I Write Like Who?

Enjoy this link: I Write Like  Every once in awhile, I'll visit, write a short paragraph, or a piece of something I wrote, and see what it determines. I've never had my writing pinned down to one certain author. I think that's a good thing.

An Evening at Colleen's

I've been in an assortment of establishments that sell alcohol; everything from topless/biker bars, to clubs, where you're expected to dress up. They all had a story to tell; and many were a constant source of drama. 

The following story came to my mind one evening. Compelled as always, I wrote it as it appeared. 

Enjoy

                                                                  ***


The tavern was almost empty, with only a few customers in the pool room. The woodwork, mirrors and furniture were of an age long ago. Decades of wear left some marks, but all was well polished, clean and the atmosphere was still of a place where friends could gather to toss back a few after work or on a Saturday evening.

Catherine stood behind the bar and idly spoke with her waitress, Nicola. Catherine resembled her grandmother, whose name graced the tavern. With red hair, green eyes and a full figure, she could only be described as Irish and her fiery temper would dispel any thoughts otherwise. Age was taking its early toll; her smile lines were etched permanently on the edges of her eyes and relayed her age as over fifty.

Nicola was a stark contrast to Catherine. Thin, olive skinned and with hair almost black, she was the epitome of her Italian heritage. At twenty five, she was struggling to finish college and find a job that would take her away from the city. She felt trapped and longed for escape to the world beyond the neighborhood of generations.

“How’s your mom, Nicole?”

“Tired. Uncle Frankie has been a handful for the last few weeks. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to help and dreads putting him in a nursing home.”

The thought saddened Catherine. She’d known Frankie since they were children, although there wasn’t much to know after his injury.”

“How’s your mom?”

Catherine paused before answering. The question brought back memories of her mother as she ran the bar. She’d learned much from her mother, who wouldn’t back down from anything and could control even the most rowdy with a quick word. To back up her words was a double barrel shotgun behind the counter. She never used it, but she’d reached for it a few times.

“Not so good. She can hardly get out of bed and her legs hurt constantly.”

Nicole only shook her head and stared in the mirror. She wasn’t happy with her skin, or her hair. Burning the candle at both ends left bags under her eyes and her dark, brown hair looked like straw. She knew she could spend more time on herself after she finished college, but until then, she needed too many hours each day in the effort to reach her goal to never work in a bar again.

“I saw your dad the other day, so I asked why he wasn’t coming around much anymore. I didn’t realize he was taking on side work to help with your uncle.”

“They’re hard headed Italians, just like their parents. They don’t want anything they can’t get for themselves.”

“It’s going to kill them, but I understand. I’m the same way with Mom. I’m just lucky Dad left a good life insurance policy, so we’re comfortable and Colleen’s makes up the difference.”

The door opened and a middle aged man stepped inside. Both women checked him out as he entered and approached the bar.

They both guessed he was in his middle fifties, stocky built and in good shape. His step was light and he covered the distance to the bar in seconds. Before he spoke, he glanced around the bar and spent a few moments on the photos around the room. This gave Catherine time to think about his face and try to remember why he looked familiar.

His sandy hair was still full and flecked with gray. His neatly trimmed beard was almost completely gray and his complexion told of years in the weather. His blue eyes were almost startling to Catherine, when he finally finished examining the room and looked into her eyes.

“Would you have some coffee? It’s chilly outside and a fresh cup would be good”

Catherine finally answered, but it took a moment. His voice stirred more thoughts and she was almost embarrassed she couldn’t remember why she found him so familiar.

“I always have a fresh pot. With the rowdies soon to come in, it takes lots of caffeine to keep up with them.”

The man smiled and spoke to Nicole: “There’s not much of a crowd tonight.”

Smiling, and a little unnerved, she replied: “There’s a game tonight and they’ll be here in an hour or two.”

Nicole found the man handsome and it bothered her she felt so attracted to a man twice her age. Maybe it was his eyes and the way he stared into her eyes when he spoke. He wasn’t that handsome, but the way he carried himself gave her a feeling of comfort, which she found unusual these days. Little gave her comfort and no man she met lately gave her any comfort.

As he turned to take his coffee, Nicole noticed a fine scar that ran from under his eye to disappear behind his beard. The stitch work was hardly noticeable, but the scar pulled enough for her to know the cut was deep.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like some sugar, or cream?”

“No thanks. I like it black.”

Taking a sip, he smiled and carefully set his cup back on the bar.

Catherine was thrilled, for some reason. She took pride in her coffee and his smile was better than any compliment.

Before she could ask any questions, he rose, took his coffee and made a quick remark: “I hear pool balls and I think I’ll go see if I can still play.”

As he walked away, Nicola was first to speak: “I’ve never seen him here before. Do you know him?”

Catherine was quick to respond: “I could swear I do, but I just can’t place him. Maybe it will come to me.”

Entering the pool room, the man scoped out the room, the four young men playing and finally sat at one of the small tables that lined the room.

As the young men checked him out, he carefully looked each in the eyes and asked: “Is the table open? I haven’t played in years and would like to see if I can still hit the ball.”

The four young men, friends from birth, waited and James was first to speak: “Are you a hustler?”

The man smiled and quickly answered: “Heavens no. Playing for money can be dangerous.”

The remark made James a little uneasy. It wasn’t so much the words, but the way he said it and the quick fire in his eyes.

“It’s open, although I doubt it will be for long.”

The man rose, removed his jacket and placed it on his chair. Walking to the table, he carefully racked the balls and spoke to James: “Your break,”

The three other young men felt a little slighted by the remark, although they knew James was the best player and the unofficial spokesman of their group.

James never spoke as he broke. The balls scattered and two low balls fell into the pockets.

The man quickly said: “Well that’s settled and it looks like you’re ahead.”

James proceeded to clear the table, except for the five and eight ball. He scratched and the man carefully walked to the table to begin playing.

Chalking the end of the cue he’d carefully picked from the rack, powdered his hand, planned his shot, and proceeded to clear the high balls from the table. Within minutes, he’d cleared the table and was only left with the eight ball. Taking a little more time on the shot, he finally placed the eight ball in the side pocket and exclaimed: “Well how about that. I didn’t know I could still shoot pool”

The remark, and what James perceived as insincere humility make him angry. With malice in his heart, he commented: “Sometimes even blind pigs - and old men - find an acorn.”

If the comment bothered the man, it didn’t show. James friend’s only laughed, although they knew the friendly game had turned into something less than friendly.

“Your rack.”

James racked the balls, stepped back and waited.

As the man began his stroke to break the balls, James hollered at Nicola: “Hey. We’re ready for another round back here. “

James intended to break the man’s concentration, but it didn’t work. The break sent three high balls, and three low balls into the pockets.

With a small smile on his face, the man commented: “I guess I have to decide what balls I’ll need to shoot.”

Nicola soon appeared, glanced around the room and summarized the event. The slight flush on James face, the anticipation of his friends and the fact the man was shooting made her uneasy. James was hot-headed and she’d seen him at his worst. Catherine even kicked him out one night when he threatened a customer after he lost a twenty dollar bet.

As she set the beers down on the table, she paused to watch as the man cleared the table. It was fascinating. Every shot was without error. When the eight ball fell into the side pocket, she quickly looked at James.

His anger was apparent. Without even asking if his friends wanted to play, James quickly racked the balls and stood back. His friends, now knowing what was set into motion, only waited to see how far things went.

The man smiled and asked: “Would you like to break?”

Blind fury erupted on James’s face for a second. He quieted his anger long enough to reply: “I’d hate to have an unfair advantage over you….old man.”

Without hesitating, the man introduced himself. “I’m Carl.” Reaching for the hands of the four young men, all shook his hand and gave their names. James tried to crush the man’s hand, but it was a futile effort. His strong grip made the muscles in his forearm stand out and it became evident he was far from weak, or helpless.

Nicola left and went to tell Catherine what she observed.

Catherine replied: “We can only be ready. Who knows, they might end up friends, before it’s all over.”

Nicola studied Catherine’s face and knew her expression told a different feeling.

For the next thirty minutes, James, and the "old man", continued to play. Every game was the same and every game brought another call from James to bring more beer. His anger, now fueled by beer, was almost to the point of no control. He didn’t like losing and the fact the man did it without effort only fueled his anger.

“Hey. We need another round back here.”

The way James called, the obvious effect of the alcohol, and the knowledge of his behavior made Nicola hesitant to return with another round. She knew she could tell them they were too drunk to have more, but it wouldn’t change things. Grabbing four more beers, she headed for the pool room with the knowledge James had lost another game.

By the time she arrived with the beers, the game was almost over. Again, the man ran the table and there was only the eight ball remaining for him to shoot. Carefully, he walked around the table and looked at every angle. Looking up, he carefully studied Nicola’s expression. Without speaking, he winked, took his shot and sank the eight ball in the corner pocket. The cue ball, slowly moved to the side pocket, balanced on the edge and fell. The game was over.

The man spoke: “Oh well. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.”

Picking up his jacket, he soon had it on and was starting for the door.

“I have a plane to catch, gentlemen. It’s been nice and I’m glad to meet you all.”

As he passed Nicola, she saw the handle of a gun barely protruding from the inside pocket of the jacket. He touched her on the shoulder and quietly said: “Thank you.”

Nicola only responded with a short “You’re welcome.” She couldn’t figure out what he was thanking her for, since she didn’t serve his coffee at the bar and never asked if he’d like another.

As he left, he passed a few patrons that were just arriving. Looking at the bar, he spoke: “Thanks for the coffee, Catherine; it’s the best since I came to town.”

In a moment he was gone, and Catherine could only stare as he left.

In the pool room, Catherine could hear the young men ribbing James and their laughter seemed to cheer the tavern. Nicola soon approached, with a relieved look on her face.

Neither spoke for a few moments, but Nicola made a simple statement: “He said his name is Carl.”

The mention of his name toppled decades of blocking memories and Catherine instantly knew why she thought he was familiar. 

The sick look on Catherine’s face forced Nicola to ask: “Are you okay.”

Catherine had to gather her thoughts and calm down before she spoke: “I know why he looked familiar. I know him.”

Quickly, she added: “Go take care of those customers.”

Nicola did as she was told. As she drew their beer from the tap, she kept glancing at Catherine, who now was sitting on the stool behind the bar looking deflated.

In a few minutes, she returned. Before she could ask anything, Catherine spoke: “Carl is the son of the butcher that lived around the corner.”

Nicola remembered a butcher shop when she was child. It was named after the old man that ran it with his wife: “Abram’s.”

“When I was really young, Mr. Abram would come in every Saturday around six and have two beers. Carl would come along to shoot pool.”

Nicola waited for her to continue.

“Carl wouldn’t drink anything except coffee; even after he was twenty one. He said he didn’t like alcohol and it wouldn’t do any good for both him and his father to be drinking.”

“Carl was always the skinny kid and smart. He was going to study to be a doctor, but that all ended one Saturday evening.”

Nicola, now very curious, was quick to ask: “What happened?”

“It was a typical Saturday. The regular customers were here; including Mr. Abrams and Carl. A group of young neighborhood men came in to shoot pool and drink beer. We knew them all, but they had a tendency to be rough and bullies.”

“Carl was good at pool, and they knew it, but they were determined to show him he wasn’t as good as they were. They challenged him to a game for twenty dollars, which was a substantial bet. He accepted and the game was on.”

“Billy Grimes was the head of the group. He decided he should play, so he was first to shoot.”

“It was a disaster. Within minutes, Carl had his twenty dollars and the rest decided to take their chance. They lost too and the next hour led to all of them drinking too much beer and losing what little paychecks they had at the time.”

Catherine paused. Her expression was of sadness and horror. Nicole waited out of respect, but her curiosity soon led her to ask: “So, then what happened?”

“Billy finally lost his temper and sucker punched Carl. Within seconds, Carl returned the punch and decked Billy.”

“Billy wasn’t moving, so his friends decided they’d make an example of Carl. That was their mistake.”

“They had him for a few moments, but soon were losing. Carl went to work on all of them with his pool cue. Two decided they needed to leave and were out the door in seconds. Only one was left and he grabbed a pool cue, which led to a Carl striking him in the head with his own. The cue broke and a piece of wood stuck in his head.”

“Billy was almost between Carl’s feet, and was awake, when he struck Frankie.”

Shocked by the name, Nicola asked: “Frankie who?”

“Your uncle Frankie. There was no accident at the factory. Carl caused his injury.”

Nicola was shocked and could only sit in silence as Catherine continued. Years of lies were exposed and she wanted to know the entire story.

“Billy jumped up with a knife in his hand and swung at Carl. He cut him across the face and the blood went everywhere. I was standing a few feet away and some even splattered on my dress.”

“When Billy went for Carl, a gun appeared and he shot Billy.”

“Billy fell like a sack of potatoes Carl peeled out half the money he won, placed it on the table and walked out of the bar. I never saw him again…until tonight.”

They both sat in silence for a few minutes. Catherine spoke first: “Billy recovered, but was never the same.”

“What happened to Carl?”

“Nothing, I guess. When the police arrived, nobody would give a name. As far as we were concerned, Carl was family and Billy had it coming.”

Catherine had tears in her eyes as she continued: “He was so nice. I even had my eyes on him, since he seemed to be heading for bigger and better things. I didn’t want to work in the bar back then and was planning to escape the first chance I had. Something died in me that night and was gone forever”

Catherine continued: “Mr. Abrams never came back. He would never talk about what happened and he died within twenty years. His widow was always taken care of, was quiet, and she passed away last week. I guess Carl came for the funeral.”

Digesting the story, Nicola finally asked: “What happened to Billy?”

“He spent a long time in the hospital. They had to remove a lung and he never really recovered. Mom finally had to bar him. He’d get drunk and harass the customers. Since he never took care of himself, nobody was surprised when they found him dead in his apartment a few years ago. I’m guessing he drank himself to death.”

For the next hour, the patrons kept coming in a soon filled the tavern. It was a joyous evening, since their team won, but Nicola felt a melancholy that occupied her thoughts.

She wondered: “Why did he thank me? Did he know enough from my expression to know my fear? Did he lose on purpose? “

The thoughts would occupy her mind forever. Time stood still, returned the past and the outcome was better – although the events would never change. Things would always be the same, and nothing changed until those involved were willing to make them change.

As she left the bar, Nicola had a determination she never had before. Unwilling to live the past, she’d decided to make her future something different. She’d finish college, find a better life and never look back.

Quietly speaking to herself, she said” “Maybe I’ll send them a postcard.”, and laughed. She was thinking of a future; somewhere else and it was bright.

Looking at the Stats

I don't get many visitors here. A few each day is usual, and it's never over ten.

With my other blog, that would have left me unhappy. With this one, it doesn't bother me. I'm guessing it's because I haven't posted much, and not many know about this blog.

Time will tell how this all works out, but I've had too full of a plate for awhile, and my creative thoughts have been pushed to the back burner for now.

I'll write more in the future. Thoughts cross my mind daily, which I'll eventually turn into something worth reading.