Уолтер Тевис: The Color of Money

At first it was exasperating, and he thought it might be impossible. He kept looking over the frames as he shot. He tried holding his head higher, but then the frames split his vision. But he had seen other players shoot with glasses on; it could be done.

He held his head even higher, not bending down as far over the table as he was used to, and tried stroking that way. He made a few easy shots, but his neck felt stiff from it. And everything looked strange—the table seemed shorter. But the balls at the far end had a sharpness he hadn’t seen for years. He kept at it, and by four o’clock he was getting the feel. It was a matter of the way he held his head and his body.

He remembered how awkward he had looked on television, and that had been without the glasses. He could feel the awkwardness in himself now and he hated it—he hated wearing these damned things on his face, hated the way his body felt as he bent over the table. He kept at it for the rest of the afternoon and eventually began making longer and longer runs of balls. He ended by pocketing nearly fifty without missing, cutting in several difficult ones across the entire length of the table. By that time, it was seven o’clock. Jean would be wondering where he was. He put the balls away, brushed the table, took his cue apart, turned off the air conditioner, and left.

Six years before, to celebrate paying off the mortgage on the poolroom, Eddie and Martha went to Northern California. It was Martha’s idea; she wanted them to have the nude massage at a place she had heard of. “You’re naked,” she said, “and all you can hear is the sound of the surf.” Eddie was willing to go along. He needed a vacation from fluorescent lights and the clatter of pool balls; and he hadn’t been back to California in the twenty years since he had left, with Charlie, to try his skill on the road. They flew Supersaver to San Francisco, rented a Ford from Avis, and drove. But by that time Martha had a cold and she spent the time fussing with Kleenex and checking her watch while Eddie drove silently. He tried to ignore her. It was good to be back in California.

His masseuse was naked too. He hadn’t expected that. They had told him to strip and then to lie on the padded bench on the wooden deck below. He was alone there on his stomach, looking out at the water, for ten minutes before she showed up. The surf was loud, and he didn’t hear her come up but only saw, sleepily, her deeply tanned body. Her hair was brown and gold and she had freckles like smashed raisins on her neck and her breasts. She was about thirty.

“I’m Milly,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I’ve been enjoying the sun.”

“Do you want oil?”

“Oil?” It sounded like a gas station.

“Some people like to be rubbed with oil. We use Chinese sesame.”

“Sure,” he said. “I want the whole thing.”

She said nothing, but poured pale oil from a jar into the palm of her hand and rubbed it between her palms. Then she said, “Relax now,” and began rubbing his back.

He closed his eyes and began to relax. It felt good. The woman’s hands were firm and practiced in what they did. She rubbed his calves in long strokes, ending with a firm squeeze at the ankles. When she bent down, he could feel the heat from her breasts at the backs of his knees. The oil felt wonderful on his skin; in direct sunlight he was feeling baked and basted. The woman was humming something softly; he could hear her between the crashings of the waves below. Martha was back at the hotel watching TV and filling herself with Dristan. It was good to be away from her for a while. Milly began squeezing his ankles harder, around the Achilles tendon; it was painful in a way, and sent little sparks into his head; but there was something remarkable about it—as though his feet were being liberated. He began to get hard.

Milly was massaging the soles of his feet now, still humming. “Your body’s in good shape,” she said, “for a man of your age. Do you work out?”

“Three times a week.”

“It shows. Do you eat meat?”

“Sure. Are you a vegetarian?”

“I’m supposed to be. But I had salami for lunch.”

She might fuck. But where would they go? No one else was on the little deck with them, but it was still public, and someone could come in. She was oiling his toes individually now, and running her fingers between them. He opened his eyes for a minute and looked back at her. She was facing him with her head down. Between his feet he could see the dark of her pubic hair.

“You’re getting turned on, aren’t you?” Her voice was matter-of-fact.

The bright sun seemed to burn away the need for indirection. “What about you?”

“No,” she said, finishing with his toes. A moment later she added, “I like women.”

“That’s a shame.”

“No it isn’t. There’s nothing wrong with it.” She began patting his feet. “Let’s talk about something else. Are you an athlete?”

“I run a poolroom in Kentucky.”

“Oh,” she said. “My dad has a pool table in the basement. I used to play eight-ball. It was awfully competitive. Do you play pool?”

“Sure.”

“Isn’t it very competitive?”

“It’s better to win than lose.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. He had heard that question before. She came alongside him now and began putting oil on the small of his back. “Who cares whether you win or lose?” she said. “What difference does it make?”

“If you’re playing for fifty dollars a game, it makes fifty dollars’ difference.”

“A hundred,” she said. “The difference between plus fifty and minus fifty.”

“Be my manager,” Eddie said.

She leaned over and began pressing hard into the muscles of his back on either side of his spine, using more oil. Several times her breasts brushed against his side. “It’s the way men want to win just to be winning,” she said. “It’s a sexual thing—like war—and there’s no end of it.”

“Is that why you like women?”

She laughed and rested for a minute. “No.”

“You were being competitive when you said the difference was a hundred dollars.”

“You’re right.” She began to knead around his spine. Her pubic hair pressed against his hip like warm bristles.

“You like winning arguments.”

“I don’t bet money on them.”

“That wasn’t what we were talking about. Nobody bets money on wars either.”

“My dad did. He bet the Germans would win.”

“How’d he do?”

“Don’t be facetious.” She began rubbing his ass, gently, using more oil.

“My my!” he said.

“Enjoy,” she said.

“Let’s fuck.”

“Come on,” she said. “Take it easy.”

He rolled over on his back, carefully so as not to fall off the bench. “Come on, Milly,” he said, “you can bar that door.”

“I told you,” she said, “I like women.” She looked thoughtful.

“Give me a break,” Eddie said. “Let’s don’t compete about this.”

“Well,” she said and smiled slightly. She reached out and took it in her hand. He had to hold himself back. “That’s the ticket,” he said. “Climb on.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Eddie Felson,” he said quickly. “They call me Fast Eddie.”

“ Fast Eddie! ” she said. “My God, Daddy used to talk about you.”

“Come on ,” he said. “Don’t just stand there.”

“Fast Eddie,” she said. “Jesus Christ!” And then, “I don’t have my diaphragm.”

“Then use your goddamned hand,” he said. “Use the Chinese oil.”

Suddenly she laughed and squeezed him. “I can do better than that.” She bent down to him.