Across Town At The Shake It Up Bar And Grill - [HJ]

Immediately after eating dinner, Chief Petty Officer Abram Wallace did the trick that Chiefs have been doing for centuries - take a nap before going ashore. By the time he 'hit the beach' around 2000 Hours (8:00 PM), others would be half-way to being shit-faced and he would be alert, well-rested, and sober. Able to outlast those who had started two or three hours earlier.

When he walked into the 'Shake It Up Bar And Grill', he saw that it hadn't changed much in the past year or so when he was last there. The waitress was different, but the bartender was the same. Wallace couldn't remember the man's name, but that wasn't important. There was a game in progress at one of the two pool tables. The jukebox was blaring out a somebody done somebody wrong song. Most of the customers seemed to be paired off and sitting in two's or four's in the booths lining one wall.

Wallace walked up to the bar where a there were a few more 'stag' males perched on the stools, their heads turning every time the door opened. At the same time, one of the booths had a group of unattached females. It would be interesting to see who hooked up with whom as the evening wore on. The Boatswain ordered a draft beer and settled in to people watch.

Suddenly he tilted his head and looked more closely at one of the booths. For there was the ship's cook, Petty Officer Third Class Willard Dawson, sitting with a bleached blonde that looked to be twice his age. No. Three times the young spacer's age. She was sitting on the outside with Dawson next to the wall. Her back was to the room as she sat half-turned facing the Cook. Wallace noticed that her right shoulder was moving rhythmically and Dawson had his head tilted back, his eyes closed.

Chuckling to himself, the Boatswain looked away, checking out the women sitting in the booth. In a few minutes, the bleached blonde left Dawson's booth, heading down the short hall to the bathrooms. As he was fastening his pants, Dawson happened to look around the room and spotted Wallace. The young spacer smiled widely in recognition, finished rearranging his uniform, and slid out of the booth, carrying his drink with him as he went over to the bar.

"Boatswain!" Dawson exclaimed as he approached. "Good to see you. How long you been here?"

"Just got here," Wallace held up his beer, "This is my first drink. How about you?"

"I had to clean up after dinner, which wasn't too bad. Everybody was done by 1730 Hours," Dawson answered. "So after shaving and showering and all, I got here about an hour ago." He lowered his voice and leaned in towards the Boatswain. "Boats you ain't gonna believe what happened."

But he didn't get to finish his story, for a woman's voice behind him said, "There you are. I thought you had ditched me."

Turning around, he saw it was the woman from the booth. "Millie, this is Chief Wallace. He's the Boatswain of the ship I'm on."

Millie and Wallace exchanged greetings, and the bleached blonde slid up on the stool on the other side of Dawson. She was not a bad-looking woman, had probably been quite the looker in her youth. But that was long, long ago. Her face was caked with makeup and her tight red pencil skirt displayed the bulge of her belly. The three chatted about jobs, favorite drinks, tastes in music. At one point, when the waitress came up to the bar with orders, Wallace turned to her and said, "Send drinks over to that table, will you?"

The waitress looked to where the Boatswain was pointing, nodded her head, and told the bartender what the three women were drinking. A few moments after the drinks were delivered to the table, one of the women, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, walked up to the bar, glass in hand.

"Thanks for the drink," she said, hoisting the glass with the fizzy beverage and ice cubes. "We would invite you to join us," her gaze included Dawson and Millie, "but there's not enough room in our booth. Oh, my name is Sara."

She offered her hand and as Wallace shook it while telling her his name, he noticed, as he was expecting, her nails were purple. Climbing on a stool to join the other three, Sara participated with the small talk. After a few minutes, she looked back over her shoulder and then at Wallace, asking him, "Do you play pool?"

"I play . . .," the Boatswain drawled, "But not very well."

"That's O.K., I do. Come on," Sara replied, sliding off her barstool and heading back to the unoccupied table. "Since you say you aren't that good, I'll rack and let you break."

While Wallace was selecting a cue-stick from the rack on the wall, Sara was putting the ivory spheroids into the triangular rack. Her fingers rubbed sensually over the round objects. Looking up at him from beneath her lowered eyelids, she said, "I just love feeling balls."

Wallace made the break, but as he expected, none of the balls went into the pockets. Sara took her shot, sinking one, but then missing her follow-up shot. Back and forth the game went, it was evident that the woman was the better player. But that was fine with Wallace, for every time Sara walked past him, she brushed the back of her hand across his fly. During the Boatswain's turn, Sara would stand there holding the cue-stick upright before her, one hand tightly gripping the stick, the other slowly stroking it up and down. Once while 'chalking the cue', rather than blowing away the excess blue dust, she daintily dabbed the tip with her middle finger. "The tip is the secret, isn't it?" she asked. "It's all in how you prep the tip."

CLACK! She sank the shot, walking around the table, (and brushing her hand against Wallace's crotch) to make her next one.

Finally, when she announced, "Eight ball, side pocket," and was successful, the cue ball kissing the eight ball, sending it into the pocket while the cue ball ricochetted away.

"Another game?" she asked, stepping up close to him. "Or do you have a car?"

The Boatswain was familiar with the planet's customs and knew what she was asking. Sadly he answered, "No . . . I wish I did."

She smiled, replaced her cue stick into the rack, and walked over to her table, leaning over and having a hushed conversation with her friends. One of the seated women dug into her purse, handed a set of keys to Sara, and passed Sara's purse to her. Straightening up, Sara made eye contact with Wallace and jerked her head towards the entrance door. As she neared the exit, she grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser on the table of an empty booth.