Defiant Daisy #5

He didn't look like a genius; he looked more like someone who was somewhat lost. He moved with calculated hesitation, but his cocky stride belied the aloof attitude that he tried so hard to convey as he walked into the bar. He gazed around as if he had never been there before, even though he had come in on every shift I had worked that week.
As if he were on a track, he came up and sat on the first stool he saw, next to a lonely and bored looking man. “Vodka rocks,” he said, with the same bored tone that he had used the nights before. As I poured his drink, he went through the same motions – pulled a Treo out of his pocket, glanced at it, shook his head in disgust, and turned it off; took a big swig from the glass and sighed heavily. His mark was a man who could only be described as average and who possessed infinitely more disinterest than Jack could ever feign. He didn’t take the bait.
A cloud of annoyance passed through Jack’s faded blue eyes. He looked the man up and down, as if he could somehow gauge what would grab his attention from his worn suit and loosened tie. After a few more minutes of silence (and a few more swigs of vodka), he made his move. “Hard day?” Oh, please. You would think that a seasoned hustler would have more in his arsenal than pickup lines you’d find in Maxim.
The mark glanced over at Jack, and looked him up and down, as if judging whether or not a response was merited. After a lengthy pause, he sighed, said, “Sure”, and took another swig from his scotch.
Jack was obviously ruffled but did his best to hide it. Like a spoiled teenage girl, he did not know how to react to being ignored. Should he try again? Maybe with another fail-safe line from his arsenal? What if he moved down the bar, found another mark? No, no, this one’s too small and quiet – everyone had seen him get rejected the first time. His only option was to cling to what was clearly a sinking ship. And so, there he sat, like a deer in the headlights – trapped in a situation that he knew he couldn’t win.
I pretended to wipe down the bar and refill the ice as I continued to watch Jack’s chances unravel as quickly as the moments ticked by. He started to look more and more anxious. The mark, who continued playing up his disinterest and nursing his scotch, caught my eye and winked. He was a regular, and a fairly friendly guy. Generally kept to himself, tipped pretty well - the kind of customer you really want on a weekday happy hour like this one.
He finished his scotch, laid down his tip, and turned to Jack. “You play?”, he asked, gesturing at the pool table.
Now Jack looked disoriented. Either fate had smiled on him by laying completely easy prey in his lap, or something was seriously wrong.
He took a swig of his vodka to buy more time, looked over at his mark, and said, “Well, I used to. Sometimes.”
After a few moments of earth-shattering silence passed, Jack finally broke his disinterested silence. “You?” he asked, trying with all his might to maintain a semblance of indifference that had long since been lost.
The mark smiled, shot me a knowing look, said, “Maybe another time”, and strode out of the bar.
As the doors swung shut, Jack, without missing a beat, slid down the bar to another lonely businessman, and started again: “Vodka rocks.”