"It’s gonna thunder, it’s gonna rain, we’re
gonna get hit and the queen’s gonna talk."
The way the words tumble out of the guy’s
mouth, I can’t tell if he's drunk or some
kind of barroom wizard. He holds up a shaky
finger and points at the yellowed portrait
of Elizabeth that hangs, tilted, against the
dark paneled wall. I look up from my pool
cue and give the guy a look.
"C’mon shoot," Sammy slurs.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what? Just shoot." His voice oozes
boredom.
I pot the pink. Sammy ambles over to the
pocket, takes out the ball like he's
grabbing a gopher turd, and puts it on the
spot.
"I’m going to take a piss."
Watching my buddy leave, I look over at the
bar prophet. I knew his name was Harry and
the barmaid across from him was Mary. Since
Sammy and me started coming to the Legion
about a month ago, Mary's been perched
across from Harry. She fills his glass like
one of those dunking birds you get at the
drugstore.
I call over to the bar. "Hey Harry… are you
serious?"
Mary stops wiping the counter and looks
across to the pool table. She and Harry are
only about ten feet away. I can see her
eyes, and I know what she’s thinking: here’s
this punk-ass snotty kid going to hassle the
veteran. She's probably thinking that
because that’s what Sammy would do -- and
Mary lumps me together with Sammy like we
came out of the same womb or something. She
only learned our names last week. But she
doesn't know me. For one thing, I'm not like
Sammy. I tell her that with my raised left
eyebrow. She goes back to wiping.
"What did you mean?" I call over to Harry
while I'm chalking up.
"Leave him be, John."
"Jones," I say.
Harry holds up his glass. Mary tosses in a
couple of cubes and splashes rye into the
tumbler. I'm thinking about tumbling words
and tumblers full of whiskey when I say,
"Kiss the red in the corner," even though I
know no one’s listening.
"It’s gonna thunder, it’s gonna rain, we’re
gonna -- "
"We know, Harry," Mary cuts him off.
He ignores her and keeps going, "… get hit
and the queen’s gonna talk."
I stroke the cue and look up to see him
raise a nicotine-stained finger. The ball
rattles the pocket. I set my stick down,
roll it against the edge and walk over to
Mary. I order another Pilsner. Mary looks
like she’s about to say something, until I
fire her my "give me a break" look. I know
she still thinks I'm a punk-ass. It's not
that Sammy and me want to be accepted here
-- we're the wrong age and the only war
we've ever seen was at the movies. We come
here because the snooker table's always
empty and the beer is cheap.
I sit in the empty stool next to Harry.
Harry looks like he’s pushing seventy. His
chin has that sunken in look that means when
he came to the Legion the dentures stayed
home.
"You think that’s really going to happen?"
Harry doesn’t look at me. He holds his glass
of rye up to the fluorescents. I look at the
reflections with him. He rotates it, shakes
the ice, turns his head and spits on the
floor.
"Hey, I said none of that," Mary yells.
Harry drains the glass, looks at me and
nods.
A couple of feet over, I hear the whap of
cards hitting a table. A cribbage player
yells, "Looks like rain, Harry." The table
laughs like hell. Sammy’s back from the can,
a bent cigarette dangles from his lips and a
white shirttail sticks out of his fly.
"Jones, you playing or what?"
"Taking a break."
"Fine with me." Sammy still sounds bored. He
goes over to be bored by the cribbage
players.
Harry’s glass has been magically filled
again. I take a swig of my Pilsner and slam
it down. The foam starts to ooze over the
top. I grab the beer, take another swig, and
before I set it back, Mary swipes the puddle
clean. Damn, how does she do that?
"I bet a lot of your buddies over there
think you’re nuts," I say to my new pal
Harry. "But here’s the thing… I don’t." I
take another swig and try to gauge Harry’s
reaction to this bombshell. I'm not trying
to piss him off -- truth is, I get some
crazy ass notions myself. In about fifty
years, I'll be the one at the Legion telling
everyone it's gonna rain and the freakin'
fish shaped ashtrays were going to do
loop-de-loops over the shuffleboard table.
Harry just keeps on drinking.
I turn to watch the cribbage players. Their
bald heads rise out of a cloud of yellow
smoke, giving them all monk haircuts. They
snap the bent cards on the table, and speak
in that clipped code.
"Fifteen two, and a pair is four, and there
ain’t no more."
"I said it’s gonna thunder, and it’s gonna
rain and…"
"Knock it off Harry, we heard the damn
weather report already -- not a cloud in the
sky."
One of the players says something about
thirty and go, and is about to add in
another bit, before he slams back in his
chair (hell, we all slam back when we see
the flash) -- his little red peg flips sky
high. The thunder is louder than anything
I've ever heard. I'm thinking this place is
gonna crack like a farm egg. Sammy, me and
the crib players watch the lights flicker.
We hear a rush of water smack down on the
row of windows opposite the bar.
I watch every head in the place turn toward
that bent picture. And then I look myself.
© 2006
Author Bio: Craig Terlson's
illustrations and comics have appeared in
newspapers and magazines across North
America. Lately, he's been interested in
stories that last longer than several
panels.
He is a card carrying member of the Zoetrope
writing workshop.
Hit him up via email:
craig@terlson.com
