Aberlour stepped back several feet, hoping to make it more challenging.
It wasn’t.
“Well damn, son, I bet the Marines were real sorry to see you go!” he said, astounded and amused.
Maybe. Maybe not. Aberlour hadn’t given much thought to what the Marines had wanted when he’d signed his discharge papers and taken the money that had bought his silence about that last fucked up mission.
“I’m old,” he answered with a shrug, spinning the dart in his hands before throwing it at the remaining balloon. He flinched as it popped, the sound like a haunting echo of his past.
“Old?” The man laughed. “I could be your father!” he exclaimed in mock outrage.
“Then you’d be dead,” Aberlour said, before he thought it through.
He put his hands in his pockets and turned to face the old man, who was wearing a strange expression. Probably mostly concern.
“You ever hustled anyone at darts?” the old man asked.
“No,” Aberlour answered honestly.
“I think it’s a good day to start,” he replied. “Come on, kid. I’ll buy the first beer.” He gestured for Aberlour to come with him and headed towards the parking lot.
Aberlour looked at the booth, unsure what to do. It was his now. Shouldn’t he—close it up?
“It’ll be here when you get back, don’t worry. Old Betsy’s been here for years.”
As she had been, and she was for many years thereafter. Old Betsy the Balloon Booth. Once owned by an odd man named Frank Jones, who sold it to an old soul named Gavin Aberlour.
That night, Frank introduced Aberlour to the shitty bar on Main Street, and its equally shitty dart board. He chose a table at the far back, and waited for men to come up to them, looking for a challenge. Aberlour hadn’t played with anyone other than his own team in years. He was surprised to find that most people sucked more than the team ever had.
He’d hustled nearly $200 out of random jocks. Aberlour had let Frank keep it, glad that his aim could be used for good for once.
He came back to the bar every chance he got, but he never hustled anyone again. He simply sat and threw darts, waiting—he wasn’t sure what for.
Chapter 33
May 2015
Fair season began that year on the first Monday in May. Aberlour set up his booth and amused himself by people watching. He was in a prime location on the fair grounds at the corner near the deep-fried Oreos and a vomit-inducing ride that kids seemed to love. He didn’t even bother inciting people to try his game. He just—enjoyed the scenery.
Specifically, he liked to watch the man running the booth directly across from him. He was young and reminded him of Carlos. An incredibly campy version of Carlos. Nonetheless, the resemblance was remarkable. His short stature, dazzling smile and dark, Hispanic features were attractive in the same way Abe’s friend—brother—had been. His voice was vibrant and boisterous. Aberlour couldn’t help that his gaze tended to stray frequently to his neighbor’s stall when his own was empty.
Somehow, his neighbour must have sensed his interest, because one day, out of the blue, his neighbor made his way over to Aberlour’s booth. He held a glittery pink cane that he lightly tapped on the ground in front of him. Aberlour had seen him do it before. He’d assumed the man must be blind—and fashionable.
“Bartholomew Dawson the Third, but please call me Bart,” he said, extending his hand. His nails were painted a bright, carnation pink that matched his cane.
“Aberlour,” he’d answered, shaking the man’s hand.
“Like the scotch?” he’d asked, and Aberlour liked him instantly.
“Exactly,” he answered.
Bart wrinkled his nose in disgust and Aberlour smiled.
“I hate scotch, but Aberlour is the only one I’ll tolerate. My boyfriend’s really into it,” Bart remarked with friendly smile.
Abe wasn’t shocked to hear that Bart had a boyfriend. It was quite the opposite. But he was taken aback by how candid he was about it. Aberlour had about 10 years on Bart though, so he wasn’t exactly up on social trends these days.
“What’s your poison?” Abe asked, trying to be friendly, but he felt a bit rusty when making small talk. He wished, for an instant—a thought that quickly passed—that Oli was there to speak for him.
