Down the Shore by Stan Parish Page A

calling to her from the table.
    â€œI got it,” Eric called after her, as she grabbed her beer and walked away without so much as reaching for her wallet.
    â€œI’ll have a ginger ale,” I said.
    Eric dropped an ice-filled glass below the bar and poured a shot of whiskey into it before unholstering the soda gun.
    â€œAccident,” he said. “My bad.”
    I put my name down on the dry-erase board by the pool table and leaned against the wall to watch and wait. Roberto, who owned the bodega on John Street, was on a four-ball run. He shot pool here every weekend, dressed in sweatpants and shower sandals like he was hanging out in his garage. The older guys all dressed like Roberto, like they had given up, but the younger ones slicked their hair and pressed their polo shirts to come down here and play. I wondered what was happening back at Roger’s as Roberto sunk the eight ball on a bank shot. Someone handed me a cue.
    I never won at the Ivy, and I was down three balls when I noticed Eric talking to my mother. She was sitting by the taps, as far from me as possible, and he was circling back to her between orders, leaning on the bar with his heavy, ropy forearms stacked on top of each other. He had been hitting on her for as long as I had known him, but her complete lack of interest made it less difficult to watch. She looked ten years younger in jeans and a T-shirt, even with the grandma clogs she wore on jobs. People sometimes mistook her for my much older sister, and I lived in fear of some waiter mistaking one of our dinners out for a date, but we probably looked too much alike for that. I missed a short, straight shot, and looked up to find my mother standing on the foot rail of the bar. She was arm wrestling with Eric, pushing down on his left hand with both of hers, laughing as he forced a yawn and closed his eyes.
    â€œYou gonna shoot?” Roberto asked. “It’s you.”
    I tried to focus on the game. Eric had a thing with steroids and probably with speed, and the idea of him alone with her in his shitty condo by the airport made me want shells for the shotgun that my mother kept unloaded in the closet. Part of me wished I was already overseas so she could live her life, part of me wanted to stay here forever. Roberto sank the eight ball; we shook hands. Mark, our bartender, reached for my cue.
    â€œYou suck at pool.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought I saw you fall in love with that desperate housewife.”
    â€œJesus, did you see that? She scared off that hot blond chick.”
    â€œDid that girl ask you for weed?”
    â€œYeah, maybe. How’d you know that? Did your mom say something?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Wild guess.”
    â€œShe asked you too?”
    â€œShe asked me first.”
    â€œFuck ’em,” Mark said. “So you’re at Lawrenceville and your mom’s still working you like this?”
    â€œNot that often.”
    â€œWell, good for you. It’s a pain in the ass to do two things at once.”
    Eric had talked my mother into taking a shot with him, and I watched her wince into the back of her hand as she held the empty glass out to him. I shouldered through the crowd as Eric moved down the bar.
    â€œHey, can we go?”
    â€œHey!” she said. “Did you clean up at pool?”
    â€œNot really. I’m ready to get out of here.”
    â€œAlready?” Eric asked, pulling a beer from the tap.
    â€œI have school tomorrow.”
    â€œAt least come up with a better story. Tomorrow’s Saturday. You can tell me you’re too fancy for my bar now. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
    â€œHe does have school,” my mother said, grabbing a handful of my hair and tugging my head back and forth. “That’s how people get ahead in life, Eric. They go to school on weekends.”
    She seemed genuinely glad to see me, as if we had just run into each