Sharking Yourself: Watching Stocks Drift By

Speaking for myself, I prefer TVs in the area of the poolroom where I am playing be tuned to ESPN or a MLB game. I’m a big fantasy baseball player and I’m interested in the latest scores and the latest news. Distracting? No, I don’t get wrapped up in the action, I just passively glance at the screen now and then between turns. And, I’d like to think the majority of pool players are sports fans just like I am. Unfortunately, they’re not. Preferences in the poolrooms I frequent include soap operas, the animal channel and, God help us all, Fox News. To be honest, I like it when someone I’m playing has their eyes focused on the closed captioning during a match – they’re not into the game. But, it’s when opponents sit with their eyes glued to stock quotes as they slide across the screen, especially in the midst of today’s troubled market, that I get the urge to double up on the bet. How can anyone concentrate on a simple game of pool while their money’s going down the drain?

Not that I’m not interested in the market. I am. To tell the truth I’ve got a considerable amount of change invested in the market. The key word here is “invested.” I’m not a day trader – I’m in for the long haul. When the market does bounce back, and it’s bound to, the funds and stocks I’m invested in will bounce back with it. I’m as confident in that as I am in the fact that sun will come up tomorrow. For the record these are the funds I’m invested in: DODFX, FAIRX, GABAX, MERDX, RYOCX, VEXMX, VFIIX, VFSTX, VTSMX and VWIGX. I did a lot of research before I made theses investments and I’m confident that in the long run they are going to do all right for me. I don’t have to watch the minute to minute or day to day fluctuations in price. In fact, I’ve developed the habit of checking the closing prices only once a week, on Fridays after the market closes.

So, to sum things up, if the competition is all wrapped up in the market or in the jabber of Fox New’s talking heads, I don’t mind a bit. In fact, I encourage it with some well placed comments of my own, like “goddamned liberals,” or “the market’s in the crapper again.” It’s a good thing if their minds wander away from the game – good for me, anyway.

CSI: Poolroom

Jimmy De Jesus and Rowdy Bryant were still playing nine-ball on table one as Tizzie worked his way around the poolroom covering up tables, collecting house cues and stooping down here and there to pick up fallen pieces of chalk.
“Make that the last set, guys,” he said as he set the last cover down on the counter beside the two combatants and carried the box back to the storeroom.
“Jeez, Tiz,” complained Rowdy, “I’m in the middle of a come back.”
“We can see the end tomorrow. It’ll be like a cliffhanger.”
“C’mon,” pleaded Rowdy, “Just one more set.”
“No. I gotta get out of here.”
Tizzie didn’t mention that he hadn’t seen Bob Casey and Mary in four days. It wasn’t like the old couple to stay away like this. And tonight they hadn’t been there to watch the 9-ball tournament. He couldn’t remember the last time they had missed a Thursday night. As soon as he locked the doors, he was going to head over to their trailer to see what was up.
Jimmy D cut the eight into the side sending the cue ball four rails around table for a straight-in shot on the nine.
“Lucky bastard,” growled Rowdy as he swept the nine down table with the side of his stick. “Next time, I want the eight, you hustlin’ piece of shit.”
“You must be kiddin’,” laughed Jimmy D. “I’m not givin’ you eight o’ anythin’.”
“Ask Teasdale! He’ll tell ya – you’re sposed to give me the eight. Right, Tiz?”
“You’re supposed to play better,” answered Tizzie as he collected the balls and placed them in their tray.
“See,” said Jimmy D. “I tol’ you – no eight!”
Tizzie rolled out the cloth. “Don’t let the door hit yous in the ass.”

* * * * *

The light was on in the trailer and he could hear the TV, but no one was answering his knock. Again, Tizzie pounded the door with his fist. “Bob. Mary. It’s me, Tizzie. Everything okay in there?”
As he pounded, he noticed that the door almost caved in from the force. Without hesitating, he drove his shoulder thru the door. He was engulfed immediately by the putrid smell of death. “Oh, my freakin’ God.”
Covering his nose with a handkerchief, he entered the living room. Bob sat alone on the sofa. Before him on the coffee table were two empty bottles of vodka and one half full.
“Guess you’re off the wagon, eh, Bob?”
Bob turned his head slowly, squinting as though through a fogged up windshield.
“What’s going on, Bob? Where’s Mary?”
“Oh, Mary,” sobbed Bob. “My beautiful Mary.”
Tizzie made his way through the kitchen and down to the bedroom. He didn’t want to look, but he had to. There on the bed lay Mary. Maggots were swarming on her face. As he turned away, repulsed, his eyes stopped on a photograph that sat atop the dresser. It pictured a young couple laughing, their arms lovingly wrapped around each other as they huddled beneath a beach umbrella. A signature moment, he thought as he made his way back to the living room.
“My beautiful beautiful Mary,” repeated Bob. “How is she?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” said Tizzie as he picked up the phone, “but she’s starting to lose her looks.”