Pool Room Psycho: A Short Story by Ace Toscano

If a guy studied culinary arts, would every one he ran into later in life embody a collapsed soufflé or some other cooking catastrophe? Stroker wondered because he had studied psychology back when he was in college and, ever since, his world had been invaded by one wacko after another. A reap what you sew kind of thing, he figured.

Golfers drove him crazy with their ritualistic behaviors, time-consuming pre-shot routines and idiotic superstitions which was why he had tossed out his clubs a dozen years ago in favor of the more serene game of pocket billiards.

Not to say the pool room was exempt from the intrusion of a variety of mental cases. It wasn’t. But, with a little luck you could avoid them most of the time. Of course, there were exceptions who would not be ignored, who insisted on getting in your face, nitwits who forced you to deal with their lunacy. Like Chris “O.C.” Delaney. O.C.D. had a compulsion that required everything in the pool room to be in its proper place – chalk, cues, stools, bridges, racks, ashtrays, TVs, everything. One day, not too long ago, he claimed that, while he had been circling the room noting the placement of various objects within his purview, Stroker had appropriated a bridge from his table transferring it to the table where he was playing. Stroker, who had been playing by himself, and who never used a bridge anyway when playing by himself, just looked at O.C. Delaney and said, “Are you out of your fucking mind, asshole?” And that was the end of that afternoon’s therapy session. No charge.

Early on in his working life, Stroker had driven cabs and limos, his income relying to a large extent on tips, so he was always conscientious about taking care of the girls who worked the counter at the pool room figuring a tip was one way of making their days brighter. He’d started off giving them a buck a day which seemed reasonable since he never ordered anything to eat and was spending less than two dollars on time. But the more he thought about it, a dollar tip seemed pretty paltry seeing as this was the 21st century and you couldn’t get much of anything for a buck. So, he raised it to two, boosting it to three or four on occasion. He tried not to be predictable, remembering back to psychology studies indicating intermittent schedules of reinforcement produced the best results. Then, at Christmas, he’d hit each girl with a ten. For this attention, he didn’t expect much in return, just a thanks and a smile. That was reward enough.

Whenever he hit Cookie, his favorite of all the girls, with a deuce she’d tell him he made her day. C’mon, he’d say, with two bucks? I wish it was more. Then, she’d say, really that’s the first I got today. Seems like most of the other dudes stiffed her on a daily basis.

He never went to grad school which was probably a mistake inasmuch as he might have learned there how best to handle the various mental deviants he had later been confronted with. Like that day when he was returning the balls and Cloey whispered to him through clenched teeth, a look of mortal terror on her face, instructing him to look down the bar to the guy playing the video game. He’s the devil, she said. Giving you a hard time? Stroker asked. No, I mean it. I looked into his eyes and I could see it. He is the devil. What should I do? Jeez, I don’t know, said Stroker. Look in my eyes. What do you see? She leaned forward and peered into his orbs for a long couple of seconds. Finally, after considerable consideration, she said, Green. Thank God, he said, bidding her a swift adieu. That was the last time he saw Cloey. She was canned. He didn’t ask why, but he suspected the devil had a hand in it.

Tina was one of those gals who called everybody Sweetie, Sweetheart or Honey, something he got used to in time. Most days he’d counter with a Darling or Sweetie Pie of his own and they got along pretty good. But, sometimes, when he hit her with a deuce she’d make a big thing about it and wrap her arms around him and give him a big squeeze which made him feel a little uncomfortable since it was just the smile and thanks he was shooting for. You don’t have to do that, he said one day. I’m not paying for your services. Well, this must have pissed her off because she wouldn’t take his money for a couple weeks forcing him to leave his tip laying on the counter while she lit out for the far end of the bar. Eventually, things returned to normal and when she started squeezing him again, he knew better than to open his mouth.

Regrettably, Tina moved on and was replaced by Jill who was so proud of her bosom she exposed as much of it as she could on a regular basis. She, too, was a Sweetie, Honey, Sweetheart kind of girl, but not in a friendly way, in a way that made Stroker a wee bit uncomfortable, like she was hitting on him and his sixty-four year old frame. Same with her hugs and squeezes. In particular, he didn’t like the way she ran her fingers up and down his arms. He thought of telling her but he realized she was just trying to be sexy and he didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t working. One day, he walks up to the counter and she looks like someone ran a hot poker up her hoo-hah. Something the matter? he asked. I’m having a panic attack, she announced. He had a vague idea of what she was going through having experienced, once upon a time, something similar behind pot and pcp. It seemed that blabbing was closely linked to her panic because she was carrying on non-stop, talking about medication and prescriptions she couldn’t get refilled because enough time hadn’t passed since her last refill and that the only reason she ran out in the first place being that she had loaned some pills to her girlfriend who, apparently, also benefited from their effects. I don’t know what to do, she cried. Call the doctor’s office again, Stroker suggested. Tell him you really need the pills. Worst he can do is say no. But she wasn’t listening. Now, she was saying how her roommate brought a couple guys home to the apartment in the middle of the night and she woke up and saw one of them standing over her and I started thinking maybe she wasn’t having a panic attack after all. Maybe, it was justifiable panic. Anyway, Stroker zigged while she zagged, and left her to her own devices. That was the last time he saw Jill.

Jill was replaced by Heather “The Sharpshooter” Remington, a young lady with pro tour aspirations as her nickname, premature as it might have been, indicated. It took a week or so before her name popped up on his facebook wall and he realized that she was already one of his facebook friends. This was added incentive for him to be nice to her, so when he found out she was selling sculptures of poolplayers like Johnny Archer and Earl Strickland on the internet, he critiqued her website since web sites, especially, pool web sites, were his business.

He saw a couple problems right off, the main one being that not once in the text, in the code or in the meta tag description or key words was the word “billiards” used. There were references to pool sculpture and pool art and pool prints made from the preliminary sketches, but, unfortunately, that wasn’t going to cut it. Search engines, in general, associated the word "pool" with those pits Jethro Beaudine used to refer to as cement ponds, and not with the game of pocket billiards. Next day, Stroker mentioned this to Heather figuring he’d give her the benefit of his expertise. Just google “pool art” he told her and you’ll come up with a bunch of stuff about swimming pools. You have to use the word "billiards." Unfortunately, she was not at all receptive to his input. Her friend who was working on the site was an expert, blah blah blah. And, he knew all there was to know, blah blah blah. Some expert, thought Stroker, whose site drew more traffic in a day than hers would in six months. But, he didn’t say another word on the subject. He just went home, got on facebook and unfriended her.

It must have taken her a couple weeks to realize he had unfriended her. It seems another of his fb friends mentioned a link he had posted which she soon discovered wasn’t available to her. Tough. Up until then, things had been going as smooth as always – Stroker leaving her a couple bucks, her responding with thanks and a smile. But, suddenly, she had developed a nasty attitude and was giving him the cold shoulder, and showing no gratitude whatsoever, which was okay with him since he had made up his mind to stiff her hence forth. Then, he noticed that others were paying a lot of attention to their interactions, like they were making sure he didn’t do or say something improper. It didn’t take him long to realize what that was about – hell knows no fury. Of course, there was no basis for these suspicions, but the fact that anyone could even momentarily give credence to anything this whacked-out broad would say was beyond reason.

In the three weeks he had known her, she had moved on from the pool art website, to eBay auctions, to Texas Hold’em, to betting on the dogs, to hemp fashions, all with the same intense enthusiasm and lack of results. It finally dawned on him that she just might be bi-polar and, surprise, off her meds. Just his luck.

Meanwhile, ads kept popping up on his facebook page inviting him to pursue a graduate degree in psychology online. No thanks. He wasn’t interested, but he was considering taking a cooking course, maybe Soufflé 101.

Pool Room Etiquette: Shut the F#&K Up, Please

It ain’t tennis, or golf, or a chess match, but it isn’t a gin mill either – it’s a pool room and, as such, there are times when excessively working your mouth is inappropriate. Like when a big money game is going on. Back when I was a kid and literally hung out in the pool room, you could tell the moment you walked through the door that a money game was in progress. Except for the random clicking of balls, the place was immersed in thick, tense silence. Onlookers, staking out all the reasonable vantage points from which they could view the action, watched, hardly breathing. There were no signs on the walls, no announcements had been made, it was the natural way to behave.

Of course, the big money game was an exception rather than the rule. Most often players were involved in what nowadays are called “cheap sets.” Still, even for those games, there were accepted rules of decorum. For one thing, you would never charge up to the table and start shooting the shit with one of the players. Most often, you would approach someone on the periphery and ask if they were playing for something. “Playing for something” was how we referred to gambling. If guys were gambling, that meant they weren’t just screwing around – they were serious. If, for some reason, you did say something to someone who was gambling, as soon as he said “We’re playing for something” you knew enough to make yourself scarce. Like I said, none of this was written down, it was just the way things were, common sense.

Florida pool rooms are over-populated by old-timers who claim that they grew up in pool rooms and, of course, that they once could play much better than they do now. Unfortunately, ninety-nine per cent of the time, this is bullshit. These are people too uncoordinated to play golf, who may have occasionally played pool at their local watering hole or at the Moose Club, who have taken up pool again so they have excuses to get out of their houses and away from their wives. The problem is they don’t know how to act.

I was playing a guy, let’s call him Lenny, some cheap sets up at Capone’s the other day when an acquaintance of his comes sashaying up to the table with a drink in hand, plops his ass down on a stool next to him, and starts up a conversation. I, at the table, just froze. Lenny saw my reaction and told his friend that I didn’t want him hanging around while I was playing and, after rephrasing that a couple times, the guy finally took the hint. I really didn’t like the idea of Lenny making me the heavy. The way I see it, all he had to say to the guy is “We’re playing for something,” then the guy should’ve known enough to get lost. Instead, he made it appear I was unreasonable and that if it was up to him the guy could have stayed around for a good oldfashioned gabfest. WTF.

Lenny’s another guy who claims he once hung out in a pool room, in Brooklyn no less. I have a hard time believing that folks in Brooklyn would put up with that kind of shit while they were playing, but what do I know, I was 40 miles west in suburban New Jersey.

Speaking of Lenny, a couple months ago we were playing when, jacked up between a cluster of balls at the foot of the table, I tried to make an extremely thin cut. Well, I missed the shot and almost missed the object ball completely. In fact, it barely moved, then settled back where it had been. I told Lenny the ball moved and I guess he didn’t believe me because just last week we’re talking and he brings up something he refers to as “The Phantom Hit.”

Now, you might think he could have taken my word that the ball had moved and been done with it. After all, I was right there with my eyes glued to the balls while he was at the far end of the table engaged in smoking, farting and belching as he normally is. Beside that, during the time we’ve been playing each other, I’ve frequently called fouls on myself that he wouldn’t otherwise have known about. Just a couple weeks ago we were hill-hill and I called a foul on myself for a double hit on the cue ball. He had no idea I had fouled, but I did, so I called it. I doubt seriously that he would ever stop for a foul I had not noticed. At least, he never has. Just saying.

Anyway, you think he could give me the benefit of a doubt and take my word for it that the hit was good? No, two months later he brings up the “phantom hit.” And I wouldn’t doubt that he’s been telling his fellow nits the sad tale every chance he gets. Needless to say, he and I won’t be playing any more. I hate whiners. Maybe he can hook up with his nitwit buddy and they can shoot the shit till the cows come home.

So You Want To Work In A Pool Room

BITD, when you walked into a pool room, you could count on being greeted or ignored by a grizzled old timer who had pool running thru his veins and dripping from his pores. As I make my rounds thru the pool rooms of Florida, it's the cranky old farts and S.O.B.s that I miss most of all. Down here, every counter is manned (perhaps that's the wrong word)… behind every counter stands a woman. Now, I'm not one to lump all women together - in truth, they are as varied as the fishes in the sea - but many of those who find their way to the pool room, especially around NPR, FL, are of the same type. The things they do and say, the atrocities they commit, boggle the minds of serious pool enthusiasts who date back to the pool rooms of yesterday. What I am suggesting is that before a manager hires someone of any gender to work in his or her establishment, said manager should give the prospective employee a test. That way, maybe, their customers can be spared the agony of dealing with complete idiots. Toward that noble end, I have composed a sample test. Here it is:

1. When you hear the word "pool," you immediately think:
a) Chlorine makes me itch.
b) that's the opposite of "poosh."
c) it's a game played on a pool table with balls and cue sticks.

2. If a customer requests "different" chalk, you should respond:
a) that all the chalk is the same.
b) that you only have one color - blue.
c) by presenting them with the box of chalk and allowing them to pick their own.

3. A player who is playing on time brings back his tray of balls while you are busy on the phone talking to your daughter. What should you do?
a) tell him you will be with him in a second and keep his time running while you talk with your daughter.
b) start cursing at your daughter to show off your parenting skills.
c) set the friggin' phone down and take care of the customer.

4. Two regulars are gambling on the only table in use when a guy comes in with his girlfriend and his girlfriend's little brother. Which table would you put them on?
a) one right next to the gamblers so that people aren't scattered all over the place.
b) which ever one they want.
c) one as far away from the serious players as possible.

5. You have to deliver a pitcher of beer to a party on the far side of the room. Enroute, you approach a player who is in the midst of making a shot. What should you do?
a) squeeze past him, but try not to spill the beer.
b) say "excuse me" until he moves out of your way.
c) stay as far out of the way as possible.

6. A friend calls and asks you to reserve a table for him. What do you do?
a) Scatter balls on a table, and, if anyone asks, say it's occupied.
b) Tell people the table is reserved.
c) Tell your friend that you can't tie up a table for a nit.

7. When you hear terms like "one-hole" or "dirty balls," how will you react?
a) I've heard worse at other dumps I've worked at.
b) I will be offended and make a complaint.
c) Ignore them - I'm not that much of a sexual deviant.

8. You're scheduled to work, but you're sick. What do you do?
a) Go in anyway - you need the money. Keep sickness to yourself.
b) Go in and tell everybody how sick you are hoping to boost tips.
c) Find someone to sub and stay the hell home, so you don't spread your germs to everyone you come in contact with.

If you own or manage a pool room, feel free to use this test.

Oh yeah, the preferred answer for all questions 1-7 is c. Duhhhhh.

This all reminds me of one of my favorite riddles - Why does God give beauty queens one more brain cell than he gives horses?

So they don't shit during the parade.

Can’t Win For Losing

Someone said “Lawyer” and the pool hall conversation immediately drifted off course. After a few general derogatory comments were made, I saw an opening and decided to thrill the boys with my personal tale of woe. I told them about this sleaze bag New Jersey attorney I had gotten myself involved with while trying to settle my mother’s estate. I explained how, after I had concluded that rather than helping me get things done he was standing in the way, I fired his candy ass and asked him to return what I had coming of my $1500 retainer. I didn’t hear from him for two months, so I sent him another letter asking him to return what I had coming. He responds to this by sending a trumped up bill to my new lawyer in which he claims that I have not only used up my $1500 retainer but that I owe him another $1500 on top of that. Boston Bobby started shaking his head. “You never get that back – the retainer. They figure some way to get it.” Then he relates a story of how he had been arrested once on an aggravated assault charge only to have the charges dropped later when the star witness finally admitted she had misidentified him. Even though he had been a thousand miles away at the time of the alleged assault and the case had never gone to court and the charges were eventually dropped, he wound up paying $25,000 in legal fees. That, obviously, was a much better sleaze-bag-lawyer story than mine.