Tinker Wilson sat at the horseshoe bar of The Pastime, drinking his fifth beer and pondering the ruin of his marriage, a brief affair begun in college. Next to him was a young workman in white overalls patched colorfully at the knees who was commenting on the baseball game. "Gowdy is fulla shit."
He glanced over and made note of the fellow's sandy hair and painter's cap. He drained his bottle and bought another one. Then he vacated his valued place and walked. Passing behind people clustered at the bar, he noticed that most of the guys were also involved in the game. His opinion was baseball sucked.
Wilson sauntered across the dead carpet, knowing that roaches and rat turds remained beneath the booths where hippies gathered, wearing sandles. A couple of women shot billiards. Brenda Norcross was drawing a bead on the nine ball when someone bumped her on the rump.
"Scuse meh." Slurred South Georgia.
Norcross whirled, cuestick raised high in the smokey air. "Hey, man!"
The man was already gone, lurching down the aisle toward the commodes. Colliding with other players. She shook her head and doubled-down on the nine ball.
Wilson surveyed the room. He saw that a crowd had gathered to watch a money-spiced game at Table One, the resereved table where a professional racked the balls. Then he recognized Norcross. Playing alone, leaning over her table and lining up a shot. Her auburn hair tumbled heavily about her shoulders and framed her pinched face, pointy nose and chin. She wore a lavender Holly Near teeshirt and snug olive corduroys. He watched her kill the nine ball.
"Easy score, Brenda."
"Hey, Tinker. How are you?"
"All right. You?"
"Fine. Just fine. Well, come on. Belly up and rack'em."
"You with anyone?"
"Nope. Get yourself a stick."
That means Elaine isn't with her, he thought. God he hated the image of is exwife in bed with Norcross.
Referring to the action on Table One, Wilson asked, "You think ol' Willy-Boy will beat that kid?"
"Dunno."
*
Norcross was aiming at the seven ball. She adjusted her posture and Wilson saw the swinging of her unbound breasts. The Jiggle. Before he realized the enormity of his action, he put a hand upon her hip. He squeezed her, saying, "I'll be back in a second."
She missed. "Goddamn the fuck in the first place!
It was the missed shot, wasn't it? she thought. Not his copping a feel.
Wilson had left his can of Miller Lite on the table edge. Norcross took a sip and watched him select a cuestick from the rack. She observed his cheeky ass, held in check by tight bluejeans.
Christ, the things Elaine had said about him. Filthy underwear!
A wicked giggle.
Wilson returned to see her grinning. No, smirking.
"What--?"
"Nothing."
He began a blood-thumping scrutiny of Norcross. She had a body to die for, was his estimation. He felt it was a pity he had not asked her out before committing himself to Elaine.
*
Wilson punched open the men's room door and saw two scraggly bearded young men enjoying themselves while urinating. His mental snapshot: long greasy brown hair, frayed bellbottoms and longtailed checkered shirts. He backed away from their scene and went out the way he had come. Norcross saw his face from a distance.
As soon as the lovers exited she got the picture.
Tinker-boy is confused.
Wilson racked his shin on the unflushed commode. He sent a jetstream of clear urine from his bloated bladder. Miller Lite. Suddenly the door banged open. A redneck drawl: "Sorry there!"
The door slammed shut.
When he returned to Norcross he commanded, "Let's get out of here."
"What makes you think I want to leave?"
His face flushed with embarassment. "Please."
"Something happen?"
"Yes. But that's not it. We have to talk."
"Big Boy coffee shop. C'mon."
They wended through the crowd, going past the horseshoe bar. Someone had selected a song on the juke box. The Doobie Brothers. "Listen to the music--" And as the looking-glass door closed behind them they beheld a reality of limitless possibilities. They walked with new eyes into the warm neon rain.
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