Heading on West ✔️

He ended up falling in line. Somewhere inside of it.

Vance followed up after Johnny and settled the heel of his palm on green woolen cloth, setting the cue on his knuckles, aligning the cue the way Danny blathered on about between every shot. He tried not to let Danny's nagging take up so much space in his brain, but it was there, and it was telling him to stop pussy-footing around the shot and just—go.

The cue ball shot straight and hit the right edge of his solid orange, knocking it through a tight thread between two other billiard balls. It tumbled into the left corner pocket.

"Gee, who the hell invited Vance to pool?" Franco groused to the whole club as if Vance hadn't seen himself sneak three stripes into the pockets.

Danny frowned and started up again. "C'mon, Franco, you gotta play your shot the best you can, so quit honkin' about Vance already. Look, try and bang out the yellow."

Vance fell back into the shadow-y outer ring of the greasy yellow light hanging low over the table, and he leaned back against cigarette ash-stained wood paneling as Johnny took up the next shot. The local pool club was just part of the seedy bar around ten miles west off of Northfield, but Danny could always nick his dad's keys to the truck some way or another, and if he couldn't, then he'd always find someone to bum a ride off of. It was easy to understand why Danny came out to this place like a goddamn moth on a lamp.

Everyone here was smoking like a chimney, layering the air with it, and the bar didn't ID, so Danny could queue up all the rum and cokes he wanted. It was all busy here, too, when half of Northfield's goons hung around here just to clatter around some pool balls and cackle and taunt with bottles in their hands. Vance sometimes looked at them and wondered how easily they could grin in this dank, low-down place gulping down some their dark liquids.

Vance didn't bother since a flat stare was just as fine as wiry grins. If he had it his way, a flat stare would be all he'd bother giving to Eugie's Dive, but Danny looked up at him and nodded. "Go up."

He stepped back into the yellow ring and glanced over the lay of the balls. It hardly even made sense how Vance had to play the game. It was the same thing over and over, and Vance couldn't make himself see what was even going on.

Lay the cue on his knuckles, line up the shot to sink a solid or a stripe or whatever the hell—fire. Don't check to see whether it goes in. Brag about it or blame the light. Smile when someone slaps your back, go back to not giving a damn about the game right until you win or lose. Buy someone a beer or drink your spoils. Play again. Watch the moths circle the lamps.

Vance shot the white, and he pushed out the last stripe he needed. The eight-ball was left up to Johnny's hands, but Vance was busy with Danny's backslapping. He offered up the vague smile and set himself up leaning against the pool table this time, occupying himself with a beer. It was fine enough after a certain number of sips.

"La-dies and ladies!" Some ruckus was flying around at the front door as a couple more Northfield goons filed into the club, and some scrawny, acne-riddled upstart was right at the front. "The gentleman has arrived!"

From there, the noise in the place was boiling over from mumbling chatter to rowdy shouting as that ginger kid was getting all over the place and ordering enough rum and cokes to drown the place. Vance had too many beers for this. It was making him loose in a way that got him stuck on the goddamn noise over by the bar, but Vance pulled it back, settling back into the big game of "I don't give a damn" around the pool table.

"Hey, someone put a muzzle on that guy!" Danny barked over the mess of arguing and grumbling, and there were some folks adding their opinions with him.