This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Formative” Down in the Dirt, v170 (the Apr. 2020 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Foundations the Down in the Dirt Feb.-April 2020 issues collection book		get the 322 page Feb.-April 2020 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book 2020 in a Flash the 2020 flash fiction & art collection anthology		get the 296 page flash fiction & artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Spa & Billiards

Bonnie E. Carlson

    We’re getting our kicks on Route 66 when I catch the sign out of the corner of my eye as we whiz by. My husband is driving. “Spa & Billiards,” I say. “What could that place be?”
    We’ve decided to hike Fat Man’s Loop for a couple of reasons, the first being its proximity to Flagstaff. Thunderstorms are looming and we don’t want to get caught. Second, our ten-year-old dog’s best hiking years are behind him. We score the last parking spot and start out. Scrub oak and pine line the dry, rocky trail. The trail climbs steadily upward, passing sword-leafed yuccas and ancient alligator junipers, immense and sculptural.
    As we ascend my husband says, “Do we know any fat people who could hike this trail?”
    “Ha!” I snort.
    We hike awhile silence, breathing heavily in the heat and elevation. “Must be nearly eight thousand feet,” I observe. Mark just nods, sucking in air. Jackson rests in the shade, his tongue hanging out like a juicy pomegranate.
    When we get to the top and rest, I compose a haiku poem:

    Clouds in formation
    Hawks screaming and soaring high
    Breathe the piney air

    But I can’t stop wondering about that sign we passed. Spa & Billiards? What went on in that place? A nice massage after a long hard afternoon of pool? A manicure to ensure beautifully groomed hands while holding the pool cue?
    I want to stop on the way back, but Mark vetoes the idea. “We need to get to hotel before the storm hits.”

***

    At the hotel my curiosity gets the best of me, so when the storm fails to materialize, I decide to walk back on my own to investigate. As I walk, I imagine what the place will be like inside.
    Despite large windows looking out onto historic Route 66, I imagine it will be dark inside, perhaps because charcoal clouds still blanket the sky. When my eyes adjust, I take in the scene, trying to decide what to do next. I observe fifteen or so people, almost all men, and several pool tables. Heavy metal thumps in the background. Black Sabbath? I inhale the stink of stale beer and cigarette smoke.
    Hefty Native Americans and young tat-covered white guys with naked hairless chests stand at billiard tables. A rail-thin, girl with white-blond hair, who can’t be eighteen yet stands over a table in skin-tight jeans. As she bends over, her low-cut, sheer blouse reveals creamy-white breasts. She sports a blue butterfly inked next to her right nipple for all the world to see. Heavy eyeliner and mascara weigh down her eyes. When she stands up, I see her piercings—nose, navel and lip, and envy her daring.
    The other girl has long straight hair dyed the unnatural color of a tangerine. Heavier and bustier than the blond, she wears a tight skirt that barely covers her business. She stands at the bar, folded around a pale muscle-bound guy with a shaved head tattooed with elaborate black and white designs. His nose looks like it’s been broken more than once. Her thigh is wedged into his crotch. She tosses her head back, laughing, as he downs the dregs of his beer. “I love it when you call me bitch,” she coos. He plants a kiss on her pouty red lips.
    As I wonder about the spa part of the establishment, I notice a back room in the corner demarcated by a gold brocade curtain. A tiny Asian woman emerges and calls “Frank.” An old guy with a frizzy salt-and-pepper beard that travels down to his waist looks up and smacks his lips. Might have played with ZZ Top in the eighties. When she crooks her finger for him to approach, he drops his pool cue and struts over. She puts her arm around his waist, and they disappear behind the curtains. To a place where women who never attended massage school did things to men, I imagine.

***

    When I’m almost to Summit Spa & Billiards another long train clickety-clacks by, the second on my short walk. I recall reading that Flagstaff came about as a railroad town.
    As I close in on the store disappointment settles over me. I can see from the signs in the window that it’s been a case of mistaken identity. I almost turn back instead of going in but decide I might as well check out the inside of the place.
    A bell tinkles my arrival into a bright store that retails and services hot tubs and billiard tables. A young guy dressed in slacks and a golf shirt appears and smiles. “Are you in the market for a spa?”
    I shake my head and chuckle at myself.
    “Pool table?”
    “Just curious.”
    When I arrive back at the hotel, I awaken Mark from his nap. “Where’ve you been?”
    “I walked to the spa and billiards place.”
    His eyes narrow. “By yourself?”
    “My imagination got the best of me.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...