My first cue was light brown, so short it didn’t unscrew in the middle. I immediately compared it to Dad’s stick, which stood probably a foot taller than me and was covered in beautiful colors. I was 9 and I could finally see over the pool tables at Lucky’s. Playing pool was the one thing my entire family had in common, with almost everyone having played on a league or competed in a tournament at one point. I was finally tall enough to position my tiny pool stick clumsily against my hand and attempt to create the same satisfying crack of cue meeting ball that my father produced on every break he shot. I examined my cue excitedly, fully prepared to make my dad proud.
*
Pool cues are traditionally made of maple wood, which is strong enough to be repeatedly slammed into concrete balls. They are typically constructed on a machine, but some people prefer handmade. A friend of Dad’s from the pool hall, whose name I don’t remember, made his cue. He also came to Dad’s funeral, sitting with all the other pool hall people. He didn’t say anything about the pool cue. I don’t know why I thought he would.
*
Lucky’s Pool Room was our primary pool hall. Lucky’s used to be named True Love’s. Before that, they played at Gator’s, but it closed. I don’t remember Gator’s at all, but I know Gator’s had a claw machine that was home to my doll, Molly, before she became mine. I used to color at the bar in Lucky’s. When people asked me who I belonged to, I smiled proudly, pointing a chubby finger towards Dad and exclaiming, “Trey!”. I was the youngest kid in the pool hall for a long time, which I’m sure drew some curious looks. But I never noticed any and if Dad did, he obviously didn’t care.
*
Using all my might, I shoved the stick forward, missing the white ball completely and sliding the tip harshly against the green felt of the table, a small blue scar appearing, perfectly mapping the trajectory of my shot. I felt Dad’s hand on my left shoulder and turned my head to look at him, my face hot with embarrassment. He reassured me I would get it eventually, despite my disbelief. I sat on the plastic film barstool and watched Dad poise his illustrious pool stick in his hands, right hand gripping the colorful array of stained wood of the end. His shoulders tightened as he thrust the cue forward, the crack ringing out and colored balls skirting out to every edge of the table. He held the stick upright, leaning against it to assess his shot. I stared at the cue, fascinated by the polished wood and vibrant colors. Dad always said I’d inherit it when he died, to which I’d always reply, “Daddy, you’re never going to die.”
*
Cigarette smoke. Dim neon. Old country music. Green barstools. Dad’s smile.
Yellow. Blue. Red. Purple. Orange. Green. Brown. Black.
*
In 2007, a team from Lucky’s/True Love’s went to Las Vegas to a national pool tournament. Dad was on the team. They didn’t win.
A picture of the team sat in our house. Years after the tournament, Dad picked up the picture and showed it to me.
“Ya know, everyone on this team died. Except for me.”
I think they call that foreshadowing.
*
I took my first legal drink at 11 am, sitting at the bar at Lucky’s. I told the worker, Barbara, I felt like it was appropriate, since Dad couldn’t be here. She agreed, sliding me the Corona. I watched whatever sport was on the TV, slowly sipping my beer. I didn’t look around the hall. Dad was everywhere. I said goodbye to Barbara. I didn’t play any pool.
*
Dad’s cue is in my closet, safe in the black, snakeskin case. It’s propped up in the Corner of Unused Things, next to a yoga matt and a pair of rollerblades. I take it out occasionally, screwing the middle together and laying it on my bed. You’d never know by the look of it how many games the cue has played. Dad’s friend, whose name I don’t remember, did a good job. I don’t play with the cue, which could be seen as an injustice. A slight to the maker, to the purpose of the object, to the memory of my father. I don’t feel that I have the right to use it. I never mastered the game like he did, never lived up to the legacy he’d established. I’d thought about giving the stick to someone at the pool hall. They’d probably use it. But while some people have jewelry that was their mother’s, or a bible that was their grandfather’s, I have this pool cue. I unscrew the middle, sliding the pieces into their respective slots and placing the cue back into its spot in the closet.
*
Pool cues are traditionally made of maple wood, which is strong enough to be repeatedly slammed into concrete balls. They are typically constructed on a machine, but some people prefer handmade. A friend of Dad’s from the pool hall, whose name I don’t remember, made his cue. He also came to Dad’s funeral, sitting with all the other pool hall people. He didn’t say anything about the pool cue. I don’t know why I thought he would.
*
Lucky’s Pool Room was our primary pool hall. Lucky’s used to be named True Love’s. Before that, they played at Gator’s, but it closed. I don’t remember Gator’s at all, but I know Gator’s had a claw machine that was home to my doll, Molly, before she became mine. I used to color at the bar in Lucky’s. When people asked me who I belonged to, I smiled proudly, pointing a chubby finger towards Dad and exclaiming, “Trey!”. I was the youngest kid in the pool hall for a long time, which I’m sure drew some curious looks. But I never noticed any and if Dad did, he obviously didn’t care.
*
Using all my might, I shoved the stick forward, missing the white ball completely and sliding the tip harshly against the green felt of the table, a small blue scar appearing, perfectly mapping the trajectory of my shot. I felt Dad’s hand on my left shoulder and turned my head to look at him, my face hot with embarrassment. He reassured me I would get it eventually, despite my disbelief. I sat on the plastic film barstool and watched Dad poise his illustrious pool stick in his hands, right hand gripping the colorful array of stained wood of the end. His shoulders tightened as he thrust the cue forward, the crack ringing out and colored balls skirting out to every edge of the table. He held the stick upright, leaning against it to assess his shot. I stared at the cue, fascinated by the polished wood and vibrant colors. Dad always said I’d inherit it when he died, to which I’d always reply, “Daddy, you’re never going to die.”
*
Cigarette smoke. Dim neon. Old country music. Green barstools. Dad’s smile.
Yellow. Blue. Red. Purple. Orange. Green. Brown. Black.
*
In 2007, a team from Lucky’s/True Love’s went to Las Vegas to a national pool tournament. Dad was on the team. They didn’t win.
A picture of the team sat in our house. Years after the tournament, Dad picked up the picture and showed it to me.
“Ya know, everyone on this team died. Except for me.”
I think they call that foreshadowing.
*
I took my first legal drink at 11 am, sitting at the bar at Lucky’s. I told the worker, Barbara, I felt like it was appropriate, since Dad couldn’t be here. She agreed, sliding me the Corona. I watched whatever sport was on the TV, slowly sipping my beer. I didn’t look around the hall. Dad was everywhere. I said goodbye to Barbara. I didn’t play any pool.
*
Dad’s cue is in my closet, safe in the black, snakeskin case. It’s propped up in the Corner of Unused Things, next to a yoga matt and a pair of rollerblades. I take it out occasionally, screwing the middle together and laying it on my bed. You’d never know by the look of it how many games the cue has played. Dad’s friend, whose name I don’t remember, did a good job. I don’t play with the cue, which could be seen as an injustice. A slight to the maker, to the purpose of the object, to the memory of my father. I don’t feel that I have the right to use it. I never mastered the game like he did, never lived up to the legacy he’d established. I’d thought about giving the stick to someone at the pool hall. They’d probably use it. But while some people have jewelry that was their mother’s, or a bible that was their grandfather’s, I have this pool cue. I unscrew the middle, sliding the pieces into their respective slots and placing the cue back into its spot in the closet.