Cool air swirled the smoke as he stepped in. Paula glanced up from the tip of her pool stick long enough to know that the newcomer didn't belong. In his pressed khakis and Docksiders, zippered fleece pullover and collared cotton dress shirt, he'd obviously gotten lost on his way to somewhere else in the labyrinth of rural roads twisting among the hills in this part of the county.
With a solid stroke, she sent the cue ball along the short rail and sank the six in the corner pocket. The stranger waited patiently until she finished, and then slipped by the table on his way to the bar. After missing a bank shot on the four, Paula located him dropping quarters in the payphone next to the men's bathroom.
It took all kinds, she thought. Nice-looking in an uptight, downtown sort of way, and probably pretty pissed to find out that his cute little cell phone, hanging impotently from one of his pocket loops, got diddly-squat reception out here. He talked for a minute, listened shortly, and glanced at his watch, frowning. Whoever he had called hadn't given him the answer he'd wanted. He slapped the hang-up flap, tucked the receiver in his shoulder, and dug out more quarters.
By the time she'd taken her turn - sinking her last two solids and muffing the eight - he'd finished his second conversation and bellied up to the bar. Milly, the Sunday afternoon bartender, wiped the counter, dumped the ashtray, took his order, filled a jelly jar with Yuppie Juice - Coors Light - and collected a buck twenty-five. She had efficient service down pat, hardly missing a single lap of the NASCAR race.
The eight ball was an easy slice and Paula dropped it neatly. She shook Mark's hand and accepted his mumbled, "Good game." They all liked to play against her but, even so, nobody likes to lose to a girl.
"I've seen you play better. Bad day?" she asked, tossing him a verbal Band-Aid for his ego boo-boo. He flipped her a wooden marker, good for a small draft. Gambling on games wasn't allowed, but anteing up a beer wasn't exactly heavy stakes or likely to pull the Polish Mafia crowd in for a piece of the action.
Tony had stepped outside, to brag up his new Harley crotch-rocket or engage in the parking lot version of 'Let's Make A Drug Deal', and would be back, eventually. No big thing to wait, she decided. His were the only quarters up. She strode to the bathroom, washed the line of blue chalk from her cheek - swearing at herself for the habit of rubbing her stick against her face - and wandered back out. She stopped at the jukebox and considered feeding it her last couple ones. Mark handed her two damp bills with instructions, "Creed." Why they were wet didn't bear consideration.
Mr. Old Navy slid off his stool and checked out the song menu over her shoulder. "Anything good?" he asked.
Paula shrugged. "Same old, same old. See anything you like?"
He rocked back on his heels, looked her up and down - same old, same old - and opened his mouth, but clamped it shut before saying a word. He wrestled his wallet from his side pocket and shuffled out a clean crisp five. "Triple A said an hour for a tow truck. You choose."
"Rock or country?" she asked, but he shrugged. "Shania Twain? Conrad Twitty?"
His pained look belied his nod and she laughed.
"Dixie Chicks? Toby Keith?" This time he just looked puzzled. "Rock it is then," she said as the fin-buck whirred into the bowels of the machine and ka-chinged up fifteen credits.
Tony shouted over, "You playing pool or what?" He thumped the rack on the felt-covered slate, filled it, and arranged the brightly colored balls within.
Paula rubbed her chin with her middle finger and he laughed, saying, "You name the time, baby! I know the place." A joke, more or less. He and Judy had a nice thing that had been going on for a while.
She took her time choosing the rest of the music, including a few Creed tunes though she'd pocketed Mark's contribution to the cause. She shot pool better with the right songs playing and Tony hadn't particularly hurried earlier, either, when she had been waiting for him.
Lining up her break, Paula noticed that there were two sets of quarters up. Mark, probably, and, judging by the way he watched the game unwind, Mr. Old Navy. An old Guns&Roses tune began and, feeling the low hum of just enough beer and the self-confidence inspired by occult admiration of her ass, Paula knew she'd won this game before sending the cue ball careening away to break the triangle of balls apart.
Tony hadn't a prayer and Mark went down without a whimper. They'd seen her play often enough to know that sometimes she couldn't be beaten. Mr. Old Navy racked the balls and chose a house stick, gingerly, as if he imagined Ebola germs coating the wood. Waiting until he was watching, Paula extended her hand.
"I'm Paula. Good luck."
He shook her hand, exactly two pumps. "James. Thanks. I think I'm going to need all the luck I can get."
Paula set the cue ball on the green and chalked her stick. Thinking about balance and power, she ran her stick back and forth, preparing to break.
"Is the eight ball neutral?" James asked, interrupting her concentration.
"No." The break was a bad one, leaving most the balls jammed up untouched. "Damn."
James had an open table and sunk a solid. He tried to pick another off the side of the pack but missed, stopping the cue ball behind the jumble.
The eleven had possibilities and Paula eyed the angles. She relaxed her shoulders, took a deep breath and held it, ready to shoot.
"You don't play ball-in-hand, right?"
"No." She missed the eleven but did loosen two stripes from the jam-up as the cue rebounded.
He had a pair of easy shots and made both. The rest of his balls were buried and James had a choice to break up the pack or hide the cue. Paula expected him to play dirty, but he popped the cue into the jumble and opened up shots for both of them.
She leaned over the table and lined up, waiting for his customary interruption.
"You're a good shot. Play on a team?"
Paula stood up, crossed her arms, and said, "You are so damn rude."
He looked startled, his glance bouncing up from the level of her rump. "Huh?"
"You've asked me a question every time I've tried to take my turn."
Laughing, he said, "It's just a game."
Tony shook his head, "This is the fucking Furnace, Jimbo. Even the women take pool seriously."
James held up his hand. "I'm sorry." He leaned closer to Paula and added, "I feel like I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto. I've heard the rumors. Pagans, bikers, fights and drugs. You know. A real rough crowd."
"Relax, the coke machine is in the shop. The heroin dispenser is empty," Paula whispered, pointing at the dollar changer. "And we don't sacrifice virgins until dark - and never on Sundays."
His face lost all expression before he burst into loud guffaws. On the rest of her shots, he kept his mouth shut except for an involuntary snicker when a patron pushed a bill into the dollar changer and swore when no quarters came out.
Paula lost to Tony in the next game and claimed a barstool beside James to cash in her wooden drink tokens. They chatted the chat common to barstool acquaintances but his eyes weren't on the race and her mind wasn't on the music. The tow trucker driver came in a while later.
"Hey, see ya," Paula said as he slipped the fleece jacket over his head.
"Yeah. Maybe I'll drop in sometime... If I'm ever lost in the boonies again." He gulped the last inch of beer. He grinned. "What time do they sacrifice virgins?" He glanced back from the doorway and waved.
It may take all kinds, but his kind wasn't her kind - though very much the kind of guy who could easily make a fool of her kind of girl. Knowing she'd seen the last of him, and not certain whether to be relieved or grieved, Paula murmured, "Have a nice life, Jimbo."
The lead singer sucked, but the band rocked on the instrumentals. Paula swayed to the throbbing melody, feeling the bass in the pit of her stomach. She didn't care what thoughts her hips inspired in the minds of her audience. The rhythms demanded she respond and she had passed caution several hours - and many wooden tokens - earlier.
Hands settled on her waist and she leaned back onto a solid chest, before letting the music sweep her back into motion. With a clash, the song ended, draining her. Paula gasped, drawing in air to replace the solid presence that the music had been.
The hands grew arms that wrapped around her, supportive and cool against her dance-damp skin. Throwing her hair aside, Paula looked over her shoulder.
"Well, hi!" she said, suddenly very aware of how much too drunk she'd gotten and how likely she was to make a damned fool of herself in a moment. Before she could, he did. His lips tasted like icing and rum.
As often as Paula had sworn never again, her place was closer, and she did.
His car, a little black Jetta, had leather seats. They felt like skin beneath hers. He leaned across to buckle the seat belt and kissed her again, pinning her against the headrest as if it had been designed for that purpose. In the time it took for him to shut the door and walk around to the driver's side, Paula had almost changed her mind.
James started the engine and the stereo came on. The song filled the car - he liked it loud - and chased her objections away. Sheryl Crow's husky voice, sounding of whiskey, smoke, and leather, cajoled, "If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad."
Then he held her hand, kissed the back of it, and asked, "Which way?" and she pointed.
When she came out of the bathroom, James glanced up from her stack of CD's. He'd loaded a few in the player, judging by the discarded jewel cases. He pushed the play button and adjusted the volume.
"Find anything you like?" she asked. He looked at her, long and hard, before nodding.
"Yeah. You." In his expression, all his doubts plain, she could see something else. A secret pain or shame. "Paula?" Asking a question to which she could only guess the answer.
"You don't have to stay. I could say thanks for the ride and we could pretend that's all we had in mind."
He shook his head. "Hell, this probably won't work anyway."
She took a step toward him and he did the rest.
The worst part was that they were good together, she thought. It would be much easier if it hadn't worked but it had... Oh God. It really had. Like Hollywood sex - frantic but as smoothly graceful as if they had choreographed every passionate caress. Better than what should be possible without numerous rehearsals. James possessed her.
Paula expected him to leave during the night but he hadn't.
Sex again, in the morning, without the frenzied desperation. Him curled around her back, barely penetrating, and lovemaking as misty as a hazy sunrise.
He didn't leave until Sunday night.
The bartenders at the Furnace knew him by name after a while and considered the two of them an item - as did the other regulars. They won a couple's pool tournament and Paula wondered, as everyone congratulated them, what the other competitors would think if she admitted that she didn't know his phone number, where he lived, how he earned his very comfortable living, or even his last name.
James brought Chinese and Mexican take-out and they would feed each other in bed, licking stray grains of rice from odd places later. He rented movies that they never watched in their entirety, distracted by kisses.
Her collection of CDs grew as his favorites found a place with hers.
Sometimes, she'd feel the pressure of his stare and he'd ask if she had ever considered finishing her degree, or pursuing another career, instead of working in her mother's flower shop. He knew all her friends. Paula never met his.
She knew what it meant, of course. She wasn't the kind of girl that his kind of guy took home to meet his parents. Paula played a little rougher, talked a lot tougher, and liked having the raw edges of life chafe against the tender places.
James adopted her life but Paula had no delusions that he would ever introduce her to his. Cinderella was a fairytale and corporate raiders never really carried streetwalkers away in stretch limousines.
When the cute little blonde ordered roses, it was no big deal. In the new world, women did send flowers to men. Paula read the card, 'Yes, finally' and asked what question she was answering.
"He asked me to marry him a while ago. I finally decided," she replied, flashing a diamond and a smile.
"Cool way to accept."
"Thanks."
"Romantic."
The pixie grinned and wrote out the address. "You have a guy?"
Paula nodded, doubting whether she would ever have to decide about answering the same question, but spent the day dreaming of happily-ever-after, nonetheless.
The roses had to be delivered at seven. Paula decided to drop them off on her way home. When James answered the door, there was nothing to say and they said it in unison.
Paula ordered another beer and tapped a cigarette out of the pack.
"I thought you quit smoking," the barmaid said, tipping the excess foam into the drain. Paula shrugged. "Jimmy coming in tonight?"
Paula chuckled. "Probably."
Two beers later, he did. He paused before sitting down and she waved her permission. James ordered a Pepsi and they sat in silence.
"I asked her four months ago," he said. Paula wondered if he'd drunk rum that night and eaten cake with icing.
"If she hadn't seen you in four months would she have said yes today?"
"I love you." The unspoken 'but' followed his declaration, standing as a wall between them. His eyes welled with tears and he blinked them away.
Paula ground out her cigarette and took a sip of her beer. "If it makes you happy, why the hell are you so sad?"
"Sheryl Crow?" he asked. "You're quoting song lyrics while I'm trying to..."
"Dump me? Dump her?" Paula said. "The words fit. Don't you see? Choose me and get this." She raised her hands to encompass the mismatched chairs, colicky A/C, dingy toilets, and her life. "Choose her and get everything you want."
James nodded and Paula closed her eyes as a Gin Blossoms song from the jukebox claimed her mind. A little while later he was gone. He'd pick the little blonde as the kind of girl that his kind of guy married.
The barmaid leaned over the counter and whispered, "He'll choose you, Polly."
"No, but he'll be back," Paula said but the bartender was already too far away to hear. Someday, what she'd said, "Chose her and get everything you want," would make sense to him. Getting everything included having her.
No, Paula wasn't the kind of girl that his kind married, but she was the kind of girl willing to be his mistress and the kind of woman he would love forever.
The daughter of a renowned exotic
dancer, Jolie Howard has developed a unique perspective
of the world and relationships.
Born in a trunk, raised on the road, and taught to read
from the New York Times and National Inquirer, Ms. Howard has no claim to
a hometown or alma mater.
When not writing fiction, she maintains her web site, teaches
belly dancing and Taijiquan, and formulates custom-blend medicinal teas.
She says of life, "It is our differences that make us interesting and our similarities that make
us comfortable."
Reader's Comments
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An enjoyable read!
Lee Ennis <lee_ennis@afreelancewriter.com>
- Thursday, March 20, 2003 at 10:15:34 (EST)
Very well done.
Uncle Pete
- Wednesday, March 19, 2003 at 06:18:31 (EST)
This story held my interest from the very beginning - some of the words strange to my foreign ears, but the meaning was clear.
Paula is much too good for James - I hope that she has fun and then meets the love of her life - and James regrets it for the rest of his.
CecileHare <cecilehare@go.com>
- Tuesday, March 04, 2003 at 05:30:51 (EST)
Sometimes, when you aim low, you hit high. Charmingly on target, Lady Li - as always.
Rob <res18ccr@verizon.net>
- Saturday, March 01, 2003 at 23:04:45 (EST)
What can I say that I haven't said before, a great story. You make a good write about the complete and utter hopelessness of our anxieties and our dreams and how we cling to our hearts feelings instead of our brains reality, because SHOCK! sometime our hearts win the battle, a well-written love story.
JerryBolton <righterjerry1@aol.com>
- Saturday, March 01, 2003 at 19:01:52 (EST)
I always fall for the anti-heroes who do not conform to the traditional mode and I love your engaging anti-heroine.
Brenda Ross <brerfox@dowco.com>
- Saturday, March 01, 2003 at 12:27:48 (EST)
Most Interesting.
I'll take any opportunity to get a look inside the head of a cute, beer-drinking, pool-playing woman who listens to Sheryl Crow's stuff.
Ed Howdershelt - Abintra Press
Science Fiction and Semi-Fiction
http://abintrapress.tripod.com
Ed Howdershelt
- Saturday, March 01, 2003 at 12:13:44 (EST)
Ah, the injustice of it all. You made your characters come alive. Well done!
LouHarper <luharper@brightok.net>
- Saturday, March 01, 2003 at 08:19:55 (EST)
