Rack it Up

The pool hall is silent. The bartender wipes imaginary dust from

the counter, counting the minutes on the clock until closing time,

it is almost midnight, one hour to go, the few reminaing patrons

nurse their drinks as if they were their last. The waitress gives them

a side eye, knowing there won't be any tips from these customers.

The clock chimes midnight. Someone walks in. No one looks at the

stranger in the dark trenchcoat. He has a wide brim hat that covers

half of his face. His chin, a garden of stubble, is all that can be seen.

The waitress looks at him warily. A robber, perhaps?  Please not tonight.  She just wants to go up and soak her aching feet and count the loose change she earned tonight.

The man says nothing and seems to float towards the bar. The bartender gives him the once over, wondering if he should grab his bat from beneath the counter. The man sits down, folding his hands on the counter. He lifts his head slightly and asks for a glass of gin, no ice. The bartender makes the drink and slides it towards him. The glass is quickly brought to his lips and disappears under his hat.

"We'll be closing soon, guy," says the bartender. "Last call for drinks. You want another gin?"

The man shakes his head no and turns towards the lone pool table in the corner. He gets up and wallks towards it. 

Everyone watches his every move.  The man grabs a pool stick and places it on the table.  The multi-colored balls are in the center. He leans over and aims the stick at the white ball.  He shoots and scatters the balls to the many corners of the table.  Every ball lands into a hole.

There is silence.  Everyone just stares in awe. The man places the pool stick on the table, adjusts his coat and walks out of the bar.

Closing time.