Chapter Two

How do I begin to fulfill myself? How in the fuck was I supposed to fall in love with myself? The monster in the mirror stares back with unmoving eyes, small subtle reminders of a past I’d rather leave behind.

I couldn’t sit around the house anymore. I sat at this typewriter for close to two hours and hadn’t produced so much as a supposition. I was just there, staring down at the keys, lost in a world of absent thought. My stomach started to tense up, and I realized just how unwell I had really been feeling. Trying to cope with constant unrest, uneasiness, welling up inside of me. It’s the feeling of being so much more. It’s like the unrecognized potential sits in the bottom of my stomach, festering with my fluids, telling me there must be more than this. Something inside of me that fights for its freedom. Yet, my complacency, fear, and self-doubt, keep that desire locked tight; in the pit of my stomach.

I was so lost in thought there was no conscious recognition of getting into my truck and beginning to drive. Here I am rolling along at 60mph and couldn’t tell you how I got here; or where I am going.

I can see the bar coming up on the left, and I cannot think of one good reason not to pull in. There are a couple of people outside smoking a cigarette. Heads all snapped toward me when I came barreling in with my squeaking ass suspension and signature exhaust leak. Getting out to walk in, I flick my cigarette into the bed of my pickup. It was wing night so having to part the sea of rednecks and pretty boy college kids to get up to the bar was only normal. When I finally got the attention of the bartender, I told her to pour me a Jameson neat. She obliged, I grabbed my drink and turned around. Looking around for anyone I know, the maze of faces seemed to all blend into one. I shook it off, walked over to the pool table, and put up some quarters. Sitting back with my whisky I watch the father and son play together. The boy can’t be but twenty years old and the man is well into his fifties, he’s got long silver hair and a shaved face. The old man walks over to the table and puts his finger on one side of the ball, signaling to his son to hit the ball there. Watching this made me think back to when I was a kid playing pool with my uncle.

My aunt and uncle lived a few miles north in a town called Lyons. Knowing my mother didn’t have a man around to help with the raising, they often offered to take me for the weekend so that mom could have some time away. We would always go to a spot called Tom Jones or Tj’s for short. Way in the back of the bar sat three Olympic sized pool tables. I must’ve played hundreds of games with my uncle there. He would always do the same thing, point to where I needed to hit the ball in order to cut it into a pocket. Because of this, most of the games I win as an adult come from making some dangerous cut shots.

“Hey, you’re up!” the old man yelled from the other side of the table. I went over grabbed my quarters and put em in the machine. As soon as we heard the balls drop, I moved to the end of the table to setup the rack. Prying my fingers into the backside of the rack to tighten them, I looked up to signal my opponent, and that’s when I noticed her. Trying to make her way through the crowd, she has a man with her… This must be her new squeeze.

Standing back in the corner by the table I watch, in absolute amazement. It had to have been close to two years since I’d seen her last. My heart beating out of my chest, while I try unsuccessfully to focus on the game. My thoughts were too much, like being lost in a junk yard. Just a bunch of old shit nobody wants, scattered about in heaps of rusting old memories. Still sharp enough to cut you, but too far gone to ever be complete again. And this was the nature of our history.

For ten long years we played the game, we were both fully committed, and yet completely empty when we first met. It started as a joke, I was seeking fulfillment outside of my dying relationship, and she was looking for her way out. A match made in purgatory. Being around her was like getting high, it was a drug in and of itself, and It was the substance that I would overdose on for the rest of my life.

I never really believed in the idea of soulmates, she and I understood each other on a different plane. We could sense one another’s impending emotions. We knew when the other was holding back, we knew when things weren’t well for the other, and we knew when things were amazing. Without even talking, we could interpret each other through looks, gestures, and laughs. There was a closeness, an understanding, a subtle empathetic love. There was always the underlying feeling of strength and support between us. Looking into one another’s eyes, we felt like we could take on the world!

Eventually we had our chance, I had just come out of a couple month fling that went horribly wrong, and she was in the process of moving her boyfriend back to his parent’s house. Finally, we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. We spent months together on the bike, taking adventures, day trips, hiking, etc. For me it was heaven on earth. For her, she couldn’t shake all the shitty things that happened between us over the years. The miscommunications and misunderstandings. One night even found me in bed with her sister, after being told: “just forget about me, I can’t be what you need me to be right now, you need to just let me go.” I was focused on everything we had in front of us, and she was focused on everything behind us. After only a few short months, she decided that to risk those events again was too great, she chose someone else.

And now here they both were, standing just a few yards away from me as I peer across the room over my pool stick. I wanted to go talk to her, but then again, I didn’t. I wanted her to come talk to me, but then again, I didn’t. This was all too much; I went out for a smoke.