Scratching

Competing: Consecutive Substack Story 1109

Photo by Alex Lion on Unsplash

The choice was this: Razor thin cut on the 7 for the far left corner leaving an easy 9 finish if — a rotund, snarling, wart covered monster under a bridge IF— he made it, or bank the cue off the left rail, 7 into 9 for the highlight reel finish.

Moira Findley was watching. She was a great shot, probably thought she knew what Derby was thinking. She didn’t.

Derby Walker knew he was something of an enigma at The Blue Chalk, liked it that way and hated it sometimes too.

He knew he didn’t do it on purpose, some affected aloofness,manufactured cool distance. It was just him: quiet, contemplative.

The guy Derby was playing ate antacid like nuts at a party. Like those cashews his coworker Jason made, those spicy things he could eat by the barrel at work events.

No one really knew Derby at work either.

But it didn’t matter.

Every Friday a check came.

At The Blue Chalk people liked to get to know the people they were gambling with, against, on.

Derby decided early he would avoid the guys playing the billiards game golf on the snooker tables.

Those guys were in deep, tens of thousands changing hands in the matter of minutes, side bets, presses.

Derby just wanted to shoot Nine and think.

Make a few bucks to supplement his other gigs.

Moira had her own cuestick in her hands, having just given a lesson to a kid that he both asked for and didn’t want.

She had better etiquette than to kibbitz, but Derby saw her mouth the word ‘combo,’ more of a reflex, more like she was thinking that’s what she would do.

Deby knew if he missed the cunthair cut on the seven there was a possibility he could hug both the burgundy object to the left rail and snug the cue ball to the head rail.

His opponent, the antacid guy, would have an easy touch but a next to impossible shot.

Derby knew no shots in nine ball were impossible.

What Derby was thinking as he eyed up the shot was this:

He had a canvas at home. On it was a silver hawk, an abstract impressionist hawk, the silver dulled with grays but retaining a bit of a metallic look.

The talons needed either a fine brush or the brushstrokes that formed the talons to be carved into with this broken piece of emery board he used to create depth and texture.

He wanted to tell Moira Findley he was a painter.

He wanted to rip all the mass market beer mirrors off the wall of this place and replace them with his own paintings, and paintings by Joe Coleman and John Bunkley.

He wanted to tell antacid guy that his real name was Geoff, and people called him Derby because that was the elementary school he got expelled from.

Moira Findley had winner.

Geoff Walker wanted to go home and fix the talons of the hawk and make the thing less metallic and maybe sell a painting for a change instead of shooting nine ball.

He leaned over the table, kicked off the rail with more velocity than he needed but caught the 7 just fat enough to propel the 9 into the corner pocket nearest his right wrist.

Moira Findley winced at the dumb velocity Derby Walker put on the cue.

She was happy he sank the shot though, because she wanted to whip his ass for some decent money. Vodka Bob said that Derby’s real name was Russell and he got the nickname Derby because someone beat the shit out of him on the infield of Churchill Downs. Today was the day she was going to ask.

Moira began to rack the balls, flipping the diamond once before placing it on the table.

“I’m out,” Derby said, pocketing eighty bucks from antacid guy. “I gotta go paint.”

Moira rolled the 1 ball around in her hand and said “Squish said you took him for five grand last week. You should just hire someone to paint.”

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