It took Eric Flintoff more than two weeks to gather enough courage to return to the bar. His fear of running into Red hadn’t diminished, but more than two weeks away from the darts room at Charlton’s Corner Bar and Grill was a torture he could no longer endure. If Red happened to turn up, so be it. A person can’t live in fear forever.

“Huh? Nah, hasn’t been around,” said Alan, the bartender. “What’ll it be?”

“You’re positive?”

“Are you going to buy a drink or what? I’ve got things to do.”

Eric looked down the length of the bar. A line of empty bar stools flickered in the light from two flat screens perched high above a hundred half-filled bottles of liquor. Three old men sat together at one table toward the back of the room, the only other patrons in the bar. Their features were little more than blurred smudges in the dim light, but Eric still recognized them as regulars. Not the faces--they change from night to night. It was the familiar sense of gloom surrounding the men, rising from their pores like an airborne contagion. Eric never spoke to regulars. He never spoke to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

“If you’re just going to stand there like a stuffed haddock, I’ll get back to my real work,” said Allan, motioning to turn away. “Now do you want a drink or not?”

Eric briefly considered reminding Alan that he’s employed in a service industry, and that in all the time he’s been coming to the bar, he’d never ordered anything but a Sam Adams. But Eric, along with every other regular at the bar, had grown a layer of immunity to Alan’s gruffness, even if the bartender’s ‘real work’ involved nothing more strenuous than catching up on the latest baseball scores and checking in with his bookie.

“Give me a Sam.”

Eric paid with a dollar tip and walked down the far end of the bar. To his left were the bathrooms, to his right an open archway that led to a darkened darts room. He entered the archway and flicked on the lights. The fluorescents flickered a few times before bathing the elongated darts room in bright light. He winced at the stark glare, but still managed a contented sigh. Momentary discomfort from the lights was a small price to pay for such a useful deterrent to the bar’s regulars. A few steps in and his smile broadened as the noxious waft of the toilets, sweat and stale beer was replaced by the musty odor of chalk and the fresh-paint smell of three relatively new bristle dart boards. It was like crossing the border into a foreign country. For the first time in more than two weeks, Eric felt at home.

He began with a few simple practice throws at doubles, the diminutive outer ring less than a third of an inch wide. Eric never practiced for long. 501 was the main event and was the only game Eric played. If the contents in the cardboard box under his bed were any indication, Eric had some talent. But he hadn’t played in a tournament in over a year, and his retirement from competitive darts had come at the unlikely age of twenty-nine.

For the next hour, Eric drank beer and threw darts, always playing against the same unseen opponent, and always keeping one eye on the open archway. He’d picked a Tuesday night for his return to the bar because they were usually quiet and so far, he’d had the place all to himself.

But just as he began to consider the heady possibility that his isolation might last until closing, a hand slapped him on the shoulder blade. Whoever it belonged to had been able to sneak into the darts room unseen and expecting the worst, Eric spun around to face his attacker. But after an initial moment of confusion, relief washed over him.

“Shit, Stanley, you scared the crap out of me.”

Stanley, who at five foot five and ninety pounds wringing wet, rarely scared anything larger than a squirrel.

“You should see your face, Flintoff,” he yelled, breaking into fits of laughter. “What the hell’s got you so nervy?”

Eric’s face became flushed with anger. “Haven’t you got better things to be doing than sneaking around like a God-damned weasel?”

Stanley’s smile faltered. “A weasel. That’s a bit harsh.”

“If you’re going to play, go down the board near the arch instead of right next to me like you always do.”

Stanley, whose smile had now disappeared completely, looked down at the empty dart board and then back to Eric. “Always the same with you, Flintoff. One of these days you’re going to bark at the wrong person and get your ass kicked.”

Eric said nothing as he began practicing throwing bull’s eyes. Ignoring Stanley was the only way he was going to get any peace and quiet. But Stanley wasn’t ready to leave and threw his darts case on the table next to Eric’s half empty beer glass.

“One of these days I’m going to get you to play me again, and when you do, I’m going to beat you. That’s a promise.”

Eric walked to the board and retrieved his darts. Then he lined up again.

“Come one, Eric. Just one game. For old times’ sake. You can’t play on your own forever. Besides, I heard you played someone here a few weeks ago. Word is you won a tidy sum. So why not play me?”

Eric froze mid-throw. He turned to Stanley. “What did you hear about that?”

Stanley’s smile returned. “Just that you and someone called Red had a few games. That’s big news around here, not just because you played, but I heard you played as a righty. And you won.”

Eric took a few steps toward Stanley. “What else did you hear? How do you know Red?”

Stanley took a step backward. “Hey, settle down. It’s just bar talk. You know, you hear this and that. And I wouldn’t know Red from Orange. We’ve never met. So is it true? Did you win?”

“Stanley, why can’t you just leave me in peace?”

“I don’t get you Flintoff. You come here all the time, nearly every night. We used to talk and now you don’t talk to anyone. You only ever throw on your own. Christ, it’s been more than a year since Ben--“

Stanley’s words were cut off as Eric lunged forward and grabbed the front of his t-shirt. “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you, Stanley.”

“Let me alone, will ya. Jesus, anyone’d think you’re off your meds or something.”

“Whatever you think you know, it’s got nothing to do with what happened to Ben. Understand?”
Stanley nodded and Eric let go of his shirt. He suddenly felt ashamed. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just not interested, that’s all. I don’t play competitive darts anymore, full stop. The game you’re talking about, well, all I’ll say is that it wasn’t my choice to play.”

“Wasn’t your choice?”

“Red was drunk, and I mean stinking mean drunk if you know what I mean, and insistent that we play for money. I refused and was promptly promised a dart in a place that would cause a great deal of discomfort if I didn’t play.”

Stanley’s eyes widened. “Wow. That’s pressure. I’m impressed.”

“You don’t understand. Red was in no state to play, could hardly even stand. There was no pressure.
That’s why I switched to playing as a righty.”

“And you didn’t get the ... you know?”

“No.”

“How much money did you win?”

Eric face reddened. “You never know when to stop do you? What does it matter how much?”

“It doesn’t. So how much?”

“I don’t know. Quite a bit. Maybe a hundred.”

“While Red was drunk as a skunk? No wonder you haven’t been around here lately. I bet he’s been looking for you.”

Eric opened his mouth to say something and then changed his mind. But his surprised look was enough for Stanley almost fall over laughing. Eric turned back toward the board.

“Yeah, it sure is funny, Stanley. Hilarious. Now let me throw some darts. On my own.”

Stanley shook his head, picked up his darts, and trudged down to the far end of the room. Eric continued the silent treatment and ten minutes later, even as he passed Stanley on the way to the bar, not a word was exchanged.

He passed under the archway, but had only taken a few steps when his breath caught in his throat. Standing at the bar and in the middle of a heated exchange with Allan the bartender, was Red.

Perhaps distracted by Eric’s entrance, Red turned and saw him. “You!”

Eric took a step back. He tried to stem a growing feeling of panic. Options were limited. The only real escape was the other side of the bar, but first he’d have to get past Red.

“You!” A long thin finger was pointed in Eric’s direction. “So you finally show your face, you slimy bastard.” Red’s nails were painted with shiny black nail polish. Anglo-Saxon runes ran up the length of each alabaster forearm, the symbols tattooed with a precision that Eric couldn’t help but envy. Various rings of polished silver punctured Red’s fleshy skin above the brows, the nose and each ear lobe.
Eric took another step backward only to find himself stepping on Stanley’s toes.

“Jesus, Eric, watch out. Who’s this?”

Red took a few steps toward him and Eric backpedalled, once again stepped backward onto Stanley’s toes as he made his way back under the archway.

“You owe me a rematch,” demanded Red.

“I don’t owe you anything,” said Eric.

“The hell you don’t,” said Red.

“Wait a minute,” said Stanley. “You mean ... you can’t ... Flintoff! You mean this is Red?”

Eric had never in life experienced such a strong desire to crawl into a fetal ball and die a painless but quick death. There was no way to properly explain the situation to Stanley. And what was even more confusing was why, all of a sudden, it mattered so much that he be able to explain it.

“You’re giving me a rematch, or I’m going to kick your ass to Pottsville and back!”

Red was dressed like a man, with dark chinos and a grubby denim work shirt like she’d just finished a long shift in the filthiest grease monkey’s shop in town. Just like two weeks ago, Eric found himself drawn to the beauty of her eyes. Intelligent, blue pools that despite being glassy and bloodshot the last time they’d met, had still managed to silence his feeble objections like he’d been placed under a curse. The eyes. So out of kilter with her long crimson ponytail, gothic tattoos, and over-the-top facial hardware, but to Eric, they were all that mattered. Everything else became superfluous.

He opened his mouth to speak, but after a few seconds, closed it again.

This appeared to amuse Red, who smiled. Her voice softened. “I thought I’d find you here sooner or later. Pleased to see me are you?”

Eric’s initial shock began to subside, and with it came the realization that every syllable coming out of
Red’s mouth tonight was clear, with no hint of a slur.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, backing up another step. He was now inside the darts room. Red followed and they both began a kind of tandem dance, Eric backtracking and Red pursuing until they had moved all the way back to Eric’s table. Stanley followed, his mouth open in a look of bewilderment. Or was it amusement? Eric couldn’t tell.

“Darts is a great game, isn’t it, Eric?” said Red. “Wait, you don’t have to answer. I know you feel the same way. I discovered that two weeks ago when you took my three hundred dollars.”

Eric met Stanley’s eyes for a second, and then shifted his gaze to the floor.

“I didn’t want to play you. I said so many times,” Eric said, shuffling his feet on the worn carpet. He wanted to add ‘but you wouldn’t listen, you crazy bitch. You were so drunk you could hardly even stand up’.

“Blah, blah, blah. Boring, boring, boring,” said Red. “We’re here now, and we’re going to play.” Her tone left no room for debate. She produced a darts case and thirty seconds later was standing at the line, poised to throw. Her smile took on a familiar sideways tilt.

Eric reached for his wallet. “Here’s some of what I owe you. I can get the rest later.”

“Careful, Eric, or some people might take offence. I’m here to play darts, not accept charity. All I want is a chance to win my money back. Nothing more. Is that friendly enough for you?”

For one insane moment Eric was reminded of Glenn Close’s infamous line in ‘Fatal Attraction.’ I’m not going to be ignored, Eric. A boiled rabbit came to mind.

“Okay, I’m sure we can work something out. How about first I go to the bar and get us all a beer?” Eric suggested. His flight plan had been mapped out.

“Let me get the beers,” offered Stanley. Eric tried to imagine what Stanley would look like with a dart between the eyes.

Two weeks ago, Red, a tall, skinny and very drunk girl, had stumbled into the darts room. “You want a game or what?” she’d demanded, which came out sounding more like: Yawanna game or whah?
But when she’d lined up for her first practice throw, Red had launched a dart into the wood paneling six inches above the top of the board. It prompted Eric to try one more time to try and convince her not to play for money, but Red ignored him, instead shelling out a seemingly endless supply of twenties.
Eric had tried his best to stall by shooting low and missing doubles. But for all of Red’s insobriety, she had an uncanny way of picking out Eric’s more generous throws. Her first warning was emphasized by waving a dart within two inches of Eric’s nose. Her second involved a close call that grazed his right cheek. He didn’t need any further convincing.

Tonight, it was a much more upright Red that stepped up to the white line and without any hesitation threw three middle ‘bulls.’ Fump-Fump-Fump. There would be no need for any such deception tonight.
Stanley returned with three beers just in time to see Eric miss the bull with all three of his darts.

“Nervous, Flintoff?” asked Red. “And why are you throwing left handed? You threw right handed last time, I’m sure of it,” she said, her smile full of suspicion.

Eric’s face reddened. He’d had two weeks to try and understand how it had all happened. Why he had chosen to throw right handed for the first time in more than six months. He wanted to believe it was a move designed to even things up. But what happened next was totally unexpected. Before he knew what was happening, the excitement of competition had taken hold of him. He found his zone, and all of a sudden all he wanted to do was beat Red. Crush and ground her into oblivion. And that’s exactly what he did.

“Sometimes I have a little trouble playing as a righty,” he said, looking sheepish.

Red sat down at the table looking bemused. “You’re odd, Flintoff, that’s for sure. Throw right handed. I want to see.”

“No.“

“Do it,” she said.

Eric stepped up to the line as if hypnotized, and holding a dart in his right hand, located a spot just under the bull.

You can do this. It’s a simple, easy game. Just throw the dart at the spot. Breathe. Relax. Let it go.

But he couldn’t. His face strained with the effort and before he could stop himself, he overbalanced and stumbled forward over the white line.

He expected laughter--not from Stanley, who knows better and has seen it all before--from Red. But she remained silent and Eric couldn’t detect even a hint of amusement in her thoughtful gaze.
Unwilling to admit defeat, Eric moved back behind the line and prepared to throw. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, and running down the back of his neck.

Breathe. Relax. Let it go.

This time he did release.

“Not one of your better throws, Flintoff,” said Red, looking at the dart imbedded into the wood paneling beside the board. “I know you can throw better. I have empty pockets to prove it. Maybe you should play left-handed tonight.”

“Thanks. I think I will,” said Eric, wiping his brow.

“It wasn’t so long ago that you were ‘Riding the Flights.’ That’s what you called it, wasn’t it?” Red smiled.

“Yes, Riding the Flights. I like that saying. It sounds cool.”

So far tonight, Eric had consumed six Boston Lagers, which was generally a good number. Most nights it took Eric a minimum of four beers before he started throwing his best darts. Before Red’s arrival, Eric had scored the maximum 180 points twice, and most times, had managed to hit his winning double with his first attempt. ‘Riding the Flights’ was the term he and Ben had adopted to describe how it felt when they played in the zone.

“Are those stutters the reason you quit playing comps?”

Eric sighed. “Yes.”

“When did they start?”

He looked at Stanley, who shrugged.

“What do you care?” Eric asked. “Why don’t you just take my money and go?”

“Because I used to have a similar problem, that’s why.”

Eric was certain that not only was Red being truthful, but it was an admission that she’d shared with very few others.

“Why do you only play alone, Flintoff?”

“I don’t play alone. In fact I have the same partner every night.”

“An imaginary friend. How eccentric.” Red’s tone was playful, not taunting. “How about I take Ben’s place for tonight?”

You’re good enough for the State Titles.

The voice in Eric’s head came to him as it used to sound, not the gravelly, out-of-breath whisper that Ben was reduced to in his final few months. Before his illness, Ben had been a fair player himself, but never quite up to Eric’s standard. But Eric had found a way for his friend to keep winning.

He wondered how much he’d end up telling Red. He was so helpless around her, like a child. The longer they talked, the more likely it would be that she’d discover that his troubles at the dart board was just one of a hundred other symptoms he’d developed since his best friend’s death.

And then a stunning realization came to Eric. He had never mentioned Ben’s name to Red. He looked at Stanley and their eyes locked. There was a mutual, almost imperceptible nod of understanding between the two men.

“You lied to me, Stanley.”

Stanley grinned.

“Come on, let’s play, Eric,” said Red. “I have a feeling you’re going to be riding the Flights tonight.”

Eric stepped up to the white line, a broad smile on his face for the first time that night. “I certainly hope so, because after I beat you and take your money, I plan to empty Stanley’s wallet.”

Stanley winked at Red. Then he clapped his hands together and left for the bar to get another round.