Logs:Rack 'Em

Rack 'Em
Dramatis Personae Damien, Joshua	2024-06-04 "What do you have to offer?"
Location <NYC> Q-Tip - East Harlem
This is the kind of place you go to when you want a dive bar but don't want to wait for compete for use of the sole pool table covered with suspicious stains that always leans toward one corner pocket. Q-Tip may not be fancy, but its tables are solid and the drinks are decent. The bartenders are polite but taciturn, the regulars are diverse but largely blue collar men with a sprinkling of hipsters, and the neon-lit jukebox always seems to be playing classic rock. It's not particularly crowded in here yet -- too early, too weekday, for the bustle of the nighttime crowd. There's still enough people here, hard drinkers and diehard regulars, that the newcomer among them sticks out sharply. Among jeans and flannels, cargo shorts and tee shirts, Damien does not look like he frequents this place much. He's in a high-neck silk shirt in shimmering translucent silver by cinched what is either a tight waistcoat or an unstructured bodice of blue and pink paisley on a purple ground, a bright metallic silver sash wrapped around and around his waist with no obvious knot or other means of fastening, its long tails rippling as though underwater even without breeze or movement, thrown into stark contrast against his long black yoked suede skirt and matching the slouchy high-heeled silver boots that peek out from under the low hemline. Damien's attire has drawl the attention of several of the others in the room, but despite the dirty or skeptical looks he's mostly getting from afar, the two rough-looking men who've been leaning against his pool table chatting with him seem comfortable enough. One offers him a fistbump before they head back to their game, and leave Damien to collect the balls at his table and rerack. Joshua hasn't been here long at all. He does look more like he belongs, in his bland jeans, FDNY tee, and if his kippah and tzitzit do set him somewhat apart from most of the crowd they certainly aren't giving him dirty looks over it. He's leaving his small knot as a new game starts and ambling over towards Damien's. "Want a game?" "Oh, always." Damien turns, looking Joshua up and down. A smile curves quick across his face. He offers half a bow, hand sweeping out in invitation toward his table and the spare cue. "Are you any good?" Joshua lifts a shoulder casually. "Don't suck." He is ambling back to the next table, picking up a long black and red case leaning against a chair there. He sets it down on a chair near Damien's. "Why. You looking for action or just a challenge?" Digs a quarter out of his pocket to rest it on his hand for flipping, his brows lifting in silent question. Damien has perked when Joshua goes to retrieve his own pool cues. His dark eyes settle longer on the other man, now, and the playfulness in his smile has distinctly spread to his voice. "Must I choose? I do love a challenge, and I very much love a wager. What do you have to offer?" Joshua looks over his shoulder to Damien, and his drooping expression doesn't really lighten, but there's a keener interest in his eyes. A very faint flush in his cheeks when he looks back down at his bag. "S'a game of pool, man. Usually a round of drinks or a twenty'll do." He unzips the case, taking out one of the cues inside and kind of perfunctorily checking the tightness of the two halves. "What do you usually bet on your games." Damien is leaning on his own (bar-issue) cue stick. "I don't know that I've played this game enough to have a standard." His eyes haven't left Joshua, all the more intense when that flush rises to the other man's cheeks. "Twenty? Is that fair, for one game?" There's a very faint crease below his brow as he tries to puzzle this out. "I don't quite know how long I'll be here, really. Why don't we call it just one year. -- and," he's finally making his decision, "Tails." "What?" Joshua blinks. Huffs out a small puff of breath, head shaking in a mild incredulity. "Yeah, sure, just put it in the time bank. -- you aren't already drunk, are you?" He flips the quarter, now, and gives Damien a sympathetic shrug when it comes up heads. "Sorry, man." He chalks his stick, skirting around to line up his first shot. There's a satisfying crack; he sinks the thirteen as the rest of the balls scatter. The tug of his smile is very small. "But next game is for a beer."