No Joy in Poolville

Stroker had won the Friday night tournament at Boonies, but he was feeling less than jubilant as he made his way home on Highway One. Never had an eighty dollar win left him feeling so down. But, it wasn’t about the money, he told himself as his old Rav 4 roared on, it was about playing well; and he hadn’t played well at all. He’d dogged too many shots – two straight-in shots on the eight in the last game alone. It was a miracle that he had won, a cosmic joke.

The gloom persisted through Saturday and Sunday leading Stroker to suspect there was more behind these feelings than his clumsy victory at Boonies. He thought back to Thursday night. His second place finish at Chalkie’s had left him equally dejected. Thanks to a series of breaks, he had beaten Leapin’ Larry and Fast Eddie, two players he normally wouldn’t have a chance against and only a miss on an easy cross-side bank of the nine against Deek Nettles had kept him out of the hot seat.

“So, you think that’s it, a missed easy cross-side bank on Thursday night has caused you to feel depressed for the next five days.”

“It’s depressing – I used to be so good at banks.”

His weekly court-ordered visits to the shrink had been part of the plea agreement his lawyer, Anthony J. Rotundo, had negotiated following assault charges that had nearly put him in the pokey. Stroker still couldn’t believe the big deal they made over his whacking some nit in the head with his cue. “He accused me of cheating,” he had said to the judge at his arraignment. But that didn’t seem to matter. Anyway, he was enjoying the time he spent with Dr. Colleen Mathers. She was a good kid, and plenty smart.

“So, you came in first in one tournament and second in another, two events which might make a person feel somewhat pleased with himself, but, for you, this has all been overshadowed by a missed bank…”

“A missed easy bank,” he corrects. “It was dead in the side.”

“… a missed easy bank, and this has left you feeling depressed.”

“That’s about it.”

“And there’s nothing else?”

“Well …”

Until a few days ago, the S-train had been chugging along unimpeded. Stroker’s dream of recapturing his boyhood form, after a 40 year lay-off, had still seemed achievable. Sure, he had just turned 60, but he was still improving, still moving forward with his game, chug chugguh-chug chugguh-chug. Then, he missed that shot against Deek and he had had what he interpreted as a major revelation. He had been kidding himself. He would never again be a player. He would never be more than a freakin’ bum. His comeback was over, fizzled, kaput. He was at the end of the line.

“So, the missed, easy, dead-in-the-side bank triggered for you a revelation that you…”

“That I am done. There isn’t going to be a comeback. I’m never going to be able to play any good and all the time I’ve been working on my game, trying to get back in stroke, all that time, I’ve only been fooling myself. I’m a chump – nothing more. I’m gonna have to live with it.”

“And, to be a chump…”

“Is to be nothing, nobody, a pimple on the ass of the world.”

She let that hang there for a good long while. Either she was considering the gargantuan proportions of what he had just said, or she wanted him to. You never knew with this broad.

“Of the pool world,” she finally added.

“Huh?”

“To be a chump in the poolroom is to be nothing, nobody, a pimple on the ass of the pool world.”

“I’m not following,” said Stroker.

“I think you do.”

“I said I don’t, Colleen. I wouldn’t say I don’t if I did.”

She smiled. Something he had said must have struck her as amusing.

“Well, let me put it this way: some people believe that the person we think we are is nothing more than the sum of the roles we play. Do you follow that?”

“No. What’s that – Scientology?”

She laughed. He liked to make her laugh. “Take me, for example…”

“Now, Colleen...”

“I’m a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother…”

“And a shrink.”

“And a therapist. My behavior in each of these roles is very different. When I am with my parents or with my husband, I am a very different person than when I am here with you.”

“I should hope so.”

She smiled. “And the same is true for you. You are not just Stroker, pool player. You are more than that.”

“Not really. I mean, I know what you’re getting at and, if you want to look at yourself that way, go ahead, but me, I’m Stroker Zambini, every minute of every day – Stroker Zambini.”

“And you’re never Stroker Zambini the son.”

“Not any more. My mother and father are dead.”

“And the part of you that was their son?”

“Died with them… I hope.”

“Why’s that?”

“Forgetaboutit, Colleen. I don’t wanna go there. I’m sixty years old, for Christ’s sake, too old to be crying about that crap.”

“But, you’re father not only beat you, you said he brought to your home an atmosphere of fear.”

“Yeah, but you know what? It dawned on me one day that I coulda run away from all that and I never did.”

“When you were five or six years old? I don’t think running away was an option.”

“Hey, I knew a lot of guys who ran away – to Florida, California, NYC – guys who had it a lot better than I did. They ran away just for the hell of it. But I never thought of it. I can’t understand that.”

“Fear, perhaps.”

“Huh?”

“Perhaps, you didn’t run away because you were afraid of what your father might do when he caught you. That would be understandable.”

“Nope, I don’t think so. I just never thought of it. Anyway, it’s too late now, so let’s forget about it.” She wouldn’t, he knew, but he could hope.

“What about your role as a father? Didn’t you tell me you have a daughter?”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t seen her in over twenty years.”

“Why?”

“She was kidnapped by aliens.”

“And…”

“Check with the aliens.”

“You’re being uncooperative, today, for some reason.”

“Is that going into the report?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Look, Colleen, I didn’t whack that guy in the head because my old man beat me or my mother never hugged me or because I haven’t seen my kid in twenty years – I whacked him because he dissed me. He accused me of cheatin’. He’s lucky I didn’t friggin’ kill him. You can’t let people get away with shit like that.”

“He dissed you.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“So, you had no choice.”

“No choice.”

“It was a matter of honor.”

“Damn straight… Is that going in the report?”

“If I think it’s important.”

“Is it?”

“It could be… Tell me, Stroker, are you a chump and a nobody to your wife?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! My wife doesn’t care anything about pool, except that it keeps me out late and makes me breathe in second-hand smoke."

“So, in the role of husband…”

“Listen, Colleen, what the hell does it matter?”

“Your relationship with your wife…”

“I mean, I’m 60 years old. I’m not going to be around very much longer, and nothing we say here is going to change that.”

“Nowadays, it’s not uncommon for people to live to ninety and beyond. You could…”

“Not this people.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s not in the genes, kid, not in the genes. I’ve had two operations on my colon and the doctor says I’m lookin’ at another one. I’ve got sugar diabetes. And, now, all of a sudden my doctor says I’ve got high blood pressure to boot. I’m falling apart, girl.”

“What’s this about another operation?”

“Oh, I had a colonoscopy a few weeks back and that’s what the doctor said.”

“And you never mentioned it.”

“My wife and I talked about it. She went with me.”

“I mean, you never mentioned it during our sessions.”

“Dying’s not something I like talkin’ about.”

She sighed. “It’s precisely those things you don’t like talking about that we should be working on.”

"You're a good kid, Colleen, but you just don't get it - your best years are coming, mine are gone. That's just the way it is. Now… know what I think we should be working on?"

"Yes, I'd love to know what you think we should be working on."

"Long straight-in shots… and maybe my banks."

"Well, I doubt that I can help you with that."

"Just my luck."

The End

© 2007 by Ace Toscano

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.”

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