0. The Event
A neighborhood tavern. Dark, small. A few patrons sit at a horseshoe-shaped bar. Others at the tables. A man plays pool alone. A middle-aged man sits silently at one corner. He drinks and runs his hand through his thick black hair. He nods to himself in answer to a dialog hidden within himself, then he stands up. A raincoat from some distant autumn hangs over his stout frame. It is stained forever with black smudges and lifts up like dirty wings as the man walks quickly and decisively towards the bar.
The other customers watch him intently and silently. A portentous mix of hope, fear, and anxiety builds in the air around them. The man's face is knotted with determination. Behind the bar, a short, bald bartender smiles skull-like under the florescent light. As the man approaches him, he reaches for a bottle of Jim Beam and unscrews the top.
"I have to say..." begins the man, but hesitates as he looks up and finds the bartender's small cold eyes and skull smile already fixed on him.
"Hmm?" replies the bartender, taking a shot glass and placing it before the man.
"I have to say..."
"Here, this one's on the house, Tommy. You're not drunk enough."
"No..." the man is flustered and going pale of the color of determination. "No, I have to say... You can’t stop me this time..."
The bartender begins to whistle and moves the bottle over the shot glass, about to pour. The man puts his hand over the glass.
"No! You’re not going to fill that glass until you hear what I have to say!"
"I'm not?"
"No."
The patrons are leaning forward, transfixed. A large man at the door grows red with anger, holding himself back but staring with hatred at the small man. The bartender's smile creeps slightly wider and he leans back, screwing the lid back on the bottle.
"Then I'm not going to fill the glass. I was wrong, Tommy, you're too drunk. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off?"
The man's mouth opens, but he can only gasp and stutter. He looks around, but the other customers look down, avoiding his gaze. A waitress on the other side of the room looks at him sympathetically but helplessly. He stutters some more, then picks up the shotglass and hurls it to the floor, where it smashes. The big man at the door begins to lunge, but stops at a signal from the bartender, who has not taken his eyes off the little man for an instant.
The man's raincoat tails fly out again as he stomps out of the bar. The patrons shake their heads. Sighs and murmured curses can be heard. The bartender whistles and the door slams shut.
1. Eight Ball
Damn it. Tommy was silenced again. Mike whistling and all these cowards with their faces in their drinks. Lots of talk, lots of talk. There's nothing one person can do. Not Tommy, not me.
I took the pool cue in both hands and returned to my shot. Bank around the eight and knock the 15 into the corner pocket. Poor Tommy. He'd tell them something important if he ever got the chance to talk. But who would stand up for him? This whole crowd wasn't worth the only button left on his raincoat. Tommy'd give them the Holy Grail on a lunch platter, and they'd just fill it with pisswater light beer.
2. The View from the Other Corner
Dark joint, small joint. Over at the bar, Frank and Mildred. He's talking, she's smoking. Down a bit from them, Phil drinks alone, a shot glass of Seagram's next to a Budweiser. He's nice enough, he'll talk to you when you go by, but he drinks alone. Mike smug behind the bar, Al menacing at the door. Julie bringing drinks to the tables, her face distant unless she was talking to Tommy. Tommy's table in the corner, empty now he's tried to talk to Mike and failed. Brian, surly and quiet as ever, playing eight ball against himself. The kid at the table on the other side, his scrawny face constantly following Julie as she moves through the bar, his bottle of Miller now warm in his hands. Closer to me, Books sits hunched between the jukebox and the wall, a pile of library books and notebooks on the table beside him as he scribbles, reads, and smokes his unfiltered Camels.