The Flame

The thing that usually first pops into my head when I think of that chill October night is the black snow. A mixture of gravel, snow, and sadness, it's the kind of snow that only states like Minnesota can create, at least to it's blackest level. The kind of snow where if you happen to accidentally kick it, it'll stay completely intact. Matter of fact it'll probably hurt. The kind of snow that makes everything, even the warmest of fires or the softest of blankets, seem absolutely miserable.1

The reason I remember that snow; such a common thing, especially on a day like that; is because...come to think of it, there's no reason. The thing I remember ain't gonna change though, nope. I'm not a writer, I don't use pretty language, but this needs to be down somewhere. Somewhere other than my mind. The meaning's always gonna stay the same, and when I think of something black or I think of something white or I think of something black and white, my mind'll head on a dead-set pathway straight towards the most prominent part of my young life.2

The Flame.3

The Flame was a bar. If you could think of absolutely any bar in the entire continent of North America, (other than the occasional gay or lesbian bar), it would resemble The Flame in some way, shape, or form. Barstools teeming with regulars, tables and chairs crowded with not-so-regulars, pool-sharks living on the pool-tables and playing for high stakes, gamblers living on the slots and gambling for slightly lower stakes, and a big fat color T.V. in the upper corner of the room. They didn't make 'em very big back then, but this one, it was big. It displayed a myriad of soundless images to the room, images of heroes who're now long dead and events that're now long forgotten, and painted it beautiful colors that contrasted with the bars general depressing atmosphere. The barkeep stood safe behind his bar, drying off glasses that were already dry with a rag that was dirtier than the glasses. And that was saying something.4

The Flame had had quite an eventful history, which the barkeep was happy to talk about at any moment. Matter of fact, that was just about ALL he talked about. Lots of famous men, not as many famous women, had graced The Flame with their class and money. Al, the twenty-year owner of the bar, said that the revolver above the wine selection was carried by none other than Doc Holiday, once upon a time, and that some professional hustler had, at one time, used two of the cues in the rack that stood under the television. He liked flashing the half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey that he claimed had once been purchased by Bob Dylan in his very early years...then discarded. Al said that Bobby had started downing the bottle, then heard the sound of the wind blowing outside and had thought up the idea to a song based on it...Now, any sane man would question the truth in this statement, but I didn't say anything out-loud. When Al walked into The Flame, you knew that he was carrying something that could put a hole in a man, and you didn't want to test if Al still had it in him to get the job done.5

Pool always seemed like the best game in the world, in my eyes. The strategic part, the skill part, the luck part, all coming together to create a game where it not only tested your overall playing ability but your overall hunger to walk home with about two hundred more bucks in your pocket. Or your sleeve, because I liked to put my money in a secret pocket in my jacket. Not that any thief with any sense would rob a guy with a reputation like mine, but there was always the odd chance. I hadn't been able to afford my own cue, despite all the money I'd been making burnin' up the tables. It all went towards electricity for my trailer, which I kept hooked up to an outlet in a buddy's house. I also liked having cable T.V. so I could check if my favorite team was doing good. The Yanks, of course. They were, in my opinion, the ONLY team.6

I was, back then, a young man of about....eh, twenty-six, give or take a couple years. I was a taller guy, about six foot with a head of unkept dark brown hair and a full beard of stubble. I never really could grow a nice beard, so I just kept the stubble going. I had plenty of cash-flow from my summer job as a rail-way worker and my winter job as a part-time bartender at The Flame. This I spent on the necessities: food, clothes, the works. The money I made on the side...well I spent that on slightly more unnecessary things, like the coat I was wearin' that night: Black leather with fleece-lined pockets and a cloth hood on the back. As a little bonus I had the Yankee's emblem stitched into the back by the wife of a friend of mine. He was just about the only guy back in that day that I knew who was married...it was definitely a carefree time for me. Women came and went, so did dogs and friends, but my life was steady and my pool-game was the best it ever was.7

Lookin' back, I probably could've gone pro. I never lost, and when I did I was either pig-drunk or playin' something who had nice legs and a nicer ass. But back then, all I cared about was paying what few bills I had...with a Jack Daniels every now and then. I had a semi-serious drinking problem. But hey, back then, who didn't?8

My buddy Jimbo was acting as money holder, collector, and above all, intimidator. The reason he was perfect for this was immediately obvious by looking at him: He was huge. His biceps were about the size of my torso, he had a dangerously large beer-belly that hung out over his belt, his hands were as big as basketballs and he stood about six-four, easy. He also did a good job at fending off people eager to get in on my game. I hadn't lost once that night, and people were growing annoyed.9

The last game I played that night was against a guy who's face grew redder with every shot I took. He was a short, skinny, rat-looking guy with yellow skin and a glint in his eye that made it seem like he was the type of guy that would rather stab you in the back then fight you fair. His nose was slanted to one side and his teeth were a blackish yellow. He wasn't a particularly strong player, but the way he took such nonchalant shots it seemed like he thought he was the best in the world. He was not used to losing, that was obvious. Jimbo's hands were growing so full of money that he tapped me on the shoulder. He never disturbed me during a game. I was his cash-flow.10

"Vince," Jimbo whispered into my ear, even though it was louder than most normal speaking voices, "My hands are growin' full here. One of the goddamn...One of 'em paid me in goddamn ones! Is it alright if I get some help?"11

I thought it over. The majority of the crowd tonight was unfamiliar and there were a lot of problems with unfamiliar people holding your money for you, Jimbo or no Jimbo. But I was on a roll, and the cash was flowing.12

"Go for it," was my confident reply.13

Jimbo grabbed the collar of a passing kid's jacket and pulled him in close. After whispering a few words to the startled youngster, the kid nodded and my hulking friend slapped a handful of bills into his palm. His knuckles were white on the money, and he was keeping his distance from the crowd as best he could. I was reassured and returned to my game. The kid wouldn't even be tempted to run off with the money, or at least he shouldn't be...If I was them, I'd be more interested in keeping my jaw in the same place as it was when I arrived. Jimbo's reputation was much worse than mine, if worse is the word to use, and so were his punches.14

I finished up my game with ease, with Ratface still having six remaining balls. It looked like someone had just kicked his dog, the poor guy. I collected my share of the bets, which counted forty dollars and fifty cents. The guy paid me in nine nickels and five pennies. I put the pennies in my front jacket pocket. I sucked on 'em during games to keep the saliva flowing. Any distractions while playing were quite...distracting. Jimbo noticed out of the corner of his eye.15

"Goddamn man, I keep tellin' you! You got no idea where them things've been!"16

"Yer right," I replied, "but I know where they're goin'. My mouth. Don't try convincing me man, I'm Polish."17

"So?" 18

"I dunno, I use that as an excuse for everything..." I handed the money to him.19

"How much?"20

"Forty, exact."21

"Not bad, considering how bad the guy was..." Jimbo gave a friendly punch to the kid standing near him and grinned. "Kid says he kin beat you."22

The kid's eyes widened. He looked to be on the bright side of about seventeen.23

"I didn't!-" the kid began.24

"I'm all pooled out for a couple of hours, boy. You can play me later."25

"Never said that anyways..."26

"Forget it," I ordered, "Go grab me a whiskey." I paused, and shrugged. "Fuck it, buy the whole bottle."27

"Sure, don't come outta my share there." The kid walked off, taking a twenty off the stack of bills.28

Jimbo shook his head. "Fuckin' kids," he said.29

"Didn't you get in a big fight when you were about that age, Jimbo?" I asked. "Didn't you go to prison?" I knew it was true. Jimbo was a legend.30

"Nah, I was a bit older. I was the right age."31

"Didn't know there was a specification for prison." I laughed.32

He chuckled also, his belly jiggling like a bowl of jello. 33

After a few moments' silence, I said, "I kinda miss having my own cue..."34

"Buy one. You kin afford it. Can't you?"35

"No man...I'm saving up for something." I focused my attention on my nails.36

He laughed. "What? What the hell costs that much money?"37

I muttered an answer.38

"What was that?"39

"A ring," I said a little louder. 40

He burst out laughing and shook his head. The kid returned a few seconds later with a bottle of whiskey for me and Jimbo and a drink that almost screamed expensive.41

"Don't come outta your share, my ass!" I snapped. "What the hell is that thing?"42

"It was on sale..." The kid said quietly.43

"Haha! A sale at a goddamn bar! That'll be the day."44

"Kid's got class, Vince," Jimbo said, taking a swig out of the bottle. 45

"Yeah I'll think about that while I'm pissing. Guard the drink." 46

"Gotcha," said Jimbo, and the kid, who thought I was talking to him, nodded.47

I never got very far. I was halfway out of my stool when I felt something connect with the back of head. Hard. A million stars danced across my eyes for a seconds, eventually being replaced with a view of the The Flame's grimy floor. My head throbbed horribly and I felt something wet trickling down my cheek. I rolled over on my back.48

There stood the guy I had beaten in my most recent game of pool.49

"Still think yer hot shit, ya fuckin' cheater?" his voice was high and angry. "Bout time someone showed you who's REALLY the fuckin' king, eh?"50

The man had two guys on each side of him. They all looked tough and stupid, the perfect brawlers. A lady screamed. The ice in someone's glass cracked.51

With a steady hand, I popped another penny in my mouth.52

What followed was absolutely chaotic. I was aware of Jim grabbing a bottle from the bar and shattering it against the counter, ebony liquid splashing on his leg. The kid pulling a rather small knife out of his back pocket. The man in front of me dropping a broken pool cue (with my blood smeared on it) and grabbing a new one from the table. Then people started to leave quickly and all hell broke loose.53

As usual.54

I grabbed a billiard ball out of the pocket of the table next to me and threw it hard at the guy in front of me. It hit him square between his eyes with a sickening 'CRACK'. Two of the men came at me and I kicked a chair at one of them, tripping him. The other one was reaching desperately for me like some corny horror movie monster. I took a nearby Coke in my hand and splashed it into his eyes. I was a professional at the art of fighting dirty.55

The guy who had hit me with the cue was up again, and he yanked a switchblade out of his pocket. Realizing that up-close confrontation was not the best way to go with me, he began to creep up to me slowly, waving the weapon intimidatingly. I backed up at an equal pace. In the back of my mind I was wondering what was going on with Jimbo and the kid, because I seemed to be fighting these guys off by myself. I hoped to God that the kid hadn't run away...as little as his knife was, it would probably come in handy. I thought it unlikely, but continued to hope.56

I saw no options of fighting this man, so I began to think of ways to slow him down. I remembered something my grandfather, a seasoned brawler and drunk, had said to me, about fifteen years earlier.57

"Do something unexpected. Anything that they won't expect."58

I searched my mind...and finally came up with something that was slightly drastic, yet fit my inebriated grandfather's description perfectly.59

I swiveled around and yanked down my jeans.60

"Take a great big fuckin' look!" I screamed at the stunned man through my legs. The man was temporarily immobile. His arms dropped to his sides, and I realized that this was my chance. I hitched up my pants quickly and noticed that I was standing right in front of the pool cue rack. I grabbed a hold of it and heaved. It started falling and I dodged quickly to the right....Just in time. It fell down on top of the man, all twenty pool cues contained in a heavy oak casing. He uttered a brief gasp, then was knocked unconscious. The other two men had disappeared. I looked around and was completely amazed...all six of the men, plus another four which had joined in while the crowd was leaving, lay either knocked out or in paralyzing pain. The bar was completely destroyed. A chair leg had jammed itself into the jukebox and it was repeating the opening line to "Hard Day's Night" over and over again. The kid, I was surprised to see, was still here. He had a steady stream of blood trickling out of his nose and a big gash across his arm, with bruises all over the place. He looked like he had been in a tornado. In his hand was the lever from one of the slot machines, and it was bent and dented. He was grinning from ear to ear.61

"Took 'em out, didn't we Jimbo?" He said shakily to the hulking, tired ape. "How's that for odds, eh? Hung 'em out to dry. Their KIDS're gonna feel that!"62

I painfully turned my head towards the area that the kid was talking to. There stood my best pal, looking tired but otherwise alright. One of his fingernails had been torn off at one point or another, and he had a shard of glass in his leg. In his arms he held a sink from the bathroom, and it was covered in water and small smears of blood. He was also grinning.63

"Took three of 'em with a bottle, then five more with this," he said while yanking out the glass shard with his teeth. He gestured with the sink towards me. He winced but continued smiling.64

"How many you get, kid?" I asked, wiping a hand across the back of my neck.65

"Only two, but one of 'em was comin' after you, man."66

"Thanks." I grinned. "Did his face look kinda...ratty?"67

"Yeah! That's what I thought!"68

"Where's the money?"69

"It's on our table. I checked." Jimbo looked at his finger and his smile disappeared.70

"Alright..." I paused. "Now what?"71

"We leave," Jimbo laughed. "Unless you wanna play a game?"72

"I'll pass. Like I said, I'm all pooled out for awhile. Let's go. You can crash at our place if you want, kid."73

"Sounds cool," the kid replied, "just as long as I get my cut."74

"Yeah, you will." I shook my head and pocketed a portion of the money. Jimbo got the rest.75

The Kid (recently promoted to a position of upper-casehood) looked out the window and audibly said "Oh shit."76

Outside, there was a mob of about thirty people with bats and axes, knives and guns. No torches or pitchforks, but it was the same idea. Way too many to fight, and they were between us and Jimbo's car.77

"Oh fuck," I said. "What now?"78

"Follow me," the kid said. Me and Jimbo looked at him and shrugged. The kid sounded pretty sure of himself, and, as much as I had a fondness for the place, spending a full night in The Flame wouldn't be easy.79

The three of us walked out the door, the kid in the lead. The screams of most of the mob immediately quieted when they saw the boy, and they shrunk away from him. The crowd parted to allow us passage. I was stunned and confused.80

When we finally reached the car and began to drive away, I asked the kid, "Why the hell didn't they attack us, man? What's goin' on?"81

He laughed and held up a grenade that had been in his pocket.82

"They know I got it," he said, "well, most of 'em do." He laughed again, his voice completely rid of it's quiver.83

I had no idea how close I came to dying that night. Looking back, if that mob had attacked us, that kid would have blown us all to hell in a heart-beat. I never got his name, and he was gone in the morning. But I know one thing for sure.
Knowing that the kid was sleeping in a room two doors from mine, I didn't get a wink of sleep that night. I stayed awake, eyes wide, the only noise coming from the cars outside, sloshing and cutting their way through the endless torrent of black snow.