Page 30 of Just Beachy

A.J. angles his head in their direction. Fortunately, he doesn’t reach under the bar for a gun to toss my way.

Half-heartedly, I amble over to the pool table and flash my best Cassie Everheart smile. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?”

They stare at me.

I quirk an eyebrow like Cassie did on every episode. It was her trademark “Don’t mess with me or you’re definitely going to be sorry” eyebrow quirk.

“Wow, it really is you!” Player One says.

“Yeah, man, I told you!” says the other player.

I sigh. “Yes, it’s me. Now. Seriously. What’s going on?”

“He pushed the ten ball in with his finger!” Player One pointshisfinger at the side pocket, and I’m not sure if he’s demonstrating the finger that was used, or offering the ten ball in that particular pocket as proof.

“Is that true?” I speak to Player Two as if he’s an unruly child because that’s what these guys are. And because that’s how Cassie would have sounded.

“Huh-uh!” The accused shakes his head.

“Uh-huh!” the accuser fires back.

“Enough.” I reach into the pocket, retrieve the ball, and place it on the table. “Time to play nice.”

“Or what?” they chorus.

“You’ll have to leave.”

I wait for them to ask who’s going to make them leave like the would-be robbers Hulk One and Hulk Two did. But these two are still staring at me.

Finally, the accused looks at the ball and then at his opponent. “Sorry, man. My finger must have slipped.”

“Yeah. No problem. I can see how that might’ve happened,” the accuser replies.

They turn to me. “Thanks, Cassie,” Player One says.

“Yeah, thanks,” Player Two adds. “We’re gonna take that shot over.”

As I walk back to the bar, I have this weird feeling that I’ve somehow ended up in an episode ofThe Twilight Zone. (FYI—it’s a really cool TV series from the sixties, but you can stream it on a number of platforms.)

“Way to go, Cassie.” A.J. slaps me on the back. “I knew you were the woman for the job!”

When I reach our table, Kyra and Troy are attempting to suppress their laughter.

“Sorry!” Kyra is the first to apologize. “I just…Oh my God! Sorry!” She tries to hide her laughter by lifting her drink to her lips, but that turns out to be a messy move.

“Gee, thanks.” I try not to roll my eyes. Or laugh.

Then I remind myself that it’s not at all unusual for actors to have to cobble together part-time jobs before they land a regular gig. I have lost my regular gig and am sliding backward professionally inch by humiliating inch.

But in the meantime, I can be a bouncer. And a story time lady. And an acting coach/teacher.

Best of all, if I give acting classes at Myra’s bookstore, I’ll have a legitimate reason to turn to my students at some point and say, “Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!”

Sixteen

I live for the daywhen the bookstore is completely painted and Grand is able to start on her mural, though she hasn’t yet offered a clue as to what she’s planning, or how she’ll make it work in a space that needs to function for both children and adults.

Grand has already claimed the upstairs corner bedroom, which overlooks 10th Avenue toward the southernmost tip of Pass-a-Grille, where Bella Flora sits, and Gulf Way and Paradise Grille to the west, thereby providing southern and western exposures, as well as views that practically beg to be painted.

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