Samantha, 25

Chapter 6, Samantha

Samantha, 25

One of the first things Samantha told me was that she’s good at pool, and now that we’re playing, I’m wondering if everything she’s told me has been a lie. She’s not just bad. She’s downright dismal, dreadful, abysmal. It’s almost like she’s never held a pool cue in her life, and that would have been completely fine with me. I’m not out here looking for a pool shark, the next Black Widow �" but what doesn’t make sense to me is why would she lie about something so mundane and insignificant as being good at pool - not only that, but something that she clearly can’t lie about or fake her way through? 

            I won the first game in a landslide and am on the verge of winning the second. I’ve accidently pocketed more of her balls than she has made on her own. And lying about her ability isn’t the worst of it, what’s so strange is she’s actually losing with pride-filled arrogance, cockiness even - which I didn’t know until this moment was even possible. She’s tried half a dozen behind-the-back shots and hasn’t made any. She’s tried to jump the cue ball for some reason, twice, even though the path to her target ball was clear, and if not for my quick hands, it would have smashed right through the jukebox, then again into an elderly couple having a drink. She’s tried “no-look” shots, and even switched to playing left-handed for the second half of our first game �" which oddly represented no noticeable difference because she’s downright atrocious no matter which hand she plays with. She’s just about the worst pool player I’ve ever seen �" you know what, scratch that. She’s worse at pool than anyone has ever been at… anything. 

But if you didn’t see her play and only listened to what she’s been saying, you’d not only think she was winning definitively �" but you’d believe her skills to be otherworldly because she’s actually trash-talking in defeat. It was innocent at first - but it’s become progressively more degrading. 

“Hey Karen, watch this. This is how we do it in the pros,” she says, calling me by the third or fourth different girl’s name as she holds her stick in her left hand and smiles at me instead of looking at the ball �" then flailing her arm forward, making the most pitiful attempt at a shot I’ve ever witnessed and missing the ball by a solid three inches. I smile, not because anything’s funny, not because I find it cute, but because I don’t know how to react.

It started off cute. We had a drink, a quick conversation that started well and even talked about maybe getting some dinner later, then she looked over at the pool table and giggled as she asked me if I wanted to play a few games and though I wasn’t sure why she was laughing, I thought it was adorably endearing. I love playing games, pretty much anything from Monopoly to poker to horseshoes to my all-favorite, Scrabble �" and what I love even more is the idea of for once in my life being with someone who actually wants to do these kinds of things with me. 

As we walked towards the table, Samantha revealed her giggle-worthy secret. 

“I’ll warn you,” she said, “I’m really good at pool.” 

As a general rule, when someone tells me they are good at something we are about to do, especially if they qualify it with a degree such as really good, I’ll always assume they’re telling the truth. I’ve no doubt overblown and exaggerated my abilities at times in my life, but not like this. It’s not like it’s the middle of summer and you’re on the beach and you tell someone you’re a professional snowboarder. Of course, there won’t be any instant verification of your abilities, and if a situation ever does present itself where you have to prove the existence of your skills it could be months, maybe even years before that day comes. Hell, there’s enough time for you to start snowboarding and become an expert so you won’t be exposed as a liar.

But this… this is something different entirely �" this is… I don’t know what the hell this is. I line up my shot, sink the eight-ball cleanly and secure my second victory. 

“Lucky shot, Nancy,” she says, “I could have made that blindfolded.” 

I want to tell her that the only way she could have made that shot is if she picked up the ball, carried it around the table, and dropped it in the pocket �" but I hold my tongue. 

I’ll admit that for the first game I was convinced she was up to something. I thought maybe she was just trying to be funny, or playing bad intentionally to give me a chance to win, and even well into the second game I couldn’t help but wonder if this was all part of some strange psychological game she was playing with me, like she was trying to get in my head, as though I was being bizarrely and without reason hustled �" but to what end? What could she possibly have to gain from such a peculiar ploy? 

Sometimes Leia will go berserk and start playing some crazy game with me where only she knows the rules. Is that what’s happening here…? 

As I rack the balls together for our third game, I’m met with a few possibilities. She’s either a downright liar who sucks at pool and has never played in her life and maybe I’m about to be on episode of a hidden camera reality show, or she’s phenomenal, but far more wrapped up in whatever mental game she’s playing with me than, she is the actual games of pool we’re playing. 

“Last game, Precious,” she says as she chalks her cue. There’s blue powder all over her clothes, in her hair, and the smudges on her face look like war paint. “But I’m not going to take it easy on you this time, buttercup. How about we make this interesting? Loser buys dinner?”

I’m having a hard time taking her seriously… but… Buttercup? Really? And now she wants to wager dinner on the next game? Now I’m damn near certain she’s been messing around the whole time and if we play, she’ll wipe the floor with me �"  and I’d rather go to my doctor and let him cup my balls and stick his fingers up my a*s while I cough, then have dinner with him right after, then I would with Samantha… but I’m not one to back down from a challenge �" and there’s free food at stake here. Drinks, too. If by chance she’s as bad as she’s played so far, this could be an easy win. 

“Deal.” 

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As confusing as the last thirty or so minutes we’ve been playing have been, I’m utterly befuddled and now in a complete state of what the f**k? Let’s just get this out of the way now �" she is not, in fact, a hustler, not at pool at least. She’s so terrible at pool that I could have played left-handed, blind folded, and with a toothpick as my cue, and she still wouldn’t have had a chance. 

            But there’s something unusual going on now. Her demeanor has shifted. The girl who minutes ago played the role of the arrogant, cocky, terrible at pool s**t-talker is gone �" disappeared into the night has been replaced by this whiny, bratty, begging, still terrible at pool cry-baby. She’s even resorted to calling upon higher powers for assistance.  

            “Please,” she puts her hands together in prayer, as I sink the second-to-last of my solids. “Please, please, please, don’t win.” 

            I ignore her as I scoot around the table and lean down to eye my penultimate shot. I’ve been quiet the entire game. I’m in the zone and concentrating. I’ve always been competitive. I hate to lose at anything, and I’d never be able to swallow a loss to someone so horrendous, so clearly out-matched as Samantha is at pool. Samantha pleads, begs me again, but I give her a shrugging glance that says “nice try” before sinking my last solid ball. Only the eight ball remains. 

I circle the table, get down low and trace a line from the cue ball, to the eight, to the corner pocket with my eyes. I wrap my index finger around my cue, hold it low, steady it, then glance over at Samantha, who is now down on her knees, her eyes closed, hands raised to the heavens as though prayer can save her from certain defeat.

She looks almost pitiful �" like a sad, lowly, wretch from a novel, like Gollum, Quasimodo, Frankenstein’s monster, but without any redeeming qualities and I feel half bad for her. I hesitate for a moment, close my eyes and try to clear my head. Why would she lie about it? Why is it so damn important to her? Should I let her win…? 

I stew over this notion for no longer than two seconds before I dismiss it. The arrogance, the cockiness �" the smug look on her face ten minutes ago as she was calling me Cheryl and Nancy, Susan and buttercup, and Darla and Precious �" I can’t let that go. When I open my eyes, I know what I must do. 

Not today, Gollum. I know it’s going in the second my cue smacks the white ball. I don’t even have to look to know dinner is on Smeagol, I mean Samantha, tonight. I lean my cue against the table, turn to Samantha and expect to see defeat written all over her face �" but she isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are flicking across the table behind me.

     I turn and see the white orb still rolling around the felt like a soccer ball over a lush green field �" but there’s no goalie standing there to block it as it seems to turn itself towards the open net. Time slows down as the ball inches closer to the pocket and I can’t bear to watch it. I turn away, stare only at Samantha’s face knowing it will tell me instantly whether my victory dinner has been secured. 

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            She’s been gloating over her fluke victory for the last twenty minutes, and there’s at least a small part of me that hopes a terrible fate befalls her, that she stumbles into the fires of Mount Doom. But while I may be competitive, I’m not a sore-loser, and though my ego may have taken a near-disastrous hit, it remains intact �" and I won’t let her one-in-a-million bullshit stroke of luck ruin my night. Well, at least I’m not a sore loser on the surface. 

“Good game,” I say, quarter-heartedly. 

            “You should have seen your face,” she says. “It was like…” she opens her eyes wide like she’s watching a car-crash, gasps, trembles, then wipes invisible tears off her cheeks. For the record, and this is coming from a man who admits he still cries at the end of The Princess Bride, I didn’t cry tonight and never would over something as meaningless and trivial as a game of pool. But I’ll admit this to you �" I’m actually pissed, and it’s only a little bit because I lost, and a lot because she won’t shut the hell up about it. I’m trying so hard not to let it get to me, but she keeps needling. 

           “Good game, Becky…”

           “If you couldn’t stand the heat, you shouldn’t have been in the kitchen, Meghan.” 

    “Shouldn’t have been on the tracks when the train was coming through, Tiffany…” 

           “Thanks for the amazing dinner, Amanda…”

"You messed with the bull and you got the horns, Veronica."

            I tell my students all the time to handle themselves rationally and with dignity when they find themselves in uncomfortable social situations. I spout off about never stooping to their level, being the bigger person and just walking away. I’m trying so hard to convince myself that the advice I’ve given them a thousand times has validity and is truly the best way to respond in situations like these �" because a part of me has always thought that at times in life you have to fight fire with fire �" and I just can’t let her get away with this. 

You’re better than that, I tell myself. Don’t be petty. Just let it go. 

        “What’s wrong buttercup? You’re not going to… cry… are you?” She erupts in laughter, but doesn’t know that as she does, she is sealing her fate. I plastic-smile back at her, even though the smug look on her face enrages me to the core. I listen to her snide remarks, try to have them go in one ear and out the other, but they sting with the might of a thousand daggers. But all the time, I’m plotting my revenge and calculating how much the bill that I’m about to walk out on is going to cost her. Now, I just bide my time.

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        The food is gone, the glasses are empty, and the waitress will be bringing the check any minute, and my whole plan is mapped out. In twenty seconds, I’m going to tell Samantha I need to use the bathroom, which is of course a farce because I’ll never again set foot in one, but it’s a diversion to mask my true intentions. She’s facing away from the door, so she won’t notice my stealthy escape through the front door, and she’ll end up stuck paying the bill �" the ultimate payback for her treachery.

><><>< 

            Do you ever devise an evil plan like that in your mind, and for the duration of the thought, you are unwavering in your conviction to execute it �" then the moment of truth finally comes and you crumble under the pressure and can’t go through with it? Me too. 

As much as every part of my being wanted to do that, to get my petty vengeance and fight fire with fire - I just couldn’t. I paid the bill, and walked out… At the end of the day, being petty and making a big deal about things that really don’t matter is no way to live. I’m not a religious man, but I tend to believe the universe unfolds how it should �" and Samantha’s day will come when the universe exacts its revenge, but for now, I’ve raised my minimum age to twenty-six, I’m back home with dog of my dreams, I’m $82.00 poorer, and as the clock strikes midnight, I’m into the very last day of sweet summer freedom.

Author's Note

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