The Myth of Billiards

by R.C.

To N.L.V.

WHOOOOWEEEEE! FALL 2022, CMU FULL SWING BABY! Somehow better than I ever knew it and I was hoping to know it well! There is a barbecue, and that pork is slowwww cooked. Outside there’s laughter, joy and the almost unstoppable spike ball games that raise the rhetorical questions Is spike ball the semi-official sport of CMU? Is the goose the semi-official animal?” Yesss, yesss. All returning students are saying hello again and the first years are in for a wild ride. The next week I meet a man, and in an hour, we are friends, kindred spirits that drifted randomly, aimlessly, like forgotten raft boats atop unforgiving waves until we met. I ask him about a billiard table, and he tells me second floor, south entrance to the resident building. I go up and try the door. Locked. I try the key. Locked. I look at my feet, and then back.

The next day I went up to the door and pulled. It clicked open a crack. I stood there. An ant marched past alone.

Some people came back this year and some left. Graduates obviously graduated but some strange folk didn’t return. I had a buddy that exchanged books of poets we liked. I asked him when he wanted the book back and he said, “this way you don’t have to buy one; and you can get a discussion which you cannot buy.” I told him one day, “You’re a socialist wet dream.” I could talk to him frank, unlike I talk to almost all. Now he’s somewhere else. I never got to say goodbye - he’s not dead, but still….

When I came in, I felt turned around the moment I stepped foot inside the doorway. It felt like a home to a man who isn’t horrified of change. A smell almost appetizing came from the cafeteria I’d never been. I turned away and found a stairwell. It smelled of shampooed carpets. I got to a floor of dorms and looked upon the hallway of rooms that seemed to stretch forever. I didn’t see the end. Doorways towered over me. I mean, these were men, women, and others that had keys, addresses, mail, doorknobs, door mats, and hinges. These were people living alone or with strangers. Beyond the door I could only imagine the tantalizing horrors they must face. Job interviews, tax forms, health numbers, driver’s licenses, daytime television, medication bottles, antacid tablets, laxatives or Imodium; obligations for lunches, key-coin dishes, bank accounts and or a TFSA or stocks or whatever the hell a “government bond” is; ramen cups, stashed mickies, tea in the pot, on the zigzag or some kind of seltzer substitute; instant espresso or red bull for breakfasts or “what the hell, suns up anyway,” mistakes that can chisel false epitaphs into sleep hungered bodies; procrastinated coffee dates and rain check drink evenings; wants

of social life, the need for individualism, buds lingering too long, the S.O.’s cohabiting or gone away bringing the cold presents of loneliness under the bedsheet; preferences of hand soap and laundry scents--that is, only if they have washers, dryers, bathrooms, sinks, hotplates, heat, windows, beds--how is one to know besides accidently committing second degree B & E to relieve horrors that cluster your mind like a clogged drain—would they even have “Draño” or snakes or the old vinegar and baking soda? Vinegar would help if they have tiles or windows, but do they? I opened a couple wrong doors on the way. Inside what looked what might be a dorm too. If it was a dorm, they do not own beds but only desk nooks. My god, who are these people? I gingerly opened a door to the left and saw the smooth green altar. I gathered the balls and a stick and set the triangle. I aimed and with the glossy staff held up by my first and second knuckle. I leaned over and with a crack of thunder, I saw the balls disperse in narrow paths of chaos. I had a cup of tea with me, it was just the bag in there, so I didn’t know if it was a prop or not. I still picked it up out of fear when a creak or voice came in the distance.

I aimed the sphere toward another, instead, it moved in a square around number 14, in a faux taunt. A man barged in and stared at me seemingly enraged by my presence. I wondered if he was an 18-year-old adult or a 22-year-old kid. He wasn’t a commuter or else why would he be here? He reminds me of a pug, a stoic “don’t fuck with me” look until they open their mouth. I hit the cue without progress, instead, edging the 8 ball to a pocket for it to give me the ol’ game over. I wondered what my buddy in Toronto dorms was doing so far away from where we were raised. I wondered what “home” meant to him.

The man left without word or explanation, and I sunk the 8 ball prematurely, ending my game. I got the triangle and set the break for the next soul to play. As I left, I felt I was making a mistake myself: kid or man. I shrugged and stretched my chest to the sun for a short moment before hanging my head over my toes and walking away smiling.