The sore-loser competition

Whenever I arrive in a new city by myself I like to stride slowly up to the first bar I come to, swinging the door wide open and pausing for a moment as everyone looks around in dread. Here I am, silhouetted in the doorway like the messenger of hell.

This is mostly because whenever I arrive in a new city by myself I get this nervous, fluttery feeling in my tummy and I need that moment in the doorway just to tell myself to go right ahead and order a glass of wine like any other normal, confident person would do.

On my first night in New Orleans I go to a dirty pub near my hostel and play pool against a silent, meat-headed man while his silent, meat-headed friends watch on. My pool skills came back after all that practice in Nashville and tonight my shots are clear and fast and hard. When it's not my turn I sit and nonchalantly roll cigarettes one-handed; driving yet more fear and anxiety into the heart of my opponent.

This guy is a sore loser, I can tell by that sour look on his face every time I sink another ball. Well guess what, cowboy? I'm a sore loser too. And if you and I were to have some kind of sore-loser competition then I would probably win.

On the black, he leaves me with the white up against the cushion and I have to squeeze between the table and his sour-faced friend to even have a hope of getting it in. His sour-faced friend looks up at me all sour-faced, like: You want me to move seats, you really expect me to make this easy for you? There is nothing worse than being beaten by a girl, I understand that, and no, I don't expect him to make this easy for me. No easier than it's already been.

In the movie that clicks and whirrs in my mind, I lean down to him real close, right into his face, and scowl: I came here to play, punk, not to ram the end of my cue between your sorry eyes. He'll scowl right back, take a moment to think, then slowly move as little as necessary to one side.

But this isn't a movie, punks; no, this is real life. And so instead I mumble excuse me, please, then fluff on the black, scratch the white, and leave the bar the winner of the sore-loser competition; all prickly, like.