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Like a battlefield, the green felt table waited.
On a plain where countless skirmishes have been won and lost, two pairs, both made up of one guy and one girl, prepare to make friendly war on each other. The social aspect of the game is enough to offset the lust for victory, although all of them know that as the night progresses, missed shots will grow more painful, regret will sharpen its claws, and victory will evolve from a friendly congratulation to the desire to play again, to continue the winning streak, to crush and defeat – in the nicest possible way.
The first player steps up to the table, ready to begin. He’s a clown, born and bred, whose friendly charm is a substitute for the strapping good looks he wasn’t blessed with. In his mid- to late 20s, and the slightest sense of being in the spotlight triggers an unpleasant change in him. He becomes posed, deliberate, affected, overly funny. It’s an act, and one he’s not great at. He bends over the table, fussing with his cue, picking a showy position for the white ball on the verge of the break. His showmanship is bravado – he’s subconsciously terrified of looking bad. The reason for that stands about three feet from him.
The blonde girl who is his companion is tall and slim, with clear enough skin to be a cover-girl and an easy smile. She’s the girl who’ll succeed in life without much effort, and every move she makes tells anyone watching the game that she knows it. Designer clothes fit her shape as if she was made with a size 8 tag at the base of her neck. Her hair is fashionably messy, her make-up carefully applied to look like make-up has never been with 100 feet of her. Her male companion seems happy to be around her, and would be quite happy to play all night if it means he’s got more time to hang around in the light she’s giving off.
When he breaks, the well-ordered triangle of balls explodes, a multi-coloured kaleidoscope of sound and movement. As they come to a rest on the table, the number hasn’t changed – nothing has gone down, and the table is open.
The second player steps up to the table, looking for opportunities. He’s dark, attractive, the beau. Leather jacket, fashionable hair, five o’clock shadow, dusty jeans all work in concert to make him seamlessly anonymous. He takes up his stance, like a man preparing to fence, right leg back and ramrod-straight. He flicks his right wrist sharply, deliberately, and the blue 2 ball drops like a stone into the pocket. The chase is on.
He looks toward the other girl and smiles, and his smile breaks the generic mould of his face. It’s the smile of a goofy kid who is running on luck, sheepish and almost ashamed of the result, yet desperate to keep his run going. He’s instantly likeable. Two more successful shots, two more solids downed without incident. The changing constellation of balls flows like a ballet of intentional physics – here Cassiopeia rests for a moment before the roll of the white changes the field, and chaos runs away with the design.
His final shot, having sunk three balls previously, pushes the ball into the corner but not quite to the pocket, resting it against the cushion about half an inch from the abyss beyond.
He retires for the moment, grinning, relieved.
The blonde girl, giggling madly, gets ready for the shot. She bends over the table, stretching like a jungle cat, offering for view the most sexually suggestive posture she can. It’s not conducive to good playing, but that’s not why she’s here. This game doesn’t matter to her as much as being seen does. Her top hangs down when she leans to the table, and her companion moves with ill-concealed haste to take advantage of the view. She knows, but pretends she doesn’t. She’d rather have the attention of the beau than the clown, but he’s watching the table, intent on the game.
Her shot is terrible, hit rather than pushed, running everywhere on the table but on target, coming to rest against one of the striped balls, qualifying the shot by the barest of margins. She laughs as if failing at this is tickling her, and looks at her besotted consort with a coyly innocent look, knowing he’ll happily bear the burden of her incompetence to spend time with her. Neither one of them is here for this game – they’re playing games of their own.
The fourth player stands up and steps forward.
She’s neither as tall nor as graceful as the blonde. At about 162 centimetres, with reddish-brown hair and dark, burning eyes, she’s thin to the point of emaciation, the kind of thinness that’s deliberate and hard-won, not the result of natural coltishness. She’s all angles, and her long face lies along her left arm whenever she shoots. She’s not as pretty as her friend, and watching her socialise when she’s not shooting is almost painful – every action she makes speaks volumes of a girl who has found it difficult to be noticed, and who wants to be included, to fit in. In jeans and a singlet, she’s feminine, but almost awkwardly so, as if she’s still uncomfortable in clothes this small in size and coverage.
When she steps to the table, the shyness falls away. The gangly, graceless movement, the self-consciousness, the struggle for acceptance – these things all fall from her shoulders like a cape. This is her battlefield, and the light ease with which she stands at the table brings to mind long hours spent playing with family and other, less fashionable friends.
She takes point across the table, her small hand forming a bridge a few inches short of the ball, a light, expensive and beautifully maintained cue running from left hand to right. Her stance is strong, aggressive, a focus, an extension of her will. This is her chance to impress, to succeed, to compete.
Her head points along her left arm, tucked into her shoulder. Her deliberate calm is testament to one thing – she wants this shot, and every one after. She wants to win, wants at some level to wipe the table with her opposition, to make this small victory against the losses she’s suffered trying to be a part of a world she has to work to feel accepted in. Her arm flexes as she runs the smooth ash cue across the place where her thumb and forefinger are tucked together. The action is sensuous, the theme light, graceful, studied. Her concentration is absolute.
Her first shot, when it comes, feels restrained, although it is anything but.
The white runs like a galloping horse across the table, bounding off the cushion and pushing the purple solid ball to the edge of the pocket, where it teeters and drops with a silent finality. The white sails on, coming off the cushion and stopping five inches from the ball her playing partner failed to sink. When she looks up, he whistles a low whistle of appreciation.
She takes up position again and shoots. The cue-tip strikes the ball low, generating back-spin even as the shot rockets down the table. It meets the cushion and the target ball at the same time, and as the solid runs down the green felt wall into the pocket, the white runs back towards her, like a faithful puppy, stopping in line with another shot.
The other two have stopped their playful banter and are watching, for the first time taking the game as something more than excuse to flirt and hang around. The blonde’s smile is tempered with a faint line of concern, as if this isn’t the way the script is supposed to read. When the beau congratulates the brunette, she sighs loudly, although whether to attract attention or comment on the shot is unclear.
The brunette shoots again, and this time she uses force like an exclamation mark on an unspoken challenge. The crack of the white hitting the orange ball is hard, sharp, angry. The orange clunks as it hits the back of the pocket before dropping in, and the white rolls to the head circle of the table, coquettish and playful. She walks around to the break position, takes careful aim, all trace of violence gone. Like a piston, her hand draws back, and pushes forward, maki
ng contact with the white again.
The white ball rolls softly, pushing across the featureless green plain of the table, intent on its target. In what seems like slow-motion, it kisses the green ball. The white loses power, and as it rolls to a stop about three inches from the black ball, the green travels delicately, almost nonchalantly, into the corner pocket, the soft click of it hitting the other balls, already casualties to her skill, the only announcement of success. She doesn’t blink.
The white sits on a line with the black, but isn’t straight to the pocket. It’s an angled shot, needing an edge and a master’s touch – too much force will push the ball off line, and too little will deny her the fruits of what she hopes to achieve – to win on a clear run, seven opposition balls still on the table.
The beau, respectfully stays silent, sipping what almost certainly isn’t straight Coke out of a tumbler. The blonde talks loudly, careful not to be too obvious a distraction – the blonde girl’s partner looks as if he might fall on his knees in religious wonder at whatever the girl is saying. The brunette ignores them all.
She takes the shot, top-spin on the white ball, and it looks perfectly on line. It taps the black ball in the vital spot, sending it into the pocket as if on a string, with no hesitation or question. All four players watch the black, eager to see if the shot has worked, and when the ball settles into the macramé pocket, there’s a collective exhalation of breath. The shot was good.
The white ball is still rolling, the ricochet of the shot pushing it up the table. It rolls softly, caroming off an opposition ball, rolling delicately, hesitantly into the closest pocket.
She closes her eyes, bows her head.
The blonde girl is wide-eyed at the prospect of losing, having to suffer the indignity of running around the table with her pants down, although her companion looks as if he’d have thrown the game just to get this sort of result. When the white drops over the edge of the pocket, a self-indulgent smile breaks across her face, confident and comfortable. The universe has righted itself again. In a week’s time, she won’t even acknowledge what she’d felt for that brief second as fear – the fear that, for once, she’d be denied what she wanted.
The brunette sighs, a sigh that seems to carry a greater weight and trouble than just losing the game. The beau chuckles ruefully, makes a murmured consolation, but she misinterprets it. Head down, talking as if the sound of her voice will distract from the distress that her body language is screaming, she walks off to the bar, moving as though just getting through the next thirty seconds will dispel her disappointment.
At the table, while the blonde alternates between making mocking eyes at the retreating brunette and flashing come-hither looks at the beau, and her hopeful consort tries to regain her attention, the beau grabs the triangle, and begins to slowly, deliberately rack up another game…..
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