Chapter 32
“You alright, son? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the old man was studying him curiously.
Aberlour shook off the chills running up and down his spine and forced a smile.
“Yes, sir.”
The old man grumbled something unintelligible but didn’t ask again.
“Like I was saying, this here is how you pull down the counter. You can adjust it too. Real helpful if you want to add a row for the kids.”
Aberlour wasn’t listening. Not really. Although he was watching the man as he walked Aberlour through the process, his mind was miles away.
It was a nice fall day. Sunny, with a soft breeze blowing. It was early November, but it still felt a lot like summer. He supposed that was the appeal of South Carolina. Aberlour felt like shit. Pounding headache, alcohol sweats, he could barely focus.
“What’d you say you did again? Before—I mean.”
Aberlour attention snapped back to the old man. “Marine,” he answered curtly.
The old man just hummed and then turned back to the stand.
“You sure you want to buy this, kiddo? You got lots of years left in you. This—” he gestured to the balloon popping stand. “I mean Betsy’s nice, but she’s not exactly a career.”
No, he supposed she wasn’t. Aberlour wasn’t sure why he was doing this.
Buying a carnival booth seemed like a terrible idea, no matter how he spun it, but the truth was, he didn’t need the money.
He’d been sick and restless in his stupid apartment.
Seeing Oliver again, dealing with the fallout from his discharge, it felt as if he was walking across hot coals.
He needed a way out. Something new. A change.
A new reason to get out of the house, and this was the first thing that had sparked something in him other than anger in months.
He’d seen the ad in the newspaper and knew he had to check it out.
With Dr. Galloway’s advice echoing in his ears, he’d grabbed his keys before he’d stopped to think about it.
“Yes, sir,” he repeated.
More grumbling, more muttering, a little shrug.
“So, like I said in the ad, an even thousand and it’s yours.”
Aberlour nodded and reached in his back pocket for the stash of cash he’d put there that morning. One thousand dollars. He was paying one thousand dollars for an old carnival booth. If Carlos could see him now, he’d call him a fucking moron.
“Here,” Aberlour said, handing the money over. The old man took the money with a pleased smile and went about counting it.
“You can have a go, if you want. It’s always better if you can show people how to do it,” the old man suggested, nodding towards the booth while still counting his money.
Aberlour didn’t need to be told twice. He picked up the darts and started aiming them at the balloons.
“Don’t worry if you suck—took me a few weekends to get the hang of it. Of course, by then—” The old man broke off when he looked up to see Aberlour proceed to pop every single balloon on the board.
Aberlour stepped back several feet, hoping to make it more challenging.
It wasn’t.
“Well damn, son, I bet the Marines were real sorry to see you go!” he said, astounded and amused.
Maybe. Maybe not. Aberlour hadn’t given much thought to what the Marines had wanted when he’d signed his discharge papers and taken the money that had bought his silence about that last fucked up mission.
“I’m old,” he answered with a shrug, spinning the dart in his hands before throwing it at the remaining balloon. He flinched as it popped, the sound like a haunting echo of his past.
“Old?” The man laughed. “I could be your father!” he exclaimed in mock outrage.
“Then you’d be dead,” Aberlour said, before he thought it through.
He put his hands in his pockets and turned to face the old man, who was wearing a strange expression. Probably mostly concern.
“You ever hustled anyone at darts?” the old man asked.
“No,” Aberlour answered honestly.
“I think it’s a good day to start,” he replied. “Come on, kid. I’ll buy the first beer.” He gestured for Aberlour to come with him and headed towards the parking lot.
Aberlour looked at the booth, unsure what to do. It was his now. Shouldn’t he—close it up?
“It’ll be here when you get back, don’t worry. Old Betsy’s been here for years.”
As she had been, and she was for many years thereafter. Old Betsy the Balloon Booth. Once owned by an odd man named Frank Jones, who sold it to an old soul named Gavin Aberlour.
That night, Frank introduced Aberlour to the shitty bar on Main Street, and its equally shitty dart board.
He chose a table at the far back, and waited for men to come up to them, looking for a challenge.
Aberlour hadn’t played with anyone other than his own team in years.
He was surprised to find that most people sucked more than the team ever had.
He’d hustled nearly $200 out of random jocks. Aberlour had let Frank keep it, glad that his aim could be used for good for once.
He came back to the bar every chance he got, but he never hustled anyone again. He simply sat and threw darts, waiting—he wasn’t sure what for.