by Todd Easton Mills

Cashmere Joe was playing a game of straight pool with young Donny Topper. The room was smoky but was not dulled by age or tobacco. There was a cigarette machine with blinking rainbow lights, and tables felted in pastel colors, except Table 1, which was poolroom-green and kept covered at night. I was listening to the game with my eyes closed.

I counted as Joe ran seven. I heard the balls click and softly thud against the rails, and Joe’s self-satisfied cough as he pocketed four more, setting himself up for a break shot.

I opened my eyes. Joe studied the shot and re-chalked, making his stick squeal before announcing a safety.

Donny had a shot where the only way to make it was to come off the rail and cut it thin. Donny didn’t bother to chalk, he stroked it in and opened the pack.    

“That was a low-percentage shot,” said Joe. 

The clicks came solid and fast. Donny pocketing with perfect shape.

A kid in the gallery said, “I can make those shots.”

“You don’t know shape,” scoffed Joe Junior, Joe’s son.

“I play natural shape,” said the kid.

“Natural shape is for amateurs,” said Junior.

“Game,” Donny said.

Joe frowned and made a show of unscrewing the joint of his ivory-inlaid stick and flashing the silk lining of his tailor-made coat.

Bikram joined us. “Who won?”

“Donny—he ran thirty-seven balls.”

“Nice run. What were they playing for?”

“Don’t know. Joe called Donny a cherry rumpkin.”

“What the hell is that?” said Bikram.

* * *

Two weeks later I was working for Joe, “learning the business.” He hired me as his driver, but so far he had done all the driving. He taught me how to pull up to a customer in the street, and what to say to beckon them over. Joe liked to shoot a couple of games of nine ball before heading out, and we rented a new car every week and paid for the car with cash.    

“Drew, you’re going to drive today. But you can’t dress like that.”

“He can’t dress like you,” interrupted Joe Junior, who was shooting alone at the next table.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s fat.”

I ignored the remark. It was true, I was fat. To compensate, I tanned with a sunlamp and wore a black shirt with black jeans. My problem was I smoked too much and ate too many candy bars, but I didn’t have pimples.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Joey. Look at Gleason. I’m taking Drew shopping at Sy Devore’s.”

“Is that where you bought your shoes?” I asked.

“That’s right, Drew.”

Joe Junior broke the pack so hard the cue ball leapt off the table.

“Goddamn it, son,” Joe said.

* * *

We took the 101 South. Twenty minutes later we were on Main Street. An old man in a tattered coat stood outside the store, and I watched him roll a cigarette with one hand. The store, which looked like an upscale tuxedo shop, displayed an array of cashmere sweater sets in gold-printed boxes. Joe told me to double-park and wait. “How many sets do we have?” he asked.

“Just one, Joe.”

“If a cop tells you to move, go around the block. I’ll be right out.”

Joe came out with a dozen boxes. We put ten in the trunk and two in the back seat. “We’re going to work North Hollywood today,” he said. “Take Figueroa to the 101 North and get off at Lankershim.” On Ventura Boulevard we spotted a well-dressed man coming out of a Wells Fargo Bank.

Joe rolled down his window, cupped his hand over his mouth, and called: “Can ya cock on a rock?”

“Excuse me?” said the man.

“Ever use any cash-meeeer sport jackets?”

“Are you talking to me?”

“What-siiiiiiiiize-do-you-wear?”

I crept closer.

“I got a sport coat [voice muttered] left over on a COD. If you can use it, I’ll give you a helluva price. What siiiiiiiiiize do you wear?”

“Uh, forty-two.”

I opened the box and let him look inside. The sport coat was inside a clear plastic bag and labeled “Clydesdale.”

“How do I know this stuff isn’t hot?”

“Woo-oooooow, you cherry rumpkin! Jump up and down, you got your brother’s pants on.”

“No, really. I’m asking a serious question.”

“He doesn’t want to buy anything,” Joe said.

“Maybe I do,” said the well-dressed man.

* * *

We were back at the House of Billiards. Joe wanted to shoot me for my week’s pay.

“How ’bout I spot you ten balls?” Joe asked.

“How about twenty-five?” I said.

“You should shoot my dad straight up,” said Joe Junior.

“I’ve got rent to pay,” I said.

“What if I let you use my stick?” Joe said, unsnapping his case.

“No, Dad. You don’t even let me shoot with your stick.”

* * *

Bikram and I were roommates. It was his idea to get an apartment and move away from home when we were seniors in high school. He had a job as a box boy at the Ranch Market and kept us supplied with fresh fruit, lentils, semolina porridge, and fish. Bikram said the Ranch Market would rather let employees steal food than give them raises.

“How’s it going with Joe?” Bikram asked.

“I’m his driver, that’s all.”

“Is he connected?”

“That’s what I thought too.”

“Jesus, Drew. You gotta be out of your mind.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Does he carry a gun?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Fuck, Drew.”

* * *

We went by to say hi to Mom. Our family house was a one-story stucco built on compacted fill on the side of a steep hill. There were no trees, bushes, patio, or lawn—just eroded dirt and a beach umbrella where Dad said the pool was going to go. Bikram pointed out the plastic flags. They were the kind you see strung up at a used car lot. On the front door was a bank notice with large red letters reading: FORECLOSED.

“Shit! Do you know what that sign means?” Bikram said.

“I think so.”

“It means the bank owns your house. It means pretty soon your family is going to be in the street. Did your dad say anything?”

“Yeah, he said everything was fine.”

When Mom came home her makeup was smeared from crying. “Drew, this is so embarrassing.”

“Could it be a mistake?” I asked.

“I knew we were a little behind,” she said.

“I thought Dad was doing okay.”

“He’s always optimistic … I can’t believe they hung flags on our house. The girls are going to be so upset.”

“Should I take the flags down, Mom?”

She didn’t answer.

“I’m taking them down,” I said.

* * *

Dad said losing the house was the best thing that could have happened because now he was going to buy a bigger house on the West Side. Dad bummed a Kent from Mom and I was smoking Tareytons. Dad liked to make Boots, our Labrador, go crazy by rubbing her tummy. The harder he rubbed, the crazier she got, twisting back and forth and panting until bubbles ran out of her mouth. Everyone took turns but no one got her going like Dad.

“Things are really going to change when I get my show,” Dad said. “I’ve already picked out the new house—and I’m going to buy a yacht. That’s right. You heard me.”

* * *

The phone rang: “Your father says he just signed the contract with NBC. They’re shooting the first episode in two weeks,” said Mom.

“That’s great, Dad!” yelled Dee-Dee close to the mouthpiece.

“Woo-oooow!” I said. “Can I talk to him?”

Veronica, who was a year younger than I, frowned and lit a cigarette. “What kind of wow is that?”

“Your dad can’t talk,” Mom said. “He’s at a network meeting. He’ll call you at your place tonight. “When did you start smoking, Veronica?”

“A long time ago,” said Veronica. “Drew smokes, Dad smokes—”

“Everyone in the entertainment business smokes,” said Mom. “But you don’t work in front of a camera, Veronica.”

“Are we going to move?” asked Dee-Dee.

“Woo-oooooow!” I said. “Dad finally signed the deal.”

“You say wow like Joe,” said Veronica.

“What’s wrong with Joe?”    

* * *

Tina was a tall, awkward girl with blue eyes that bulged behind thick glasses. When I walked by she asked if I remembered what happened the last time she was here.

“Sort of,” I said. “Why are you laughing?”

“Don’t you remember smiling at me?”

“I think I remember,” I said.

“Did you notice anything strange?”

“Not really.”

“Could you tell I was high? I was tripping on acid.”

“Really, acid?”

“You kept looking at me. You were playing pool with an old man who had hair like Bozo the Clown. I started freaking out when I realized he had yellow skin.”

“That’s Joe.”

“He’s so strange. Anyway, you were blowing my mind. We both were picking up on the same sound! I knew you were hearing it—like thunder under the table.”

“You mean the balls rolling in the ball return?”

She laughed. “I’m going to tell you something amazing—don’t be afraid. Every time you took a shot, I could read your mind. It was like I was deciding which shots to take. Then you looked confused. So I sent you a message—do you remember that? That’s when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“When we fell—oh, you’re so funny!”

* * *

“Are you going out tonight, Bikram?” I asked.

“I forgot to tell you … tonight I’m taking out a checker from work. If you come home and see the Scotch tape on the door—don’t walk in.”

“Last time I didn’t see the tape,” I said.

“That was my fault. I used clear tape.”

“Why don’t you use the Santa Claus sticker again?”

“We ran out of Santa Claus stickers.”

“Okay, I’ll hang out at the pool room. Joe will give me a ride home at ten.”

“Joe is acting like he’s your father. Are you cool with that?”

“I’m learning how to sell.”

“I would get another job.”

* * *

Joe called to say he had to see a doctor, but I should go out with Joe Junior. I told him how I burned myself under the sunlamp, so was it okay to rest in bed. Tina had given me a copy of The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley:

“I took my pill at eleven … a half later, I was looking intently at a glass vase that contained carnations and the bold heraldic blossoms of an iris. The little nosegay broke all the rules of traditional good taste. At breakfast that morning I was struck by the lively dissonance of colors. But that was no longer the point … I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation—the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence.”

“Are you ready to try it?” Tina asked.

“Maybe,” I said.

“You’re afraid.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not going to be high forever.”

“I know. Did you see God?”

“It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like?”

She laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you sound like my mother.”

“It’s a serious question. Did you see Him?”

“You see the God in people’s eyes. I can’t explain it.”

“Like a twinkle?”

“Like perfect love.”

“What if you have a bad trip?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re worried about. Like maybe one of Joe’s sweaters will jump out of the box and try to strangle you.” She howled at her own joke. “Wait, those sweaters don’t have arms!”

“The sport coats do,” I said lamely.

* * *

After the foreclosure Mom and the girls moved into the Saticoy Arms on Topanga Canyon Boulevard. I came home less often because I didn’t want to answer questions about my job. I was making enough money to pay food and rent and was saving for a car.

Veronica said, “I saw Joe Junior at Bob’s. He was talking to one of the waitresses. Big greaser.”

“He’s trying to impress his dad,” I said.

“Joe Junior is a gangster,” Veronica said.

“He wishes he was,” I said.

Dee-Dee appeared from her bedroom and flopped down on the sofa. “Did Dad get the show?”

Mom shook her head. She got up and walked past the hall mirror, pausing to check her makeup and feel under her armpit.

“What’s everyone talking about, then?” asked Dee-Dee.

* * *

We drove down Ventura Boulevard to Sherman Oaks. Joe told me to throw the Snickers wrapper out the window and wipe my hands on the tissue in the glove box. I mistakenly wiped my hands on the tissue from one of the Clydesdale boxes.

“Are you crazy, Drew?”

“I’m sorry, Joe.”

“Really, where’s your mind? Have you been getting high with Tina?”

“Sometimes.”

There was no conversation for a long time. “I’ve been meaning to ask, are the cashmere sport jackets all the same size?”

“You’re a funny kid, Drew.”

“No, I mean some boxes are marked small, I was just—”

“What does this say?” He held up a box.

“Small.”

“Rub it off.”

I looked at him.

“Spit on your thumb and rub it off.”

“Okay.”

“See, it’s not small anymore.”

* * *

Mom stubbed out her Kent in the large, ceramic ashtray on the coffee table. Veronica had just come out of the bathroom in plastic curlers, and I could smell hairspray lacquer.

“He calls me ‘kid,’” I said.

Veronica laughed. “That means son.”

“I don’t like you working for him,” said Mom.

“It’s fine, Mom. Drew has to pay rent,” Dee-Dee said.

“He’s teaching me to sell,” I said.

“Is that right?” asked Mom skeptically.

“He dresses well. I’ll give him that,” said Veronica.

Mom was pale.

“Are you all right, Mom?” asked Dee-Dee.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

“They’re doing more tests,” said Veronica.

* * *

Donny and Joe were playing for money. From the scoring beads over the table, I saw Donny was down twenty-one points.

Bikram said, “Donny is laying back.”

“It’s not smart to hustle Joe,” I said.

“Are you going to tell him tonight?” Bikram asked.

“He knows I want to go to New York,” I said.

Joe Junior walked in. “What’s my dad shooting for?”

“Fifty bucks,” Bikram said.

“They just raised it to a hundred,” I said.

Tina arrived and sat down next to me. She was wearing tight, black pants and a black top, contacts, lavender eye-makeup, and looked pretty.

“Hi, Tina,” said Joe Junior.

Tina nodded but didn’t smile.

Joe Junior said his father had bad eyes, otherwise he would be the best shooter in the San Fernando Valley.

Bikram sneered.

“What does that look mean?” Junior asked. “Anyway, I’m out of here. I’ve got a date tonight.”

“Who’s the dude?” Bikram laughed.

“Fuck you,” said Joe Junior.

“He’s kidding,” Tina said.

“Bikram thinks he’s hot shit,” said Junior.

“Be cool,” Bikram said.

Donny glared: The game is for money.

Joe was shooting beautiful pool. He was getting low over his shots, and his stroke was like a pendulum. He seemed unaware of the exchange between his son and Bikram—then he looked up like he wanted to kill someone. “Who called my son a queer?”

“No one, Joe,” I said.

“Fucking Bikram did, Dad.”

“You—” Joe flew at Bikram, throwing a punch that caught him on the side of the head.

“Fuck you, old man!”

“I’m going to kick your ass!” said Joe.

“If I hit him, he’s going to the hospital,” Bikram yelled.

“You’re the one going to the hospital!”

“Don’t hurt him!” shouted Tina.

I jumped in and put Joe in a half nelson. “I’m not letting you up till you—”

“Kick him in the face, son!” Joe yelled. “Kick him in the goddamn face. I’m having a heart attack.”

“You’re killing him!” screamed Tina. “You’re killing Bozo!”

* * *

I had been in New York for almost a year when I got a letter from Mom saying she had been diagnosed with breast cancer and had a lump removed. I called her and she said she was fine. Dad said she was better than ever. A few weeks later Veronica called to say they found more cancer. Dad called and said Mom was in remission. I called Dee-Dee and she said it was much worse than Dad was saying. “Really bad. You should come home, Drew.”

I found Mom on the sofa in her pajamas. Her complexion was yellow and she was wearing a wig that slipped when she sat up. The first thing she said was that she tore up the picture I sent her from New York of myself with a beard. I told her I grew it after I lost weight because otherwise I looked like a kid.

“Well, you look handsome now,” she said.

“I’m going to grow the beard again,” I said.

“Don’t do that, honey.”

“Whatever you say, Mom.”

“You look thin. Are you eating enough?”

I had lost weight walking around Manhattan, but Mom had lost more. When Dad came home he remarked: “It’s better to be on the thin side. I always was.” Over the next days, I discovered Mom had been organizing the closets and drawers in our apartment. She had thrown away the old newspapers she had intended to read later. When the two of us were alone, she reminisced about happy days in New York before she met Dad: “all the wonderful parties.” She asked about Tina and I said we talk on the phone, but I hadn’t seen her since Joe died.

 Mom said, “For someone like Joe, hearing that horrible nickname probably killed him. I’m so glad you got away from that gangster. I’m tired, honey, can you bring me a pillow from the bedroom?”   

* * *

It was the seventh day after she died. The ashtray will filled with lipstick smeared cigarette butts and the air conditioning was set too cold. I saw the ghost of Mom in the apartment, her outline sitting on the sofa, working on a crossword puzzle. “Is that you, Mom?” I could smell her perfume and I could see her face when Veronica lit up a cigarette. “Is that you, Mom?” 

“Stop it!” said Veronica.

I remembered the last day I saw her. She was tiny under her day blanket, her skin bruised and yellow with jaundice. Dad said he was going to bury Mom in the veterans’ cemetery in Westwood and she would be with her “fallen brothers.” Veronica rolled her eyes at the expression. Dee-Dee said Mom wanted a graveyard with tombstones and shade trees. Veronica said: “He’s being disingenuous! Dad wants the VA to pay for the funeral.”

“Big word,” said Dee-Dee.

“What time is Dad coming?” I asked.

“Late. He’s auditioning for a Taco Bell commercial,” said Dee-Dee.

I was standing at the dessert table, when an older man I didn’t know, took me aside and said: “It’s always more tragic when a beautiful woman dies. I’m sorry, Drew, I don’t mean it the way it sounds.”

After the neighbors went home, we started telling Mom stories. Dee-Dee remembered how Mom would get down on the carpet and roll-over with her legs up like Boots and how Dad would rub her tummy while she twisted from side-to-side on her back. Dad would say: “What a good girl … what a good girl!”

“Why do you have to tell that story?” said Veronica, “You make her sound like a dog.”

There was a long silence.

“Did she know she was going to die?” Dee-Dee asked.

“Of course she did,” Veronica snapped.

“No one’s asked about my show—” said Dad out of habit.

“What was the last thing she said to you, Drew?” Veronica asked.

“She said: ‘Next time you see me bring me one red rose.’”

 I closed my eyes and could hear the buzzing of the air conditioning unit on the roof. Bikram came by and said how much he loved Mom and I told him what a great friend he is. Veronica announced she was accepted to the University of Oregon and her boyfriend was going to help her move.

“My voice teacher says, I’m ready,” said Dee-Dee.

“Ready for what? To go on the road? To sing for drunks at the Holiday Inn?”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Veronica?” I said.

Bikram looked embarrassed.

“Cherry rumkin,” said Dee-Dee.

I laughed.         

“It’s tough on the road,” said Dad.

As a young man, Todd Easton Mills defined himself as a traveler, working his way around the world and supporting himself as a laborer, cook, and teacher in faraway places like the Highlands of New Guinea. Now, with his drifter days behind him, he lives comfortably with his Zimbabwean wife in Ojai, California. He has been published in numerous journals, including Santa Monica Review, The Forge Literary Magazine, Jet Fuel Review, Barely South Review, University of Chicago’s Euphony Journal, and many others.