The last thing I remember was leaving the pool hall. And that smell.
Like most billiards joints, this one was on the second floor. It sat above a massive fabric emporium boasting in brilliant red neon that they sold 'Over a million feet of fabric.'
We were leaving around 3 or 4 a.m. and I kept looking up at her wondering if I was walking too fast or if she was just too goddamn slow. As fucked up as I was, I remember questioning whether she had let me win. I mean, I'm no Minnesota Fats, but I can certainly hold my own. And while the game was relaxed, she seemed to cave just a little too easy.
As payment, she owed me a lapdance. No one plays for money anymore. I looked up at her again and thought that she was just way too hot for me. Stumbling a bit, I kept reminding myself that I wasn't dreaming, but the more I did, the foggier everything felt. I started to float.
Hazy and stupefied, the fall down the stairs probably should have killed me but the crickety banister helped my pudgy midsection surf its way down the concrete flight.
I woke up in a hospital a few days later. My mouth felt like cotton.
The doc assures me that I can live on one kidney.
The detectives tell me they're looking for her and whatever underground operation outfit she's with and that the papers didn't get wind of the story. But it was just a matter of time.
I clicked my morphine drip. That's the last thing I needed -- explain to my mother that while I played pretty good off the rail that night, her little boy got hustled for his kidney.