Chapter 10 – June 8, 1993 – Camille #2
I shook my head, a handful of fries already in my mouth.
“Enjoy!” She ended our short conversation and made her way back to her place behind the bar.
“You’re going to need a ton of napkins.” I spoke with food in my mouth, using a French fry to point out the hot pile of chicken wings covered in sauce across the table—something I wouldn’t have been able to get away with in my past life.
Erich didn’t heed my warning before digging in. The spicy scent of buffalo sauce coming off his plate caused my eyes to water. “A problem for later,” he responded around the food in his mouth.
What a sight we would’ve been to someone walking in.
They likely would’ve concluded this was our first real meal of the day—and they wouldn’t be wrong.
I was beginning to grow tired of rainbow-sprinkled donuts and Cool Ranch Doritos, but at least we made an attempt to eat a good dinner before we hustled our way out of town each night.
“Good” being bar food in most cases, but better than snacks.
I polished off the burger and fries in record time.
I had no regrets aside from not asking if there was a food challenge so I could at least get a free T-shirt with my meal.
Erich had also finished quickly, leaving half a plate of bones in his wake as he grabbed a stack of napkins and wiped his fingers.
I reached into my pocket for the last $15 I had been hoarding since Tennessee, placing it on the table.
I did quick math in my head, knowing this would be between $5 and $10, leaving enough for the rest of the night if we were buying drinks.
Erich finished off his Coors Light, raising an eyebrow in response to my questioning gaze.
“Now what?” The hamburger lived up to the hopes and dreams from earlier. The tap of my foot against the worn wood floor was the only sign of life aside from the bartender sweeping at the front of the building.
Erich glanced behind us at the pool table before reaching into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. The flip of the box top triggered a Pavlovian response in my head to hold my breath. He picked one and set it between his lips as he got up from his seat.
He was finding a way to shut me up before I cornered him for more answers about his identity. “Do you want to learn how?” Despite having an unlit cigarette resting between the corners of his lips, his words were clear. Plenty of practice, I suppose.
Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed a stick from the rack and plucked the block of chalk from above.
The sarcastic laugh stuck in my chest turned into a scoff. “Me? Really? I’ll figure out how to break a window with that thing.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” He set the block of chalk down to inspect his work before holding it out to me, the butt still on the ground.
I hesitated to reach for it. After a moment, I let my fingers delicately graze the top part of the stick before fully committing and grasping it. “Okay. You’re the expert. How do I hold this thing?”
Erich’s cocky smile made my heart jump, and the sparkle in his eyes from the sunlight coming through the window was enough to make it stop beating before my burger had the chance to narrow my arteries.
“I want to see how you think it’s done first.” He made a grand gesture over the felt green table before grabbing the lighter out of his pocket and flipping it open. In one smooth flick, the flame erupted, and he held it up to his mouth.
I watched as the cigarette began to glow. He got his fix, then turned his head to the side to blow smoke away from me. “Don’t wait on me.” His voice carried an inaudible laugh.
I tried switching the positions of my hands, holding it out like nun chucks with my fists pointing in the same direction.
I treated it like a logic puzzle, attempting to rotate my hands in different directions without dropping it on the floor.
This took more time than it should have, and soon Erich was setting his cigarette in the ashtray and taking his place behind me, taking my left hand with his own and prying my fingers free.
The smell of tobacco would have made me gag under different circumstances.
I tilted my head to the left, my cheek inches away from his freshly shaved jaw.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” His voice was serene, gravelly. I could feel his breath on my ear, softly brushing my hair.
“Right.” He lifted the stick, despite the awkward positioning of my hands. His elbow closed in on my waist as he turned my body to face the table.
“Your right hand is going to be up here.” His right hand rested on top of mine before sliding up the stick to where I needed to move my own right hand.
I followed his direction and moved my hand up to meet his.
His left arm was still around me, holding me close to his chest as he continued.
“You’re going to start with your left hand underneath the skinnier side.
Like this.” He let go of me before placing his left hand underneath the stick, stretching his fingers out to show me before I slid my own hand down to match his, my hand outstretched as well.
The skinny side of the pool stick awkwardly bounced on my fingers.
The warmth of his body against mine disappeared as he walked around the table and grabbed the cue ball, setting it in front of me. “Do what feels right” were his last words of wisdom as he stepped back to watch me.
I gave him one last unsure glance. My left fingers held the skinny end of the pool stick up, and my right hand gripped the heavier side.
I adjusted my fingers, sliding the pool stick between my pointer and middle fingers before pulling it back with my right arm.
I pushed it forward, expecting to hear the familiar “clack” of the balls, but instead got a “whoosh” and a horrendous scratching sound as the chalked tip hit the table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I expected to see Erich choking back laughter, but instead, he took another drag of his cigarette before flicking the ash into the ashtray. “Line it up to the ball before you pull back.”
A strand of hair fell from behind my ear to cover half of my right eye, but I was too scared to take my hands off the stick to brush it back.
I took another breath, lining up the tip of the stick with the ball before drawing back for attempt number two.
I pushed forward and was met with the small “thunk” of the tip hitting the cue ball, then a quiet “clack” as it barely broke the triangle of pool balls in front of me.
Not a single ball rolled into the pockets.
“You can hit it harder,” Erich commented from his position next to the table and ashtray.
My left hand fell from the stick, letting it rest on the table. With my left hand free from the awkward grip, I brushed my hair back behind my ear and turned to look at him. I stuck my tongue out in response to his critique. “All right, you’re the expert. It’s your turn.”
Erich snuffed the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray. With a small smile, he held his hand out to take the pool stick and relieve me of my attempt. I handed it over without lifting it, sliding the heavy side toward him with the lighter side resting on the table.
In one swift motion, he lifted the stick from the table with one hand.
His grip loosened to let it slide through his fingers so the heavy side rested on the floor.
He scanned the table before moving to the right side, where I’d left the cue ball with my weak hit.
His eyebrows furrowed with concentration as he leaned down, resting the stick on his left hand.
It balanced gently on his fingers as his pointer finger declared his target.
Finally, he rested his hand on the table, and with it, the stick.
He lined up without touching the ball, pulled back, and hit it harder than I had.
I watched as the barely broken triangle exploded. The balls scattered in every direction, and the red-striped 15 dropped into the right pocket.
“How do you make it seem so easy?” My arms crossed over my thrifted green blouse.
It was a bit baggy on my slim figure but leagues above the clothes I stole from my brother that dreaded night a few weeks earlier.
I preferred the permanent old-lady smell of Goodwill clothes to that wretched cashmere musk cologne Reed wore religiously.
“Practice,” Erich said simply, handing the stick back to me. “Typically I’d have another move, but we’ll get to that later. Go again.”
I grabbed it, feeling a bit less awkward with my grip as I circled the table back to the cue ball. I took a second to think about how to hold the stick, attempting to replicate Erich’s motions by resting it on my left hand. I pulled my right arm back to make my next attempt, but I was interrupted.
“Stop.” Erich came up behind me, his left hand resting on my waist. His right hand held the stick, preventing me from hitting the ball. “Line it up.”
I rolled my eyes and snapped my left foot back sharply to tap his shin. “How does that even help?”
He didn’t react, his hand still on my waist as he let go of the pool stick. “Fine. Scratch the table again and then tell me it doesn’t help.”
Out of spite and stubborn pride, I got in position and tried to hit the ball again without lining up.
I pulled back, then pushed forward and got the familiar “whoosh” and light scratch as I hit the table.
My face burned in embarrassment, and I imagined if I turned to Erich, with his hand still on my waist, I’d see smug satisfaction.
“Line it up,” he repeated in my ear, his hand dropping from my waist as he stepped back toward the window. “And I’ll catch it if you throw that stick toward this window.” His voice barely hid the arrogance of his crooked smile.