Quarters on the Velvet Lining

Quarters on the Velvet Lining

The colors changing in the sky keeps time like a seven figure Rolex Everose as we prepare for dusk. A deep sigh of relief that the time clock that held us captive finally ran out of time, and the night and relaxation has just begun. We park along the curb one behind another, engines go silent, car doors open, and slam shut. Vehicles beep one after another— like an eighth note counted in 4/4 time. Walking quickly to the front door as if we were an hour behind schedule. Approaching the blue awning that read ‘Stella Blues’ was a thrill. the heart rate begins to race with excitement, the first round of the night couldn’t come any sooner, even when being only 5 feet from the entrance. Bartenders display bottles on shelves and should hang their psychology degrees on the walls, for this is the closest thing to therapy many will ever get. The look of a grueling days’ work weighing on our faces, fireball shots are thrown back as if the intention was to completely miss the palate. Shot glasses stacked like Jenga blocks and began to lean like the tower of Pisa, who knew we could make a trip to Italy on the corner of Morgandford Rd and Flyer Ave.

‘Damn, that was good!’ said with enthusiasm ‘Linda! I’ll have another, and get one for this half breed coworker of mine’

I earn the name ‘half breed’ because of my cultural inheritance; a man half black and half Peruvian. I felt like a character drawn up by J.K. Rowling, placed in the Harry Potter universe. Contrary to my full-blooded counterpart, ‘Z’ a full-blooded black man, who also went by the name “Zerell” he was tall, slender, he had a chip on his shoulder like if he led the Chicago bulls to win the championships in 91’ he was entertaining to say the least on and off the court. Early mornings preparing for a long day’s work; turn into late nights sitting at the bar, like sitting around a fire pit telling ghost stories of our lives. A gentlemen's game of billiards helped pass the time, while the double rounds of spirits took the weight off our faces. Quarters line the velvet rim of the pool table.

‘I’m gonna whoop your ass tonight, you might as well go on home’ said Z, like if he had a royal flush in a high stakes card game, knowing it was impossible for him to lose.

‘Your break’

The clashing sound of the phenolic resin made pool balls, echoed throughout the four walls of the pool room. The faint sound of me chalking the tip above the ferrule

‘Don’t worry Z, I’ll make this quick’. I said with comic effect, As I leaned in to set up my first shot.

‘I’m stripes. -Oh, and you might want to call in sick tomorrow after this ass whoopin’.

Shit talking was a love language, it comes with a good competitive spirit, it kept the games entertaining, it kept the rounds coming, the conversations interesting, the grill fired up earning its tips. I was a novice at best, but with a heart of a champion.

‘HA HAAA! how many wins is that for me tonight’ said Zerell like if he won twenty thousand dollars on a scratch off. He lights a cigarette like after a night spent with his London sweetheart.

Loss after loss, for this ole Half-blood prince, night after night. I often thought to myself

‘Why do I even do this to myself’ the name of the bar suited me well “Stella Blues”, but I kept coming back, my quarters kept lining the velvet rim. I’d like to think I didn’t care truly if I won or loss, I enjoyed the companionship, the experience.

‘Keep them coming Linda. Mr. Troy running the grill Tonight?’ Zerell asked with intrigue and spoken like a true frequent customer.

The sound of the clanking glasses at the bar could be heard from the pool room, the smell of the searing meat on the grill. My losses stroked the ego of Zerell and he loved an audience. He played with flare when he had the attention of spectators like a battle at the colosseum, and he made sure they were entertained.

One night after a devastating loss, I walked to my car where the streetlights were the only thing bright that night, I sat and sobbed.

‘I should never comeback, never show my face again. How is it possible that after all this time I haven’t gotten any better.’ I contemplated everything I did wrong in my past that led up to these dreadful nights ‘I should have payed more attention in geometry then maybe my angles would be precise.’

Hopelessness in my voice, trying to make sense of it all.

Soon the victories of this Napoleon would come to an end, and he will finally be defeated.

‘Oh, hell nah, you got lucky, this ain’t even my pool stick’ said Zerell with disbelief

‘Here, there’s five dollars go get some more quarters from the change machine,

I’ll order us another round of fireball’

Nights began to be filled with nail biting tie breakers, more bills into the change machine for another chance at victory. Longer nights and more money spent, more memories and stories to tell at the time clock the next morning. I saw my progress though it came at its own pace, a slow stride. I began to believe it would never come, but it did with great surprise. Like all things in life good memories get written down in our mental storehouses, soon Stella Blues would be just a memory to visit occasionally. Zerell and I, would go our separate ways and choose other career paths. The bell that lined the front entrance now only rings when I go back in time an reminisce; the hospitality of the bartenders vanished like the spirits pour in our shot glasses. Who knew cigarette smoke would become nostalgic for me; rushing memories of Stella blues where the spirits of bartenders come to greet me, triggered as I walk into a pool hall where the ashes filled the trays, and the smoke stained the walls. Among a small group of friends, I would be considered “The Pool Shark” as I would run the table in a gentleman's game of billiards, leaving none alive on the battlefield. The sound of the phenolic resin made pool balls scattering the pool table. The satisfaction of calling shots like if I could see the future, accuracy as if I used the Imperius Curse, forbidden, but use to control the direction of the pool balls.

‘Eight ball corner pocket’ I said with certainty like having a royal flush in a high stakes card game.

‘With a little bottom English this shot is textbook’ I said to myself with conviction.

‘I’ll make contact with the eight ball with speed and accuracy, the bottom English will be forgiving: drawing back the cue ball to prevent the scratch like a noble retreat, to live to fight another day’

I leaned in softly and took aim, like Napoleon ordering his men to be prepared to fire. I took the shot. Perfect.