Porter raised a brow. “Grandpa? Oh, I got your grandpa. I’m going to make sure you eat those words, Ari James. Rack them.”
“Already done. We’re playing 10 ball.” I positioned the balls in the middle of the table. I stood back, admiring my handiwork. I motioned to Porter to take a shot.
“Ladies first,” Porter smirked, throwing up his hands.
I bent over the table with my cue to break. I looked over at Porter, who was slyly looking at me, then looked away. Suddenly, I wished I had taken his lead and worn slacks to work because I’m sure my ass was looking like two baked hams leaning over this table. But I didn’t mind. Besides, ham is delicious. Porter looked like a man who appreciated both ham and ass. And I had a nice ass.
“Six ball, corner pocket,” I said after I had already released my stick and hit it perfectly.
“Damn,” said Porter in disbelief.
My game was going well as just about everything I called made it in. I even did one trick shot behind the back. To which Porter said, “Okay, now you’re just showing off!” I laughed. After we both took our shots, we were in the last round. All that was left were the 10 and the 9 balls.
I stood up to assess my strategy. Just then, I felt the warmth of spicy, vanilla-tinged breath on my neck and the hairs of my nape stood at attention.
“You know, if you just ease into it, you can get the 9 ball...left corner pocket.”
His voice was low and gruff, like the cloth on the pool table. I felt my breath quicken, then settle in my chest. I tried to make my shot...and scratched. Porter broke out into riotous laughter.
“Oh, so you did that on purpose?” I pouted playfully, putting down my pool stick. I didn’t enjoy losing. But this time, I’d make an exception.
“Hey, what can I say? I like to win and sometimes you got to get dirty,” he said as he retrieved the balls for a new game.
The bar was getting crowded. It was a mixed crowd of young and old, Black and White. Atlanta still partied like it was the fifties on most weekends, with everything being segregated. But in Hemingway’s, it looked like a little post-racial utopia. I sipped a freshly poured beer and watched Porter play. His muscular forearms rippled with every shot. He had a real command of the table. I thought about pulling a stunt on him like he did to me, but I was too busy looking at his arms, his thick thighs, and most of all, that ass. I think my earlier hypothesis about the quarters and nickels was right.
As we were about to head back to our table for more beer, fries, and the burgers, a group of brothers came into the pub. They wore casual clothes that were a bit too “young” for their age. If you’re over forty, skinny jeans are not the move. One guy, wearing a Hampton Alumni shirt, recognized Porter, and walked over.
“Oh snap! It’s PJ! What it do, man!” said the guy. He was a handsome guy, shorter than Porter with a close-cut fade, and gorgeous chocolate skin. He gave Porter what I noticed was a long and ceremonious handshake.
“Good seeing you, Frat!” said Porter.
Just as I suspected, Frat boys. Groan.
The guy turned and looked at me, then looked at Porter with a raised brow. “Yo, Frat, this you?”
I knew that question was every elder millennial Black man’s way of asking a man if he and his date were a couple. I looked at Porter, who was both flush from the beer and being put on the spot. He put his beer down immediately.
“Jamal, this is my...coworker Ari James. Ari, this is my frat brother, Jamal Faulk. Oh, and Ari went to Hampton too.”
“Oh, word?” said Jamal, turning to me, and slightly blocking Porter out. “What year were you?”
“2001.” I tried to signal our ZZ Top waiter for another beer, but nearby patrons swamped him with orders. Fuck. I guess I was going to have to suffer this interaction sober.
Jamal looked at me hard, squinting his eyes behind his designer eyeglasses. “Hmm...you look mad familiar. I graduated in 2000. Porter, with his old ass, was my Dean of Pledges.” Then he snapped his fingers. “I got it! I just remembered where I recognized you from. Weren’t you roommates with Isabella Pierce? Bella? Short girl from Louisville with the Toni Braxton haircut? I used to stay sneaking into McGrew Towers to lay my mack down on the upper-class chicks, including Bella, but she wasn’t feeling me.”
Weak game aside, it pleasantly surprised me that Jamal remembered me. “Wow! McGrew! That’s taking it way back. Yeah, I was—well am—still friends with Bella. And she’s Bella La Croix now.” Hampton wasn’t a huge university by most standards, so students formed close-knit circles. All I had was choir and Bella. Who would have thought someone other than my fellow His Chosen Sounds choir alumni would recognize me? I had to have been at least forty pounds lighter. Still a fluffy, plush girl, but certainly not my current size. I also wore the worst bob haircut on the planet. It looked like Edward Scissorhands did it. Such is the life of a broke college student who had to do her own hair. I’m not proud of that moment in my life.
“I knew you looked familiar! You were in Gospel Choir with her too, right?”
I shouted over the speakers, which were now blasting Nirvana. “Yeah, I was. We were. Bella and I are still close. She’s in Atlanta now. Married with two kids. Twins.”
“Man, the whole Gospel choir was fine as hell. And could blow! Porter wouldn’t know that. He never made it to chapel. Too hung over from the night before! Right, P?” Jamal nudged Porter, who wasn’t the least bit amused. He simply grunted something inaudible and took another sip of his beer.
Jamal laughed, as he rubbed his chin. “Man, I had a serious crush on Bella. She was so fine.”
I playfully swatted Jamal’s arm. “Hey, who didn’t! She’s still fine, but don’t talk about my friend like she’s a piece of meat!”
“Oh! So, she’s a MILF!”
We both laughed. I looked over at Porter, whose annoyance at Jamal interloping on our “date” seemed to grow. In all fairness, didn’t he say it wasn’t a date and I wasn’t his girl? With that, Jamal assumed it was fair game to talk to me. I already had peeped that. Trust me, if he asked me out, I was going to say no. I can’t deal with the Jamals of the world. The combination of loud, brash, cocky, and handsome was something I’d had enough of. Porter’s obvious annoyance at the possibility that I’d entertain Jamal’s flirting was cute.
Before Jamal could continue going down Hampton memory lane, Porter interrupted. “Yeah, man, we were just about to finish up. Go order some burgers. So...” He hooked a thumb toward our booth.
I looked at Porter and then Jamal, who looked at Porter, then back at me. Jamal nodded and smiled, finally getting the hint that he’d overstayed his welcome.