"Oh I'm in so much trouble!"
I feel my eyes trying not to open, trying to keep me in the warm soft blankets of sleep.
"Oh, man, now Jerry must think I'm a..." I know Emma's voice, and I know she's my girl, and I figure I might as well get up because no dream could be this nice. My eyes open, and I see Emma-in-the-morning.
Now, I've always believed that you never really know a girl until you see her naked first thing in the morning. There she was, in all her glory: Emma the Bowling Wonder. And even with runny eyeshadow and the splendor of her curly copper-gold hair spun up in twists and tendrils, she was the most beautiful woman alive, except for the unhappy look. I sit up. "What's wrong, baby?"
"What's wrong?" Emma stops and stares at me. "Jerry? The pool table? Augh!" She clutches her red-gold hair in her fists and stares heavenward. And I understand why.
Emma's boss Jerry had held the annual employee Christmas party last night, we showed up to wish him Merry Christmas and he'd left the two of us alone in the place for a minute. Long enough to get in trouble right on the pool table.
I mean real trouble as well as the sex kind. Jerry had come back in to find both of us looking hard-rode and Emma covered with cue chalk. "Yeah, I remember. Fuck us." I think back to the reaming he gave us last night.
"Oh you fuckin' kids, what did you do on my pool table?" he'd asked, and I can see in his eyes he knows damn well what we were doing on there.
"Eh, swimming?" Emma'd said in a tiny voice.
"You guys was fuckin' on my table." He'd pointed a gnarly finger at Emma. "I haven't even fucked nobody on that table yet! I bought the fuckin' thing, how come I get sloppy seconds?"
He'd walked over to the table and inspected it, ran a hand across the surface.
"Oh, see? The felt's damp, I gotta replace it now, gonna cost a ton." I chuckled at this, stupid me, but I had to. He swivels to face me. "Think that's funny?"
"Well, do you have to replace that felt every time a drink gets spilled on there?"
"Fred--" Emma'd begun, but Jerry'd waved a hand at her to shut her up.
"Kid's a thinker. I might have a job for you someday after all. Thing is," he'd backed away to face us both, "I left my place in your hands and by doin' this you disrespect it, and you disrespect me." I'd felt like a sleazeball when he said it that way and had looked at my shoes. "You, Miss Grossberger, come see me before your shift tomorrow. And you," he'd turned to face me, "you clear outta here, Fred. I don't wanna see you again."
I was real hurt by this. I've known Jerry longer that I've known Emma; Jerry was my bartender for two years before Emma became my barmaid two years ago. So I wasn't really sure he'd meant it. But it's his place. I'd turned and limped toward the door on a busted-up ankle that I'd whacked with a bowling ball maybe an hour before.
"G'nite, Jerry, um...Merry Christmas!" She sounds sad and it hurts me to hear sadness in her voice.
"Yeah, whatever, bye," he'd yelled at her, and we'd limped the two doors to Emma's-- and my--house.
Emma was upset and cried herself to sleep, and had apparently awakened just as upset. I struggle out of bed and gather her into my arms. Her head lays against my shoulder and I feel a teardrop coursing down my chest. It itches.
"He might fire me," Emma says, and I can barely understand her.
"There's no way he's gonna fire you, Emma, not for a little not-so-family-style fun on his pool table. You bring people in there, he said so himself. I know there's people that go into Jerry's just to see you."
Emma nods; she's made friends that might otherwise be drinking at home.
"And don't forget the Christmas money," I reminded her.
Jerry is not well-off, he runs a bar and his wife is very sick, but he still gave Emma about six hundred bucks for Christmas. Emma felt bad about taking his money, but he wouldn't take it back, so she stuck it in an envelope addressed to him, with a note from Santa. If he didn't get it last night, he will today. Emma finally smiles a little. "Hey, yeah, that ought to make him smile--" Her face fell. "No, he'll feel rotten he chewed us out so bad last night. I don't want him to feel bad, it's my fault--all mine, not even yours. I don't want him mad at me either...How much does a pool table cost?"
Emma's pretty tomboyish about some things, her sports being one of them, and I'm surprised she doesn't already know this. "For a seven-footer, maybe two thousand, but for a model like Jerry's..." I whistle; I don't even want to think about this.
"We can't just buy him a new one then." Emma sits down on the bed and pulls me down beside her. "Fred, this is serious. What if he fires me? How will I make my bills?"
"Well, if he fires you, you could go work at Gennies--"
"I'm not gonna titty-dance, Fred." She sounds angry.
"I mean tending bar," I clarify, and her fur smoothes out.
"I'm friends with one of the wait staff there, and they say it's not a fun place to work," she tells me, and leans her back against my side. I put an arm around her chest and hold her close. "The customers think you're part of the show, and when they find out you're not, they aren't inclined to tip you."
"How about Stellar?" Stellar Lanes is the old local bowling alley, with antique pinsetters and scoring tables with the projectors built in.
"That's out. I don't work in bowling alleys unless I'm in competition."
I consider. "Well, how much are your bills?"
"About a thousand dollars a month, give or take."
"Emma...I could pay that out of what I'm not paying for my apartment rent."
She stares at me and her eyes cross. "Oh, shit, that's right, you live here too, huh?"
