I spent roughly 60 percent of that time doing normal human things (sleeping, eating, etc.), 20 percent reading, 10 percent writing, and 10 percent playing pool at dive bars. Pool was the education I chose during the three years I lived in the Twin Cities, when I was supposed to be writing a thesis for a graduate program. It was this focus I craved I wanted something that would matter that much to me. Maybe because they were so focused on the game, they seemed harmless. I was not exactly drawn to the strangers playing pool, but I was never scared of them either. But the energy I found surrounding the tables was surprisingly welcoming-even to someone with intense social anxiety, like me. And because literary and photographic representations of billiard rooms included animal heads mounted on walls, and, historically, a majority of pool balls were made from elephant tusks, I associated the game with a degree of prideful cruelty. I had previously looked at pool the same way I looked at hunting: a competitive, leisurely, masculine activity. Eventually, the game came to be enjoyed by people “of all walks of life.” Me? I started playing pool because it was -20 degrees in a Minnesota winter and the green cloth reminded me of leaves and grass from my warmer days living in the South. The sound of a good break or a good shot became a sonic addiction passed down through the generations-father to son to grandson.
Later, it became an indoor spectacle of colors and bouncing light. When billiards began, the game was played outdoors by European nobility. But sometimes it worked-a light kiss with my cue, and the cue ball would glide across the table and tap another ball, miraculously, into a pocket. My performance depended on my rapport with my opponent, the music in the background, my buzz level, the quality of equipment, the table, the style of mansplaining. I heard kiss it many times, and only from men. My least favorite way to hear those two words was when they were said in a bored tone, as if the speaker was playing a video game. And if not? It was the result of my lack of skill, of course.
If the ball went in during that tutorial? It was thanks to their help. There were two men who put their arms around me from behind-their hands gently moving my right elbow backward under the pretense that I was being given a lesson-and hiss the ss into my ear. This made me feel as if we were collaborating on something important. One said it with respect, holding eye contact with me and speaking in a low, steady voice. Astrid CoilĪlmost all of them, at some point in the game, told me to kiss it. Something clicks in your head and you can’t get away from it, and you don’t want to either. A writer turns away from her thesis and toward the pool hall
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