good.”

“Had a table growing up. Got really good as a kid, been getting worse ever since. Comes back to me from time to time, though.”

“Like riding a bike,” he says.

Not at all, I think. “Exactly,” I say.

The next game is closer, but I eke out the win.

I try to drum up another conversation with E.J., but he’s gone monosyllabic, unresponsive. He’s interested exclusively in my defeat. He’s zeroed in on the felt, now. He’s even letting his beer go warm.

For a moment I consider throwing the third game. I feel bad for E.J. and his mangled hand and his shitty car and his minimum-wage existence. But little as I know him, I’m convinced he isn’t the kind of guy who’d be satisfied winning a mercy bout; he wants to beat me at full strength. So I oblige.

Our third game isn’t even close.

At some point Scott returns, bearing gifts. He’s shed his suitor — she’s back on her stool in the Province of Gamblers — but he’s picked up three brown bottles of a local brew. He keeps one for himself and offers the others to E.J. and me.

“Try this,” he says.

But E.J. raises his mangled hand and shakes his head.

“Come on now,” insists Scott, thrusting the bottle. “We’re celebrating!”

“I said no.”

What E.J. doesn’t understand is that Scott grew up in a backwater Alabama home founded on Old South principals of hospitality and gentility and still untouched by Yankee notions of forthrightness and candor, where turning away a gift — especially a gift of food or drink — is an unthinkable solecism, a personal affront.

E.J., on the other hand, was raised never to accept handouts. He sees no beer in Scott’s bottle, only liquid welfare. If he had wanted a drink he’d have bought it himself, thank you very much, and who says I want to celebrate your white-collar workplace victories anyway?

Scott should just shrug it off. “More for me,” he ought to say, and we should all be friends. But what few inhibitions Scott possesses drowned hours ago; he’s all chemicals now, serotonin and testosterone.

So he frowns disdainfully and he waits until E.J. is leaned over a carom shot calculating angles before saying: “What happened to your hand?”

For Christ’s sake. I consider breaking my pool cue over Scott’s head. We’re supposed to be transient merrymakers in this town, kicking up our heels and buying rounds and leaving big tips on our way back to Birmingham. Now we’re just marauding drunks poking fun at cripples. And we’re severely outnumbered.

Before I can apologize for my friend’s crass question, E.J. answers it.

“Your mama got hungry, tried to eat it.”

It’s an awkward response, but it’s more than enough to rankle Scott’s hair-trigger ego.

“Fuck you,” he says, loudly enough to attract disapproving stares from around the bar.

“All right, guys. How about we just relax and play some pool? No use getting all riled up.”

“No,” says E.J. “Your fat-ass friend owes me an apology. What are y’all doing in here, anyway? Shouldn’t be here, dressed like a couple of fucking big-shots. It’s a miracle you haven’t been mugged yet. You will, though, you keep walking into places you don’t belong and talking shit about strangers.”

“I ain’t ‘talking shit’ about anyone. I just asked you about your hand, and you started with the mama jokes and the fat-ass comments.”

E.J. hesitates. “Whatever,” he says. “You and me are done talking. You just sit there and keep your mouth shut while I finish playing pool with your friend here.”

“Why bother?” says Scott. “You ain’t going to win. You can’t shoot straight with that fucked-up hand.”

The whole place falls silent. Our lighthearted jaunt-about-town is over; we’re now the center of attention in a room full of Medusas.

“Jesus Christ, Scott,” I say. “You’re hammered. Apologize to the man and let’s get out of here before we cause any more trouble.”

“Fine.” He slams his bottle onto the bar so hard I’m sure it will shatter. It doesn’t, thank God. “Let’s go. But I won’t apologize.”

That’s fine by me. Deb’s Watering Hole is a dangerous place now; I want out, back to the sanctuary of our downtown hotel with its complimentary cookies and on-demand porn. I finish my drink, put up my pool cue and throw a few loose bills on the bar for Deb, a propitiatory offering.

We’re halfway out the door when E.J. shouts after us: “Wait a minute, fat-ass.”

We turn around.

“I’ll bet I can beat you at this game, fucked-up hand and all.”

“Bullshit,” says my friend.

E.J. reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a keyring. He tosses it onto the pool table. “You win, you can have my car.”

Scott scans the gravel parking lot in the back of the bar. “Which one is it?”

“Black Civic. Ain’t a Benz, but it’s turbo-charged and them wheels is worth two grand.”

“It’s shit. If I win it I’ll probably just take a baseball bat to it for fun, let you watch.”

“Suit yourself.”

Scott takes a step toward the pool table. “What if I lose?”

“I get to smash your hand in that doorway.”

E.J. nods at the Door I’m holding open. It’s the only thing in the bar younger than twenty-one, an enormous iron overreaction installed by Deb after the last break-in. It demands to be capitalized. It would obliterate a human hand. I wonder, briefly, if it has.

“This is nuts,” I say. “Let’s go, Scott. No one’s waking up tomorrow missing a car — let alone a goddamn hand — just because you got too sloshed to think straight. Come on.”

But he and E.J. are staring fire into each other across the room. They’re not listening to me or reason or anything else now.

“Fine,” says Scott. “But I break.”

You might think we’re in a church, it’s gone so quiet. Deb and the gamblers and the drinkers are a single congregation now, attentive parishioners waiting on tenterhooks for whatever dark ritual is about to unfold at the billiards-alter. The old TV in the corner provides music, a distorted low-fi drone that sounds like an organ might after too much cough medicine.

I can hardly walk straight, yet I’m too sober for all this. I trudge over to Scott and seize his shoulder.

“Come on, we’re through here. Time to go.”

He wrenches free. “So leave, then. I can handle myself.”

“Are you kidding me? You just bet your hand on a game of pool.Your hand. And this guy’s good, Scott. I’ve played him. You can’t beat this guy. Not sober, and certainly not plastered.”

“Yes I can. I’ve been watching him play, he’s not that good. I was half-assing it against you, Trevor. I’ll beat this guy in three turns, just watch.”

“But why, damn it? For a Honda fucking Civic?”

He shrugs. “It ain’t about the Civic.”

“We doing this?” asks E.J. “Because if we’re not, you got no reason for being here.”

“Oh, we’re doing this. I’m just waiting for you to rack, asshole.”

E.J. gathers the balls.

I decide to enlist Deb’s help. Nebulous though her business ethics may be, surely she draws a line at sanctioned dismemberment. But when I ask her to stop this madness, to kick us out of her bar or call the police or fend off E.J., she just tells me to sit my ass down and enjoy the show. Your friend dug his own grave, she says, and a deal’s a deal.

Scott breaks in a stripe, then misses his next shot.

E.J. pockets two easy solids, then nails an impossible bank shot.

The rest of the game develops in slow motion. E.J.’s working on his last solid when I notice something Scott hasn’t: Throughout the game, a cluster of drinkers and gamblers has accumulated around the pool table for a better view. Two of them — big, joweled, missing teeth — have positioned themselves in front of the Door.

They grin and salivate as the eight-ball drops noiselessly into a side pocket.

E.J. locks eyes with Scott. He doesn’t say anything; he just points to the Door.

Someone claps.

“Show time,” says someone else.

Even Scott’s former suitor giggles in anticipation.

My friend tries to laugh things off. “Well, hell,” he says. He tries to smile but his lips tremble. “Guess I owe you an apology.”

“Save the apology. You owe me your hand.”

“Now look, E.J… I know I got a little cocky. God knows I’ve had too much to drink. And maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have. But there ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m putting my hand in that doorway.”

E.J. nods at the two bruisers guarding our only exit. They move toward Scott.

He throws one desperate, clumsy punch. His target dodges. The crowd laughs. A moment later, Scott’s arms are pinned behind his back and he’s being dragged toward the Door.

“For Christ’s sake, E.J.!” I shout. “You can’t be serious. My friend’s a mess. Just look at him. He’s three sheets to the wind. He made some harebrained, offensive remarks that he’ll regret in the morning if he can even remember them. But you can’t possibly want to maim him for that. You’re a good guy. ”

“I’m a good guy? You think you know me just ‘cause we made a little small-talk about cars and pool? You don’t know shit about me. I won your friend’s hand, end of story. I mean to take it.”

“Please, man,” says Scott. His voice is broken now. “I’m sorry about what I said. I’m drunk and stupid, like Trevor said. Just give me a break, just this time. I’ve got cash –”

“I don’t want your money. And no one gave me a break.” E.J. holds his deformed hand up to Scott’s face. “No one gave me the opportunity to win my way out of this fucked-up hand, but you don’t see me groveling.”

“This has gone too far,” I say. “I’m calling the police.”

“Call the police,” says E.J. “By the time they get here your friend will be missing his knuckles, and Deb will tell ‘em you two drunk-ass strangers walked in here and started beating the shit out of each other before you took things too far. Ain’t that right, Deb?”

She nods and smiles. I want to knock her teeth out.

I think things through. I don’t know these guys. Are they bluffing? Just giving Scott a well-deserved scare? Too tough to say. This isn’t my world. I’m in the demimonde, a den of punch-drunk bottom dwellers with nothing to lose. Suburban logic doesn’t work down here.

I know one thing, though: I’m a better pool player than E.J.

“Double or nothing.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can second-guess myself.

“What?”

“Double or nothing. You and me. I win, you let us out of here unharmed. You win, you can crush both our hands.”

He hesitates. One of his oversized friends has Scott’s trembling hand pressed against the door frame.

“Come on, E.J.,” I say. “So you beat my friend Scott at pool. Big deal. Everyone beats Scott at pool. Pick on someone your own size.”

“All right,” says E.J., “Fair enough. But I don’t want your hand. The idea doesn’t excite me at all. So I tell you what. I’ll accept your offer — double or nothing — but on different terms.”

“Name them.”

“You win, y’all walk out of here just like you came in. No hard feelings. But if I win, you crush that fat motherfucker’s hand in the doorway, and I get to watch. And you’re gonna do it right. You’re gonna swing that door as hard as you possibly can, like you’re trying to win a stuffed animal at the goddamn state fair. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Then rack.”

They let Scott go. He stumbles over and hugs me. “Kill him,” he whispers in my ear.

I toss the wooden triangle onto the felt and start arranging balls.

Solid. Stripe, stripe.

To hell with Scott for getting me into this mess. Couldn’t have kept his big mouth shut. Had to get all fired up. And why? Because E.J. wouldn’t drink a beer? Son of a bitch.

Solid. Eight in the center. Solid.

Now here I am, staring down a gauntlet of bloodthirsty deadbeats and their unlikely overlord. Fuck Deb, too. Fuck her for letting things ignite in the first place, and for stoking the fire afterwards. And fuck that eager grin she’s got on her face now.

Stripe, solid. Stripe, stripe.

You too, E.J. I tried to be friendly. I apologized for my friend. You couldn’t suck it up. Had to explode. You’re not a gangster. You’re a sociopath.

Solid, stripe, solid.

You want to beat me because you think you can. You haven’t, though, not so far, and it’s driving you nuts. Maybe you think you can now — now that my hairs are on end and my nerves are frayed and my back’s against the wall and the stakes are outrageous.

Stripe, solid.

But you can’t beat me. You’ll never beat me. I grew up playing this game. I was sinking combo shots while you were playing stick ball or stealing car stereos or whatever it is you did in whatever miserable ghetto you crawled out of.

E.J. splits the break: one stripe, one solid. He misses his next shot.

He says something clever, but I’ve gone monosyllabic, unresponsive. Seven balls, I tell myself. Seven balls and we can walk out of this nightmare with all of our appendages and most of our sanity in tact.

I run six of them.

Scott is cheering. Everyone else is frowning. They haven’t been standing around this past half-hour neglecting their drinks and video poker machines just to watch us leave unscathed. They want to see pain inflicted, tears shed. And I’m just an eight-ball away from denying them all that pleasure, and that makes me feel like a fucking god.

It’s a tricky shot, though. The cue ball is at the opposite end of the table. I can slice the eight into a corner pocket, but I might scratch. It’s close.

E.J. still has six solids on the table. I shouldn’t hurry.

But I’m on fire. I can’t miss. I’ve got an opportunity to end everything right now, with one shot, and as I look over the angles again I’m pretty sure this isn’t a scratch. Anyway, with just a little English I should be able to kick the cue ball out…

I line it up.

 

The sun is out when I get back to the hotel. I’ve been awake for twenty-four hours and I’m disappearing beneath whiskers and stubble; I have an overwhelming urge to shave. I shed clothes like dead skin on my way to the bathroom. When I get there I pick up a razor and fasten my bloodshot eyes to the mirror. I don’t recognize my reflection.

I shear the fuzz off half my face, then vomit into the sink. When I look up again I’m two people, neither of whom I know.

I shave the other half. I lean in toward the mirror for a closer look. Tiny stumps of hair are everywhere, buried in my pores. I change blades, I lather. I push a little harder on the razor, dig a little deeper.

Still, my face is obscured.

I keep shaving.