I sidle up to the pool table at Dirty Dee’s pub about twenty minutes after I let the doctor’s call go to voicemail. The you have new lab results notification from the MyChart app had been side-eyeing me since my lunch break. I’ll get to checking both of them, but for now, they’ll have to wait.
The reality is, if the doctor is using two forms of communication to get ahold of me, the Pap smear I had last week probably tested positive for something bad. Most people in my situation would probably feel helpless, at the mercy of modern medicine or whatever god they believe in. But not me.
This is going to sound weird, but I think I’ve discovered a way to change the outcome of any bad thing that happens to me. I’ve been doing it for the past six months, and it has only let me down once. And that’s only because I got distracted and didn’t do it right, but I’ll tell you about that later.
The method is so simple—it has just two steps.
Step 1: Go to a bar.
Step 2: Take an eight ball from the pool table.
I guess step 3 would be “Don’t get caught,” but I figure that’s implied. I, personally, have never been caught—mostly because I never go to the same bar twice. I’m not about to go down in history as the infamous “ball thief.”
I know what you’re thinking: Bree, that’s insane, but trust me—it works. Any time shit goes wrong in my life, I head to a bar I’ve never been to before, and I steal one. That time Hadley, my best friend since college, left me on read for three days? I swiped an eight ball from a karaoke bar in a part of town I hardly ever go to. She texted me back the next day. The day I forgot to take my birth control after letting my Tinder date raw me? I hit up the Irish pub a few blocks from my apartment. Was raising a toast to a negative pregnancy test a few weeks later.
The only other people at Dirty Dee’s are a few old men nursing beers at the bar, a group of college-age girls sitting in a corner booth, and, unfortunately for me, Pike, the bartender who I hooked up with in the bar bathroom once. Not knowing he had a girlfriend. Whoops.
The lack of a crowd makes me feel naked as I put my dollars into the pool table, wincing as the balls clang into position. I feel heads turn, but I don’t look up. I focus on the scent of stale beer and pizza dough that wafts through the bar. I count to five. I have to act natural. I can’t just take off with a ball—I need it to look like I’m actually going to play pool. You know. By myself.
The bottoms of my boots stick to the floor as I arrange the balls in a perfect triangle, eight ball in the center. You’d think after stealing so many, I’d at least learn how to play the damn game. The reality is: I suck at pool. Always have. I have no idea how to hold the stick or which order you’re supposed to sink the balls. Anyone who watches me play can see right through me, which is why I try to go to bars only on busy nights. My plan of attack: Find an available pool table, rack up the balls, shoot a few shoots. Try my best not to draw too much attention to myself. Then, as nonchalantly as I can, I grab my object of desire, settle any tab I’ve started, and sachet out the door.
And then the bar never sees me again.
The whole eight ball thing started about six months back, when Hadley and I decided to go to Phoenix for a random getaway. Why Phoenix? It was cheaper than Daytona Beach or Cancun. And as Hadley said, “If you’re gonna slut it up, we might as well do it on a budget.”
The young-professional life had been killing both of us. I was an office temp at an insurance company in town (not what I went to college for, but the best job I could find at the moment) and Hadley was working her first nursing job. The hours, the dress code, the lack of social life—everything about both our jobs sucked. So, we took a long weekend and did something only a couple of twenty-three-year-olds with entry-level paychecks and low-limit credit cards could do: Get the hell out of Chicago in the winter.
We were at this cowboy-themed place called the Mustang, about to play pool with a couple of, uh, talented-looking guys when I got the call from my mom. She was never the first to call me, so I already knew something was wrong. I pushed past drunk girls in cowboy hats who were all collectively screaming the words to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” as I made my way outside.
The warm Arizona air was a welcome surprise as I leaned up against the wall. Two graying men in Harley jackets watched me from the other side of the door.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, watching them out of the corner of my eye. I grabbed at a lock of my hair, winding it around my finger so tightly, I could feel my pulse.
“It’s your dad,” she said. The alcohol in my blood made the world feel like an upside-down snow globe. “He fell off the roof. We’re at the hospital right now.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. All the memories I had of my dad played in vivid color. The time he taught me how to ride a bike. The time he dropped the entire turkey on the floor at Thanksgiving. Every time he’d stay home from work to take care of me when I was sick as a kid.
“The roof?” I said. “Why the hell was he on the roof?” I made eye contact with one of the bikers. He held up a cigarette in my direction as the other man brought a lighter to his lips. I waved them off.
“We had a small tree limb fall on the house. Nothing major, but instead of calling a professional like I told him to, he decided to be a hero, and now here we are.” From across the country, I heard my mom break into tears. I pulled at my hair three times. I don’t know why I have these little ticks, but they help me calm down. Well, sometimes.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” I heard her choking back more tears, trying to pull herself together for me. The bikers felt a million miles away. Hadley and the hot cowboy were on another planet. The warm air felt like a cruel joke.
“I’ll fly back.”
“No, it sounds like you’ve been drinking,” she said. “Just stay where you are.”
“No, I need to be there.”
I heard rustling from her end. Or maybe that was the roaring in my ears. My dad is dying, my thoughts murmured. My dad is dying. He’s going to be dead. I’m about to not have a dad.
“Okay. I’ll Venmo you some money for a plane ticket.”
“You don’t need to—”
There was rustling on the other end. “I gotta go,” she said. “The doctor’s here. I’ll call you later.”
I think the bikers tried to say something to me as I went back inside, but I didn’t hear it. The world was warped. I was drunk and couldn’t stop picturing my dad’s funeral. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was playing over the TouchTunes—a song that would usually get me dancing on tables. At this point, I just wanted to crawl under one and stay there.
“What was that?” Hadley asked when I returned to the pool table. The guys who were playing with us were gone.
“I need to leave.”
“Are you sick?”
“No, I just . . .” I choked on my own grief. “My dad’s in the hospital. He fell off a fucking roof or something.”
Hadley threw her arms around me, cooing in sympathy. I let myself sink into the warmth of her body. “Is he gonna be okay, B?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Jesus, not even my mom knows. Ugh.” I wiped tears from my face, a black streak of mascara appearing on my hand.
“Let’s go cash out. You’re gonna be okay.”
My brain was in a spin cycle. “How do you know?” I asked as panic clenched my throat. “No one fucking knows!”
“I know because . . . uh . . . fucking . . . you have this!” She grabbed the eight ball from the table and handed it to me. “Take this with you. It’ll bring you luck or something.”
“Whatever,” I said, but grabbed onto the ball. The weight of it was somehow soothing as I passed it from hand to hand, following Hadley to the bar.
And the thing was, my dad made a full goddamn recovery. Well, he had to relearn how to walk since his left leg was completely shattered, but still, he was alive.
Ever since then, this has been my thing: Shit hits the fan, I steal an eight ball. And if I can steal this one, I won’t have cancer. Right as I’m wondering if I should say fuck it and grab the ball from the table, I’m faced with a brown-haired, blue-eyed distraction.
“You gonna order something, or just hog the pool table all night?” Pike has wandered over to where I’m standing and is now staring down at me, just a few inches away from where we were standing the last time he approached me.
“I’m just practicing,” I say as I pick up a cue from the rack. “If you need me to order something, I’ll take a PBR.”
“Piss beer?” he asks. He scratches his ribs with one hand and leans against the table with the other. God, he’s so skinny. As a gal with some meat on her bones, I was actually worried about snapping him in half that fateful night in the men’s bathroom. “C’mon, Bree, you’re better than that.”
“No, I’m really not. But what I actually am is a paying customer, so if you want my money, you should go get my beer.”
Pike leans down, his lips brushing against my ear. My eyes dart around the bar to see if anyone is seeing this, but no one’s looking at us. “You know I don’t want your money.” His stale breath makes me want to gag. “I know what you came back for.” This douche reaches for my face and has the nerve to push a lock of hair behind my ear.
It only takes one hand to shove him away. “Gross,” I say. “Can you just fuck off and get me my beer? I didn’t come back here to hook up with you again—if I knew you’d be here, I would’ve gone somewhere else.”
Pike’s face drops as he steps away from me. “Not so happy to see me this time around, are you?”
I shrug. “It was a one-time thing. Move on.” I remove the rack from the balls and position the cue ball. Pike knows I suck at pool. I was actually in the process of attempting to steal an eight ball the night we hooked up. It was one of those nights I couldn’t sleep because I just kept focusing on how hopeless my life was. I wasn’t using my degree. I was tens of thousands of dollars in debt. I’d probably never find real love. I’d probably never really be happy. I hated that the college-girl era of my life was over. I didn’t want to get older.
After hours of tossing and turning, I realized there was only one thing I could do to reassure myself that I was going to be okay. And that was to put on some black skinny jeans, go down the street to Dirty Dee’s and sneak off with an eight ball. I hadn’t even started a game of pool yet when Pike approached me, and well, sometimes hooking up with a random bartender in a grungy bathroom gives you all the confidence you need.
It was the only night one of my little heist missions wasn’t a success.
The next day, I decided to stalk Pike on Instagram, and discovered he had a girlfriend.
Asshole.
“No need to get nasty,” he says, “I’ll be right back with your Bud Light.”
“PBR,” I say. Whatever beer he brings me, I’m not drinking it.
His lips tighten and his eyes narrow at me before he heads back to the bar. God. Only douchebags smirk like that.
I squeeze my hands together five times. Am I a bad person for the way I talked to Pike? Did I lead him on before?
As if they were the laugh track to my life, the group of girls in the corner start to giggle over the chorus of “You Give Love a Bad Name.” They’re too wrapped up in their conversation to notice me. Pike’s back is to me. It’s the perfect time to swipe the eight.
I have to admit, seeing a group of girls like that brings me back to when my friends still hung out with me on a regular basis. Gone are the days of buying each other green-tea shots and swapping dating-app war stories. Within the last few months, Hadley has become more busy than ever with her new work schedule, and all my other friends have moved out of town.
I did get to hang out with Hadley a couple weeks ago. It was her first free Saturday night in a while, and I was pumped that we’d be able to hit the bars together like old times.
But then things got weird.
And when I say weird, I mean she found the box of eight balls I keep in the back of my closet.
She was getting ready at my place, complaining about how none of her going-out tops look good on her anymore. I told her she could borrow one of mine, not thinking she would dig too deeply in my closet.
“Ugh, do you have anything that’s not red?” she asked, swiping the hangers along the metal rod.
“Not really,” I said, sitting on the floor in front of my full-length mirror. I was putting the finishing touches on my hair, not paying attention to where she was rummaging in my closet. “I look hot in red.”
“Yeah, well, I look like Bob the Tomato. Are you sure you don’t have anything stashed in the back?”
“What am I, the cashier at TJ Maxx? No, I don’t have anything stashed in the back.” My burnt finger pulsed, making my body feel unbalanced. I knew I wouldn’t feel right unless I touched the index finger on my other hand to the heat, as well. “Fuck,” I muttered.
“Oh yeah? Then what’s in this . . . holy shit.”
Holding my finger, I turned around, hoping she hadn’t just found what I thought she’d found. Why I didn’t think Hadley would open my box of shame, I have no idea, but she did, and now she was standing in front of me, staring down at a banker’s box that was the home of seventeen stolen eight balls.
“Bree,” Hadley said. “What the actual fuck?”
I didn’t know what to say. I tried so hard just to be cool. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I need to clean out my closet soon.”
“Have you been stealing these balls from bars?”
“No!” I said. “My, uh, great-uncle collected them, and I ended up with them when he died.”
“Bitch, you don’t have a great-uncle,” Hadley said. “Jesus, Bree, that was just my pathetic attempt to get you out of crisis mode. That was six months ago!”
I couldn’t tell her that even though it was stupid, it worked. The eight ball did get me out of crisis mode, and my dad was alive because of it, and every other ball I’d stolen had done the same thing: saved my life.
But instead, I threw my hands up. “I like collecting them. Sue me.”
“Bree. This is, like, a problem. I’m kinda worried about you. That had nothing to do with your dad getting better. You know that, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Obviously. Now get off my case and let’s hit the bars. Here—” I threw a black fringe jacket I’d slung over my bed frame at her. “Just take this. You’ll feel like a new woman with that jacket.”
We went about our night, hopping from bar to bar, and Hadley had seemed to put the eight-ball fiasco out of her head. We talked about the hot doctors she worked with. About my upcoming Pap smear. We shot the shit and reminisced about simpler times. It should’ve been a good night, but I kept thinking about how Hadley had touched a few of the eight balls in my closet. Would that make them lose some of their magic?
I tried to snap myself out of the thought, but I couldn’t. Of course, I don’t actually believe in magic. But, what if I’m wrong for not believing? What if the eight balls really have been pulling me out of bad situations this whole time? What if Hadley finding them would reverse all the good they’ve done?
I knew these thoughts were ridiculous. I considered telling Hadley, especially the several times she asked me what was wrong that night. I just couldn’t look her in the eyes and tell her I was worried that the eight balls were magic. And, would telling her make them less magic? I wished there was an eight-ball holy text I could consult—that I could learn the dos and don’ts of this weird-ass ritual I’d come up with.
After Hadley had gone home that night, I grabbed the banker’s box from my closet. I needed to somehow purify the balls but . . . how? I dumped them onto my bed, kneeling over them. They clinked together as they pooled to the center of my mattress. I ran my hands over their glossy, round bodies.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Oh god, I thought, am I actually insane?
Does Hadley think I’m crazy now?
Am I going to be alone forever?
Is death coming for me?
In an act of pure desperation, I picked up one of the eight balls and brought it to my mouth. I felt like I was watching myself from the outside as I pressed my lips to it. It smelled like resin and tasted dirty, like licking someone’s shoe.
This is disgusting. What the hell am I doing?
I got off my bed and walked over to the door. I needed to go for a walk.
I got to the stairs when it all hit me at once.
Hadley’s mad. Dad’s gonna die. You’ll be alone.
I ran back into my room, my thoughts taking over. I sat back on the bed and kissed each ball, individually, until there was no doubt in my mind that whatever pool gods I’d created would be happy again.
I put all the eight balls back in their box and laid down, worried that this was going to be my life now.
And it was. Because here I am, adding one more to my collection to make sure I don’t have cervical cancer.
I don’t even wait around for Pike to bring me my beer. I grab the eight ball from the perfect triangle I’ve arranged on the table and stuff it in my purse. I don’t give a shit if he yells at me for not paying for the beer I ordered. I’ll tell him there was an emergency, and I have to go. Except, would telling him there’s an emergency make a real emergency manifest? Fuck, what should I tell him?
“Oh my god!” one of the girls at the corner table says as I pass them. “I love your outfit!” I’m wearing a black turtleneck and distressed jeans. It’s not my usual “going to the bar” look, as it lacks visible skin and the color red.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to move along.
“Do you need a pool partner?” another one of the girls says. “You seem really cool—maybe you can show us how to play?
“Sorry, but I gotta go.” I make my way to the door, not slowing down to see if Pike is yelling after me or not. Maybe I should’ve stayed, had my beer, made friends. But as I hoof it to the nearest bus stop, bag clutched at my side, I feel a surge of relief.
I’m going to be okay.
I have to be. 
Elaina Smith lives in Chicago. Her work has appeared in New Plains Review, Goat’s Milk Magazine, and Central Review. She currently has zero eight balls hidden in her closet.
Illustration: Calum Heath
