It's been a long, long day. Conferences, seminars, meet-and-greets. I am pretty much done with people at this point.
I toss down a twenty-five dollar burger in the hotel restaurant and consider entering the lounge. It's a pretty nice bar but I'm not much of a drinker and it is overflowing with people. They're all milling about, slapping each other's backs and laughing way too loudly. I'd really had enough of that.
I push the call button for the elevator, resigned to spending a quiet evening watching crap on the tube, propped up on bed pillows. Before the car arrives I notice there is a little convenience market down the hall and I decide I should get a snack for later. Before I enter the market, though, I notice another sign that says, "ARCADE" so I decide to check that out first.
I know. I'm easily distracted. It's a problem I have.
The "ARCADE" isn't very impressive. More of a game room than an arcade. Florescent lighting makes it glaringly bright. There are two old pinball machines. "Planet of the Apes", which is dark and "Charlie's Angels" which is lit up. Farrah Fawcett never looked so good.
There is an air hockey table against one wall and a small, high-top table with a couple of barstools against the other. Peeling vinyl appliqués adorn the walls making it clear that this is a place for "FUN", "GAMES" and "GOOD TIMES".
What catches my eye, though, is the pool table that dominates the room. It has seen better days, and those days were quite a while ago, but it is still in pretty good shape. A couple of scars in the felt but no rips. The bumpers look to be solid. It has old-school leather pockets, not the tunnel and ramp design used on coin-operated tables. Most of the pockets have balls in them.
There is also a beautiful, vintage, tiffany-styled lamp hanging over the table but it is dusty and dark.
On the wall is a rack of cue sticks and other billiards-related accessories backed by a smoky, scratched-up mirror.
This is just the ticket for some quality alone time.
I pull a cue stick from the rack and look down its length. Pretty bowed. I inspect a few others before I find one that is relatively straight and has a decent tip. I grab the stiff brush and sweep the dust and lint from the faded green felt, retrieve the balls from the pockets and fill the wooden, triangular rack. Well, almost fill the rack. The 7-ball is missing. Not a big problem since I am just going to knock them around by myself.
I put a little talcum powder on my left hand, on the webbing between the thumb and forefinger, and chalk up my cue. Just as I am about to break the set I happen to look up at the door, which I had left slightly ajar. On the wall next to the doorframe is a double light switch with one side up and the other down.
Distracted again.
I step over to the switch; flip the one that is "off" to "on" and the tiffany lamp above the table illuminates, flooding the pool table with a soft, warm glow. I flip the other switch to "off" and the harsh fluorescent lights go out, leaving the room lit only by the tiffany lamp and the pinball machine. I am magically transported back to the dark and mysterious arcades of my youth. It is perfect.
I stand there enjoying the nostalgic ambiance of the room for a few seconds before returning to the table. My first break shot is firm and true, scattering the balls across the table with a satisfying crack. Two balls drop and I proceed to clear the table. I am a little rusty and my angles are a bit off but I get the feel quickly and only fluff up a few shots.
I play for a good thirty minutes until the worst possible thing happens. Someone pokes his head into the room and asks, "Need some competition?"
Sometimes I'm just too nice for my own good. "Sure," I answer, trying not to sound disappointed.
In walks a young man. He looks to be several years younger than me, is just a couple of inches taller than my six-foot height and a couple of inches slimmer. His hair is sandy blond, cut short and tight in contrast to my salt and pepper, which is a little less neat. He is clean-shaven while I have a stubbly beard.
"I'm Mark," he says with a smile, holding his hand out for a shake.
"Steven," I answer.
"Here for the conference?"
"Yep."
Mark pulls off his sport coat and lays it over the back of one of the barstools. He is wearing a white dress shirt and sharply pressed khaki dress pants in contrast to my dark pants and pale green shirt. He wanders over to the cue rack and pulls down a stick. The one he picks is very bowed but he doesn't inspect it at all. He chalks up the tip and ignores the talcum powder. As Yogi Berra said, "You can see a lot just by watching." This is not an experienced pool player.
As I am loading the ball rack I ask, "8-ball OK?"
"Sure. Call all shots?"
Maybe he's had a little experience after all. "Naw. Just the eight. But the seven ball is missing so whoever gets solids has a distinct advantage."
"Got it. Want me to break?" Mark asks, running the cue through his fingers.
"It's all yours," I say, lifting the rack and hanging it on the wall.
He actually breaks pretty well, sending the balls all over the table. He drops the eleven on the break.
Mark misses the next shot and I drop a couple before missing a long shot. I end up holing the 8-ball and winning the first game. He quickly racks them up for another.
I have to admit; I am having a pretty good time. Mark is easy to talk to and his game gets sharper as we go along. We talk about the conference and the speakers. The good, the bad and the ugly. I am actually glad he came in and interrupted my alone time.
We play together for about thirty minutes, trading wins and losses. I am still winning most of the games but he is giving me stiff competition.
As I am bent over lining up a shot with my back to the door I hear a female voice say, "May I join you boys?"
Before I can stand and turn Mark replies, "Absolutely!" I look up at him. His eyes and smile are wide. When I turn I immediately see why.
In walks the sexiest woman I have ever seen in real life. She is stunning. She has wavy hair, long and black, cascading well below her shoulders, held up on each side by small, tortoiseshell combs. Her eyes are deep green, lined in silky black with thick lashes, lids painted in smoky shades of silver and soft purple. Her full, sensuous lips are crimson and glossy. She is wearing a silky, off-white, long-sleeved blouse that wraps around her upper body and ties at her hip, and a sleek, tight, black, wrap-around skirt that rides a few inches above her knees. Her legs are covered in shiny, black hose and she's wearing tall, slim, black heels.
Mark and I watch, mesmerized, as she walks over to the high-top and hops up on a barstool. She crosses her shapely legs and smiles, knowing full well the effect she is having on us.
"Whom do I have the pleasure?" she asks.
"I'm Mark and this is Steven," he answers, quicker than me again. He walks over to her and offers his hand, which she takes softly.
"Monique," she replies. "Lovely to meet you, Mark."
She takes my hand next and says, "Steven," with a sly twinkle in her eye.
Monique has a very subtle southern accent that is sexy as hell.
"What are we playing for?" she asks.
"Just for fun," I answer, finally beating Mark to the punch.
"Ooo! I like fun!" Monique says, clapping her hands together.
I'll bet you do, baby, I think to myself. I'll bet you do.
