5 Minutes. GO!

Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free write. Basically, you can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have 5 minutes. Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So tell a friend. If you have one. If not, tell your enemies. 

His fingers bent in odd directions, splayed on the felt that was, at one time, green. Now it was a patchwork quilt. There were cigarette burns and livid splotches of angry brown. There were sticky spots where the eight ball sometimes just stopped. And it pissed us all off, it pissed him off most of all.

He never said anything. He'd just put his quarter on the table. He was a rich dude, see? It wasn't a rich dude bar. It was a bar for tweakers and drunks and all the riff-raff that washed down from the nice, wood-stained bars up the street.

I only played him once. Or I should say, he only played me once. The game was over so fast I barely blinked. I ground my butt on the floor and went and got him his drink. He drank wine and the bartenders were always pissed. But he paid six bucks for his glass of Gallo and we paid a buck twenty five for pints of piss. It worked.

The day the bar burned down, no one really gave a shit. There were other bars. Plenty of other bars. No one was hurt. It didn't matter. No one was invested.

And then one day, the bar was rebuilt. No one knew how. Not until we went inside and saw the brand new, splotched and burned pool tables. Not until we saw the cigarette butts on the floor. We wondered for a while. How much money had it taken? How long to collect the butts. How artistic the pool table spills?

He never talked about it. He hit that cue ball and drank his wine and never mentioned the fire. Not once.

5 Minutes. Go!

It's FLASH FICTION FRIDAY again. Basically, all writers are invited to do a free write for five minutes in the comments section. It is definitely more fun when we have thirty people playing instead of five, so tell a friend (and have a lovely weekend from the folk at JDMader.com), ;)

I stand, watching the police officer as he methodically tickets a line of cars. The sun glints off the polyester creases of his uniform, badge bright, hair short and efficient. His shoes shine, too. And his cuffs. Look like they've never been used, those cuffs.

I wonder if I ever look as shiny and put together, but I know I don't. I don't look that efficient and shiny on my best day. On my best day, I might shave.

The sun is high in the sky, but the breeze is kind and soft. The type of weather where you just have time to register the thought: I'm a little warm. Then the gentle wind sweeps the heat away, dabbing and the sweat on your forehead. The damp spot between your shoulder blades.

The cop does not seem to notice the heat and I wonder at it. How much of my heat comes from inside. From pounding heart and repetitive jackhammer thoughts that bang, bang, bang, bang...

It starts me sweating more. I'm a little drunk and a little stoned and I smile at the cop and wave. And his look is everything. It is the look I give my daughter when she is acting childish. It is a look that says a real man can stand in a polyester suit and not sweat. I walk home with a clammy wetness coating my body. Sliding, slug like, hoping no one pours any more salt on me today. Beer? OK. It might kill me, but I'll take that risk.