Chapter 2
Damn brothers, I’m not even at the university a whole week, and I hold the first tuition bill in my sweaty hands. The university graciously granted me a week to pay the first installment on my account. Just one week.
I headed to my favorite office at the whole university – the financial aid office. God, those bureaucrats are so kind and helpful with the best customer service in the state. Just kidding. That’s definitely the wrong office. Those bastards reduced my entire life to a collection of inhumane digits stored in a computer system. Then I heard one story about one financial aid officer in particular – the dreaded dragon lady, who relished in dishing out bad news to unsuspecting students.
I arrived to the office five minutes early and sat in a hard plastic chair and waited for twenty years. Of course, we were destined to meet. The dragon lady was the only one of the whole staff who became available. As I walked into the office, “Hello. How are you?” in my chirpiest voice. Then I placed the letter on her desk.
She just stared at it. Then she swiveled in her chair to face the computer screen.
“Student number?”
“I guess we’ll dispense with the pleasantries and get right down to business. Eight seven eight. Three five six.
Her pointed fingers tapped the numbers on the keyboard.
I sat in the chair and scooted closer to her desk. Then I gazed at her while she stared at the computer screen. The fluorescent lights really brought out the shine from the polyester fibers of her suit. She would shoot off a question every ten seconds – income? Parents’ income? Bank deposit accounts? Undisclosed income?
I studied her degrees hanging on the wall – an associate’s in hotel hospitality. A bachelor’s in liberal arts.
She swiveled in her chair to look at me. “Then everything is correct. You owe the university six-hundred and sixty dollars.”
“I know that, ma’am. But I don’t have six-hundred and sixty dollars.”
“Then call your parents.”
“My parents don’t have that kind of money at this moment.”
“Then ask your friend.”
“My friends are broke just like me.”
“Then you have a problem.”
“Couldn’t the university wait until the next disbursement of financial aid?”
“We cannot do that. A student must pay his account in full before the next disbursement of financial aid. Besides, your financial aid does not cover all your expenses. You will still be short.”
“Okay, I see. Then let’s examine the worst case scenario. What happens if I don’t pay by the due date?”
“The university will drop your classes. Then you will have to start over again next semester.”
I felt I swallowed a large boulder down my throat. I thought she would bite me because she pulled her hair back so tightly, it pulled her cheeks backs to reveal her fangs. “I was afraid you would say something like that. Thank you for your time.” Oh poonga such as she. I rose, approached the door, turned, and added, “Have a nice day.”
The dragon lady turned and grabbed a folder. Then she swiveled to her computer terminal and began keying in information. I shook my head back and forth. I watered house plants with a more charming personality than hers.
I walked to the dorm as a drizzle fell. Boy, I really picked a kind and gentle university. If I’m just a little short on the bill, they’ll graciously give me some time off. That way, I can work and ensure I have plenty of money for the next time. What’s wrong with America when $660 stops the education of a young bright lad. Just $660! A meager sum. I’m not asking much, but that twenty thousand per year in tuition costs a fortune. At those prices, I should demand the university provide me a maître d’ to carry my books to class and carry my food tray to my table in the cafeteria.
Walking to the dorm, I know where the university doesn’t spend that money – cafeteria food. The state would incarcerate me for a hundred years if I fed homeless dogs and cats that slimy slop. But damn, that meager $660 erected a massive roadblock to my future – sorry sir, your future is closed. The economy has plenty of jobs, but they pay no benefits, give no respect, offer no future.
I thought and thought.
I picked up the phone and called mom.
After three rings, “Hello?”
“Hi, mom.”
“Jax? Hi Jax. I’m glad you called. How’s college?”
“Everything’s fine mom. College is great.”
“Have you made any new friends? Did ya meet anyone special?”
“C’mon mom. I have no time for girls. But I met some great guys at the dorm.”
“You’re not drinking too much, are you?”
“Mom. Of course not. The university imposes a strict no drinking policy. The RA babysits us.”
“RA? What’s an RA?”
“Resident advisor. He follows us around, making sure we’re not drinking or damaging property or subjecting the university to costly lawsuits.”
“That’s good. Just sometimes, I worry about you.”
“I know mom but don’t worry. I can take care of myself. Can I speak with dad?”
“Well son, dad’s in his room sleeping. I don’t want to disturb him.”
How’s he doing?”
“I think he’s, he’s getting better. The doctor said one more treatment.”
But I heard the tone in her voice. Even though I could not see her tears, I heard she mopped her cheeks with a tissue and blew her nose.
“That’s great, mom. Tell dad I hope he’s getting better. Then you and dad can come and visit me in college.”
“We will. We also want to see where all that money is going. Are you doing all right with your financial aid? We know college is expensive.”
“No way. I already told you. I qualify for financial aid. I have proof the government is not wasting your tax dollars.”
“Jax. Be serious with me.”
“I am, mom. I told you, don’t worry about me. God loves us. For some reason, we always make due.”
“Alright, but if you get into trouble, you can always come home. Maybe you can get your summer job back.”
“Mom, c’mon. Would you like fries with your order?”
“But it’s an honest living.”
“I know that. That’s what I’m afraid of. I had better go before you mail me a job application. Besides, I have class in thirty minutes.”
“Jax, I’m serious.”
“I know. I must go, mom. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Brothers, I’m not sure why I called home. I felt more depressed than ever as if acid rain fell inside my head and dissolved my thoughts. Perhaps some part of me wished dad were getting better. I knew the ravenous cancer was eating his insides. Perhaps I called home because I hoped mom would scream into the phone that she finally bought that winning lottery ticket and won the lottery. Then the whole family could live on Leisure Street – no more distress over unpaid bills and threatened legal action. Then I could hang out with the rich pukes on campus, drive a fancy car, and say farewell to those bureaucrats in the financial aid office. I would never have to see those bastards again. Of course, I could mail those bastards a postcard from Mexico during Christmas break.
Of course, I wanted to talk to my dad, but he stopped speaking to everyone a long time ago. He just stays in the spare bedroom all day behind a locked door as the blare of a TV filters around the edges of the door.
Every week, mom buys a box of Snickers bars, my dad’s favorite. So after supper, I would place a Snickers outside his door. Then the next morning as I made the morning ritual to the bathroom, I would check to see if the bar was gone. Since I moved to college, mom took over my Snickers duty.
I went to class so I wouldn’t have to stay in this quiet room, but I didn’t feel better. Finally, Saturday night came. I dug out my old clothes from the bottom of the drawer, which were half the clothes in my wardrobe. I usually wore these clothes when lying around on a Sa
turday with nothing to do or I had physical chores around the house like cleaning the leaves from the eaves or mowing the grass. I smiled as I pulled these ancient rags from the drawer.
My roommate, Drew, hunched over at the desk sketching a new drawing looked up at me, “Hey man. Where’re you going? Did you find a party? I could use a drink.”
“No way. I just need to walk around for a while. I’m just getting some exercise to help clear my head.”
“If you find a party, let me know.”
“No problem. You’ll be the first person I call.”
Drew returned to sketching.
I glanced over his shoulder and saw his pencil strokes bring to life a gothic castle with a stormy background. “That’s really good.”
“Thanks.”
I went to the bathroom and changed. Then I slipped out the door. Several hours later, I found myself walking along Lincoln Way West, the busy thoroughfare in town as a cold autumn rain began falling. Then I turned on a side street and spotted Mike’s garage.
I looked around in every direction. I even studied the trees, just in case a police officer sat on a branch and waited for a drunk student to climb a tree. Satisfied no one was looking or driving in my direction, I jogged to the dark brick building across the street surrounded by dark orange barberry bushes. I ducked behind a large bush that grew in a corner of the building.
So here I am, crouching behind a large bush. It’s only September, but damn, it’s freezing. Although I sat under the eaves of the building, the raindrops marched down the bushes’ leaves and dripped onto me. The rain invaded large spots on my jacket and broke through underneath in several places.
I keep shivering. Damn, it’s cold, while my teeth clattered like an old mechanical typewriter.
I looked at my watch – almost 10 o’clock. Then I gazed across the street at Mike’s Garage. Loud activity filled the garage as fluorescent lights lit the parking lot. Mechanics were still fixing the last car.
What in the hell am I doing here? Am I this desperate? That’s crazy? I committed no serious crime yet, so I could get up and head home as a free man. Then I could return home and beg for my old fast-food job. I would start out as a burger engineer and French fry technician. Not everyone in town can make an awesome burger and put the right crispiness on the French fries. You never know. Maybe, I could be a crew manager in five years and restaurant manager in ten. But then the embarrassment, the humiliation, when a high school classmate heads to the burger shack to squelch that midnight hunger. Then they would spot me working at a fast food joint as they pointed their fat fingers at me and jeered in their squeaky voices, ‘Hey, look at the top student in business. He became a loser!’
I can hear their hurtful questions, their humiliating scorn – what happened to you, man? I thought you would head to college?
Rage and anger kept me glued to this spot. I mumbled, “I don’t want to be a loser. I’ll show them. I’ll finish college. I have higher aspirations than a career in the fast food industry.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my lucky skeleton key. As long as I possess this key, I can enter any place with luck on my side. I traced the key’s outline, following the clover end, following each leaf. Then my finger followed the shaft and felt the triangular teeth of the bit.
Brothers, I remember when I found that key when I was little rascal with no care of the adult world…
I was playing in a shaded park on a wooden playset, which was a tangle of wooden platforms, stairs, chain linked bridges, and slides. Tall, monstrous oak trees grew around the playground, keeping it cool from the sun’s piercing summer rays.
I raced up the wooden steps to the first level. Then up the second staircase to the second level, as I speeded past the slower kids to the top. Then I hopped on the slide and went down, around a curve, and then to the bottom, screaming, “Weeeeeeeee,” until I landed on my feet.
I heard my mom’s voice, “Jax. Not so fast!”
But I paid no attention. Kicking up wood chips, I ran across playground to the swings and hopped on a swing. I swung back and far as far as I could. I even tried to complete the elusive 360 degrees around the swing’s bars. After a while, I coasted on the swing, letting my human pendulum slow to a crawl.
Before the swing stopped swinging, I jumped and kicked up a cloud of wood chips.
I smiled as I looked down at the two cavities I created with my feet. I sank at least six inches into the ground. As I hopped out of the hole, I marveled at my masterpiece.
Then I spotted it – an ancient cast iron skeleton key resting at the bottom of the cavity. I grabbed it and traced the key’s edge with my finger.
“Give it back.”
I looked up and saw Timmy, the school bully. “No,” I yelled.
Timmy held out an open right hand, “I said it give back. Now.”
“Finder keepers, losers –“
Timmy pushed me.
I wrapped my fingers around the key and pushed Timmy backed.
Timmy punched me on the cheek, “Oh yeah. I’ll show you.”
I threw a punch, but Timmy turned and the punch brushed off his shoulder. I followed with a kick to the shin. I thought I had missed, but Timmy screamed, “Ouch.”
Then Timmy grabbed me, and we both fell to the ground. I gripped the key tighter and tucked that hand closer to me while I grabbed his shoulder with my free hand.
We turned and rolled on the playground as we embraced each other.
Then our mothers screamed, “Jax” and “Timmy,” as they ran to our spot.
On the last roll, I broke free and shot up on my feet.
Timmy followed, but our protective mothers surrounded us and stood between us.
“Jax, what’s gotten into you?” My mother yelled as she looked down at me.
“Timmy, I’ll tell your father. You come home right now.”
The fight was over. I brushed off the dust.
Timmy and his mother walked away. When Timmy was ten feet away, he turned, “See ya in school.”
I shook my fist at him, “Anytime, Timmy. Anytime.” Then I used my other hand to dangle the key, displaying my prize.
My mom asked, “What’s that about, Jax?”
I turned and showed her the anachronistic skeleton key.
My mom grabbed the key by the clover end, held it to her eye level, and studied it. “Where’d you get this?”
“I found it.” Then I pointed to the cavity I had made with my feet.
“This must be a magical key. It’ll open any door.” Then she returned the key, and I deposited it into my pocket…
I came out of my daydream as a mechanic dropped a wrench – CLANNNKKK! I gripped my magical talisman tighter. So brothers, everywhere I go, I take my good luck talisman. As long as I have this key, nothing bad can happen to me. I slid the talisman into my pocket.
I crouched behind the bush, shivering. Perhaps some of the shivering came from my nervousness as I contemplated the act of my first serious felony. Mists of stream rose from my warm body as my body’s heat tried to stop the invasion of the freezing raindrops.
An autumn breeze pushed its way through the bushes, and my teeth began clattering louder. Then I scanned the area and searched for a better spot. However, this place offered the best view of Mike’s Garage and the main road.
I was surprised this street saw little traffic. I counted three cars and one truck pass by within the last hour. Just a couple of streets over, bumper to bumper traffic filled the streets every weekend as drunk college students cruised the streets like Pakistani suicide bombers searching for friends, beer parties, and hot cheap dates.
My legs started to fall asleep, so I stood up and leaned against the cold brick wall. I stomped my feet up and down to shake off the leg tingles. I stayed hidden behind the bush as I peered from the side.
I know my best friend Brian worked in a small garage for two years. He said the weekends were the busiest because people couldn’t afford
to miss work. Thus, they waited until the weekends to fix their cars. Then I researched Mike’s Garage on the internet. Brothers, I have never seen so many complaints. Pages and pages came up: how can these sleazy scumbags ripped off everyone in town and still be in business? After I had browsed the first ten complaints, they shared a common theme – the mechanics always found more problems and always charged double than their estimates.
I know my friend hated his job and his boss. He said that every time he turned around, he argued with his boss for an unpaid commission or forgotten work. Then one day, my friend brought a new customer to the shop. This customer started a car-rental business and wanted ten sunroofs installed along with some detailing. My friend was ecstatic and smiled about his anticipated large bonus until the boss said, “Do you know how much money that is? We need to talk about your commission.” My friend turned red and stormed out of the boss’s office. Approaching the door, my friend turned around and gave the manager a one-finger salute. The manager yelled several times, “Let’s talk about this.” As my friend walked through the garage, he pushed over his bright red Mac toolbox and spilled wrenches and tools across the floor.
I studied Mike’s Garage and smiled. I couldn’t have asked for a better location. I laughed at the seven-foot high chain link fence that I could scale over within seconds and hide in the shadows under the massive oak trees that surrounded the business.
I jumped as a car fired to life and backfired several times. Then one of the mechanics drove a red 1996 Toyota out of the garage. The car turned and drove through the gate to the parking lot behind Mike’s Garage.
The chirping sounds of the night returned as the mechanic turned off the car. Then a tall man with a beard exited the car and approached the gate. I even heard a loud click as the man snapped a padlock closed to lock the gate. As the man walked under one of the overhead lights, I was surprised to see him wear an exceptionally clean white t-shirt and faded blue jeans devoid of any grease and oil stains.
The bearded man walked to the front of the garage and approached an old restored Buick. He waved good-bye to someone inside and said, “See ya later, Chad.” Then he climbed into the Buick.
The Buick’s engine roared into life. As the mechanic stomped on the gas pedal a couple of times, the V8 engine roared and spewed out smoke from the exhaust. The mechanic put the car into gear and drove away.
I remained standing in the bushes, waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Although I couldn’t see Chad, I knew this was good news. I knew from my internet research, Mike owned the garage, but he let his son, Chad, manage it. Many complaints said Mike charged reasonable prices, and his mechanics did good work until his son took over. Mike moved to Mexico to repair boat engines, and, of course, I’m sure he is suffering down there and misses the minus ten degree Michigan winters and the freezing mornings to shovel the new snow covering the sidewalks and driveways and chisel the ice from the car windows.
The lights clicked off while the garage become dark. Then Chad walked out of the garage and slammed the heavy garage doors down, one by one. As he pulled each door down, the rollers rumbled until the door slammed into the ground like a thunderclap.
Chad padlocked each garage door. Then he walked to his truck, a Ford f-150, parked next one of the garage doors. I noticed he was a tall, muscular man with rugged good looks. I’m surprised I didn’t see any complaints of all the hearts he probably has broken in town.
I stood behind the bushes for an extra 30 minutes and didn’t seen any cars. The front of Mike’s Garage remained quiet except for the crickets singing their cacophonous, mating songs.
I looked at my watch and remained in the bushes for another 15 minutes, just in case Chad or the mechanic rushed back to the garage if they forgot something.
I kept looking at my watch. The hands took an eternity to show 11 o’clock. I walked out of the bushes and stretched my hands and legs a little to shake off the sleepiness.
Then I walked across the street to Mike’s Garage and sauntered to the chain-linked gate. As I approached the gate, I pulled the knitted gloves out of my jacket pocket and slid them onto my cold hands.
At the gate, I turned and scanned the barren streets. No one was around. I scampered over the fence. The freezing metal bit through my gloves.
Then I heard the rising voices of two men arguing. I tucked myself into a dark corner where the fence joined the building of Mike’s Garage under the shadows of the massive oak trees that grew behind the building. I also slid my hands into my jacket pocket to warm them.
As the two men walked by on the street in front of Mike’s Garage, one of them stumbled to the ground while his beer bottle slipped from his hand and hit the curb with a clink.
“You okay?” as his friend leaned over to help his friend up.
“Dammit, I dropped my beer.”
“Don’t worry. We’re almost there.” Then they walked away.
I watched them turn at the corner that went directly to downtown. They must be walking to the Mad Murphy’s, a popular Irish bar for the locals. I whispered to the chirping crickets around me, “Well guys, if I succeed tonight, I’ll buy you guys a round.”
After the streets became quiet again, I scanned the area for cars and pedestrians. Then I crouched low and walked along the outside wall until I reached the back. I ducked behind that old Toyota and scanned the area for strangers again. Although I consider myself a friendly person, I wasn’t in a mood to make any new friends tonight. Then I frowned and mumbled, “Shit,” as I looked at the back of the building with no windows.
I crouched low and returned to the building’s side near where I climbed the fence and approached the first window. I pushed up, but the window remained in place. I pushed on the bottom part of the window with six panes. The bottom middle pane moaned and groaned, but it resisted my efforts. Then I pushed harder. My hands burst through the window while I banged my head on the outside window frame. The windowpane crashed to the ground and broke into large shards.
I ran to the back of Mike’s Garage and hid behind the Toyota again, waiting ten minutes. Occasionally. I rubbed my sore forehead with my gloved hand. Brothers, I waited a little longer and didn’t hear a peep, so I returned to the broken window, reached inside and released the window’s latch and pushed the window up.
I turned to scan the area again. Seeing no cars, no people, no semblance of any hassles, I crawled through the window and into the garage.
I stood a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. I also scanned the garage for blinking lights just in case a burglar alarm or CCTV was monitoring my movements.
I meandered to the back of the garage to Chad’s Office. I opened the office door with no problems.
I walked around the old, worn out metal desk and pulled out the bottom drawer. I retrieved my cell phone and turned on the function for a flashlight. As I removed each item from the drawer, I passed it under the flashlight. Then I tossed the items onto a growing stack of documents on the floor. I pulled out the middle drawer. Same crap – more documents and car manuals. Finally, I pulled out the top middle drawer with a bunch of pencils, paper clips, a stapler, and other office junk. I slammed that drawer shut.
I leaned back against the wall and studied the desk.
Finally, an idea struck me. Sometimes, as a teenager, I would tape forbidden things to the bottom of the drawer to hide stuff from my parents like a worn issue of Playboy or hid forbidden books behind the drawer.
I pulled out each drawer and turned them upside down – nothing. I mumbled, “Shit.”
I was ready to leave when a glare from inside the desk caught my eye. I pointed the flashlight into the dark recess of the old desk. Oh brothers, I found my treasure. I whispered, “Oh, that’s where you’ve been hiding you little rascal.” I pulled out an old metal lock box covered with dirt and grease but the front latch shined like chrome.
I carried the box out of the office and approached one of the large red toolboxes along the ba
ck wall of the garage. I pulled out the large bottom drawer and saw several crowbars lying in a stack. I grabbed one and went to work on my treasure.
I wedged the box between my right hand and body and shoved the crowbar into the lips between the lid and box. I applied a little force on the crowbar while the box screeched and moaned. Then the box popped open. Then I dropped the crowbar and dumped the box upside on a workbench.
I closed my eyes and made a cross over my heart. Then I lifted the box to reveal its contents.
Oh brothers. I have not seen so much money in my life.
I spread the bills across the table. Then I pulled out the checks and credit card receipts and dropped them to the floor. No way would I cash these.
Then I stacked all the bills and tucked them into my front jean’s pocket. Then I held my opened hand on the edge of the table and used my right hand to scoop the coins into my hand. Although the gloves made it difficult, I fed the coins to my other jean’s pocket. Several coins fell to the floor with a ting but I just left them there. Too much of a bother.
I thought I found the cash box but who knows what other goodies remained in the garage. I went to every drawer in the garage, emptied the drawer’s contents on the floor while checking the contents with my flashlight. Someone filled one drawer with magazines of naked guys doing unspeakable things. I shook my head back and forth. I guess manly mechanics love real men. Yuck!
I returned to the office and searched through all the filing cabinets. Then I found an old coffee can with a slit cut in the plastic top stuffed with small crumpled bills and coins. I emptied the can onto the desk and stuffed the bills and coins into my jeans’ pocket.
Bright headlights danced across the front windows of Mike’s Garage.
I ducked behind the desk.
Mike’s Garage went dark again.
I made my way to the broken window and peered outside, where I spotted an old white Honda Civic parked on the edge of the parking lot of Mike’s Garage.
Two people sat in the front seat with the engine switched off. Fog started forming on the windows while the occupants moved closer.
I ducked down and sat with my back against the wall. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Perhaps I should just walk up to the car, knock on the driver’s window, and scream, “Get a room,” as I hand him fifty bucks.
After fifteen minutes, the driver started the Honda Civic and drove away. I waited another five minutes. Then I crawled out. Luck stood behind me cheering me on. Although the rain stopped an hour ago, a thick fog swallowed the landscape.
I ran to the fence and climbed up fast. Then I ran to the intersection.
I turned left and sauntered to downtown. I made it! I pulled my gloves off and stuffed them into my jacket pocket. Once I made it two blocks away, I felt this high, this euphoria that energized my mind and body. I felt I had enough energy to run faster than any Olympic sprinter.
Then the thinking gears started turning in the back of my mind. I knew police could use a K9 dog to track my scent, possibly even after the autumn rain cleansed everything. I walked the four blocks to Mad Murphy’s, and thought with all the sweat, odors, and skanks pouring out the bar, the poor dog would become confused and lose my scent. Plus, I needed a beer. No way would I be sleeping with all that adrenaline racing through my veins.
Approaching the bar, I heard some country western song blaring about how his girl had left him for another guy.
Walking through the door, I spotted an empty bar stool at the far end of the bar. I plopped onto the wooden stool.
A cute little thing wearing tight jeans, cowboy boots and a baseball cap put on backwards approached me, “What’d have, hon?”
“A Budweiser, on tap, please.”
As she turned, I read the back of her black t-shirt – 15th Annual Karate Tournament. Well I guess I won’t be hitting on her tonight. She’ll definitely can hit back.
A minute later, a frosty glass of suds appeared before me while foam continued spilling over the sides. Being a beer connoisseur and not letting anything go to waste, I grabbed that icy-cold beer and gulped it as the taste of heaven hit my parched taste buds.
“Five-fifty.”
“Oh yeah. Just a second.” I pulled out a handful of coins and dumped them onto the counter. I counted the coins while she raised her eyebrows several times.
“Did ya rob your brother’s piggy bank?”
“No. Of course not. I stole my roommate’s laundry money. I didn’t think he needed it since he stopped showering a month ago anyway.”
She frowned as she grabbed the coins and walked away.
Then I looked at the mirror that spanned across the whole back wall behind the bar with glass shelves holding numerous liquor bottles.
I spotted the mechanic of Mike’s Garage standing near the pool tables holding a cue stick in one hand and a Budweiser in the other. Then I turned and studied him some more.
A man, with whom the mechanic was playing, tossed a twenty onto the pool table and walked away shaking his head.
I approached the pool table. “Can I jump in and play?”
“It’ll cost you twenty.”
“Twenty it is.”
I inserted the quarters into the pool table and racked the balls in the triangle and stood back.
The mechanic hit the cue ball so hard, it crashed against the other balls. The balls started moving and bouncing off the bumpers of the pool table. Finally, three balls dropped into the holes.
After the mechanic had made another two balls in, I said, “My name’s Jax.”
He nodded his head slightly.
I hunched over and hit the cue ball with the stick. The ball I aimed for veered off course and never came close to the corner hole.
I gulped my beer.
Then the mechanic made another two balls.
My next turn, I almost made a ball in, but the ball bounced off the corner pocket.
After another round, that eight ball was lurking near a side pocket. The mechanic tapped that side pocket with his cue stick and struck the cue ball ever so slightly. The cue ball moved slowly and kissed the eight ball just a little and the eight ball rolled slowly to the middle hole and dropped in.
“Damn.”
“That’ll be twenty.”
I placed that twenty on the table.
“Do ya wanna play another game?”
“No way. I don’t want you taking all my hard earned money.”
“Alright then. Next,” the mechanic screamed.
I finished my beer. I approached the bar to get another beer. Of course, I think the bartender is warming up to me. Perhaps she borrowed that karate t-shirt from a friend. After several more frowns, she’ll give up her phone number.
Paying for College - The Novel Page 2
