Brokeback Billiards

I’ve got to be honest with you: I have no wish to be known as a good bar box player. It’s my contention that if you can play pool on a regulation table you should be able to handle yourself on the small tables as well. In fact, as I recall, back when I could actually play this game I had a hard time missing on a bar table, even at times when a miss was in order.

In addition, as regards my playing now, I don’t think playing on the small tables is doing anything for my game. Yet, since there’s not much going on in the local pool rooms, I find myself playing in bar tourneys three nights a week. And that’s it. No mas, no mas. So, when I was recently invited to join a bar pool league, I declined. Most of my pals from the bar tour play every night of the week, including two nights, Mondays & Wednesdays, set aside for leagues. Guess they don’t have much going on at home.

Anyway, I was asked to sub this past Wednesday and, because it didn’t involve a season long commitment, I said I would. I won my four games so I don’t have to carry any guilt around for letting the guys down. But as far as the league experience goes, it’s not for me. Too much high-fivin’!

I come from the pre-touchy-feely generation. I don’t believe guys should be touching other guys except to shake hands when it’s appropriate or to knock someone on their freakin’ ass. I lost my appetite for bowling when it turned into a high fivin’ marathon. Not only did my fellow bowlers feel the need to celebrate their camaraderie after every frame, some wanted to touch hands after every ball! That’s ten frames, times two balls, times four other guys, times three games… God, it boggles the mind.

Speaking of God, the “give your neighbor the sign of friendship” hand holding is a big reason why I gave up church going.

If I win a game, tell me “Good game.” If I make a good shot, say “Nice shot.” That’s all I require. That’s all I want. If you feel the need to touch somebody, go console my opponent.

The Christmas Meucci: A Christmas Story by Ace Toscano

(Here's an Xmas tale from the side-pocket of my mind.

It began like any Christmas Eve. I had a little too much eggnog at the office party and I'd spent a little too much time in the supply closet with Tina, the accounting department's administrative assistant. By the time I arrived home I was wasted, so I laid down for a nap knowing full well that when I awakened the entire room would be filled with gifts. That's how my Christmases went.

When I awoke, the room was indeed filled with presents, most notably the new pool cue, a Meucci Gambler, I had been hoping for. Also present was a package, a large red one, that I hadn't been expecting. It was Santa himself. He was sitting on my sofa, leaning forward, his head in his hands, obviously distraught about something. Oh, and one more thing, his white gloves were soaked with deep red blood.

I watched him for the longest time, not knowing if he realized I had awakened. Certainly, I was curious, but beyond that I became extremely uncomfortable, especially when his sobbing gave way to uncontrollable weeping. I feigned a coughing fit and punctuated it with a few, "Oh brothers," until, finally, Santa turned my way.

"I know you're there, Michael," he said. "You don't have to cough."

"It's just my throat," I said lamely, grabbing my Adam's apple to illustrate.

"Keep it up," he said, "and I'll take back the stick. You know what Santa thinks of liars... don't you?"

He was alluding to the dry Christmas of 1954 when I had told that whopper about Lorraine Fish. I had been 7 at the time. "Don't remind me," I said.

He wiped the tears from his face, then blew his nose. "Don't give me reason to."

"Well... uh... I was trying to get your attention... I felt funny, awkward, watching you cry. I didn't think you realized I was awake."

"That's more like it," he said. There was a trace of a smile on his lips. "You're a good boy, Michael."

"Hardly a boy, Santa. But thanks."

"Don't kid yourself, Michael. You're still very much a boy... which is why... why I still come round to see you each year."

I took a moment to look around the room. I scanned the walls, the tree, all the ornaments, and, of course, the gifts. I checked out everything except Santa's blood-soaked gloves. I could feel his eyes on me.

"Something on your mind, Michael?" he asked.

"Oh, nnn..." He lowered his brow disapprovingly. "Well, yeah."

He was waiting.

"Well, I was wondering about all the blood... on your gloves."

He glanced at his hands, looked up at me, then back at his hands again. I watched closely as the corners of his mouth curled up ever so slowly until he broke into the brightest grin. Then he exploded into a fit of that uproarious laughter he's noted for, the kind that can't be duplicated by any dime-store imposter. It almost subsided a couple times, only to rise up again with more ferocity. Finally, he laughed himself out. He looked at his gloved hands front and back, then extended them towards me. "Last minute wagon work, Michael," he said. "It's paint." He read my skepticism. "Go ahead...," he said, laughing again. "Smell!"

I did. It was paint, alright.

Santa chuckled. "Well, Michael" he mused, "you always have had a grim imagination."

"Oh?" I observed. "I didn't realize that."

Suddenly somber, Santa rose to his feet. "It's not really important. But what is important is that I get on my way. Lots of stops to make."

"Lots of children," I added.

"Yes, lots of children," Santa agreed, as he made a move toward the fireplace. He pointed to the cue case protruding from my stocking. "Custom made," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "Thanks for everything. It was nice seeing you again. I mean, I expect you to come every year, and it's always obvious on Christmas morning that you've been here - but as far as actually seeing you... it's been a long, long, time."

"I suppose so... though I do see you every year, and sit with you a while."

"I didn't realize that. I guess I figured..."

"That I was in too much of a hurry?"

"Yeah... I guess."

"Well, I'm not... not for you or any of my special children."

Santa surveyed the room as if taking a final inventory. Then, something occurred to me. "But, Santa?"

"Yes?"

"You were crying."

He nodded. "Can't help that. I'll try not to wake you next year."

"You don't mean you cry every year!"

"I do."

"Oh... I didn't know that." I thought about that a few seconds, then asked, "Why, exactly?"

Santa thought hard about my question. It seemed as if he were debating whether or not it would be wise to confide in me. "Because I remember, Michael."

"Remember?"

"Yes, remember. I remember the first time we actually spoke. That night..."

"Oh, yeah," I said. All at once, I felt a surge of emotions, though I couldn't pinpoint their source. "I was crying, wasn't I?"

Santa sat down beside me and set his hand on my knee. "And praying."

"Praying?"

"Yes, praying... Don't you remember?"

I couldn't for the life of me.

"You were praying for God to take you away from here. You wanted to be with Him."

"No kidding," I said, a little embarrassed. "Praying to die. Pretty heavy stuff for a kid to be thinking about."

"Indeed," agreed Santa, "pretty heavy."

"And crying," I reiterated.

"And crying," confirmed Santa. "Do you remember why, Michael?"

"Oh...," I said, thinking aloud. "The old man, probably. He probably beat the hell out of me for something or other. Right?"

"That's right. He beat you because he caught you tossing a piece of tinsel into the air."

"Tinsel... Yeah, he did a lot of hollerin' and screamin' about tinsel... It was a touchy subject for him."

"... and he kicked you a few times, and smacked you, and chased you up the steps, screaming and flogging you with his belt and promised to give you more of the same if you stepped one inch out of your room... I probably shouldn't be telling you all this. Forgive me, Michael."

"It's okay, Santa. Really! I mean, no big deal. Stuff like that happened lots of nights."

"But, that..." said Santa, almost crying again, "that was my night. That was Christmas Eve." He composed himself. "Anyway, I heard you praying, and came down to see you, to tell you I cared about you."

"And you promised you would come back to see me every year. I do remember that," I recalled, triumphantly.

"And, I do. And I will," said Santa.

I thought about that for a long moment. "Jeez, Santa... I'm thirty-seven years old, now. Maybe..." I don't know why, but as the thought entered my mind, I began to cry. "Maybe, I'm too old for Christmas."

That's when Santa put his arms around me. "No, no, no, Michael," he said softly. "You'll never be too old for me."

THE END
© 1998-2005 by Ace Toscano