Hooch, Whores and Hustlingby Larry

Hooch, Whores and Hustling

by Larry Crain

The smooth green felt of the six pool tables and two snooker tables drew the crew like nourishing, green oases in the desolate desert that was the old part of town. Joe’s Emporium sat on a gradual hill where the bricks of the original Main street caused a staccato hum in the tires of the few cars that bothered to chug up, slide by and turn down toward the abandoned factories and the train depot that you would swear was empty, except for the sound of metal on rails as trains twice a day made the slow curve that paralleled Main.

To some, Joe’s was a dump, with worn, uneven wooden flooring, faded maroon brick walls with chunks of mortar missing and ever-present small piles of cigarette butts and peanut shells. But where it counted, the Emporium was perfection. Oh, those tables. Yes, every antique, solid wood rail was covered with scorch marks from years of burning cigarettes placed hanging over the edge by shooters that then forgot about the fags until they burned down and charred the finish. And interspersed with the burns were four inch rings from melted ice on Joe’s signature chilled beer mugs. Inside the boundaries of those table rails, though, was sacred territory. The traditional hunter green felt was always as if it had just been stretched and installed new each morning. The slate was an inch thick, perfectly flat and perfectly smooth. With no channels or roll-offs, you could shoot a ball as soft as a kiss and it would roll forever until it touched precisely where it was expected at the far end of the table.

The crew felt like men at Joe’s. You couldn’t buy beer, but if someone bought one and set it on the tiny tables that jutted up from each tall stool-chair like a miniature version of those wraparound grade school desks, you could drink the frigid amber ego enhancer and nobody cared. Across the street and up some uneven stairs were rooms where nothing but women lived. Once in awhile, they would call over and order about twenty of the Emporium’s small, greasy, delicious hamburgers, no cheese. Of the two dozen or so regulars at Joe’s, there was a core group of shooters who spent most of their free time there, the crew. Gerry, who ran the place, would pick one of the crew to deliver the bag of burgers to the upstairs rooms. No one ever turned it down, because you not only got a free hour on a table, but you got to see the Ladies in their frilly, fancy underwear and lingerie. Everybody believed there was a red light on the back of the Ladies’ building, facing the train track, but no one ever bothered to go see. Hooch, whores and hustling - what more could a 17 or 18 year old man want.
“Smoker! Delivery across the way!” Gerry yelled. He didn’t bother to turn around from the flat grill that was right behind the bar because he knew the acoustics would carry his voice to the wall and up and across the curved ceiling and back down to the tables. Smoker sauntered slowly over and put his cue in a specific place in a specific rack. He went real slow because it was not cool to seem anxious to go across the street, though of course he was.

“Smoke! I don’t want ‘em cold!” Barry loved it when people call him Smoker, or his other nickname, Spunk. It was hard to feel like Fast Eddie or Fats if you were called Barry. The moniker “Smoker” came about because he kept a lit cigarette in his mouth while knocking down balls. If he got on a good run, his lips would dry out and the cigarette would stick to the flesh. He considered it a badge of a real shooter and had learned to kind of roll the cig off his lip so the guys couldn’t tell it hurt. And the name Smoker did double duty because it sounded like he could Smoke the competition.

The bells tied to the crossbar on the glass front door jangled and a burst of hot street air rushed into the room. An about 30-year-old guy in a denim jacket faded from use, not style, stepped into the relative dimness of the interior, which was broken into small islands of bright pool table lights. The guy had a break-down pool cue in a shiny black Naugahyde case. Greg leaned toward Jimmy and said, just loud enough for Jimmy’s ear, “fish.”

This kind of moment was replayed several times a week. The crew fancied themselves to be hustlers, and to a low level, they were. They gambled on every game they played, but generally low stakes against each other. It was the out of town fish that allowed them to pay Gerry for all the hours a day they played without using their own money. This was good, since none of them had time for a job anyway.

Jimmy turned slightly so he could see the door without being obvious. He was hoping there would be a second player. The skill level of the crew was good enough that maybe one really talented interloper might beat one of the crew, but it was unlikely two of them playing partners could beat two of the better house players. But no, Jimmy was a little disappointed; this was a single.

The forthcoming routine was fairly standard. No pool player walks into a strange pool hall and challenges the best player in the house like screenwriters seem to think they do. It’s a more subtle competition. It’s like a dance where both dancers are trying to lead.

The roughly dressed player scanned the room from wall to wall, and then sat at the bar by the door. He ordered a beer, not a brand, just a beer, which came in an ice-coated mug. He sipped it while he made small talk to the back of Gerry’s head and watched the action.

The guys were shooting snooker. The main reason they preferred snooker was that it’s a much more complex game than eight ball or nine ball, which could get pretty boring at 8 hours a day. And, there were other benefits. One was that after shooting snooker’s smaller balls into smaller pockets at a greater distance, when you moved to a pool table for money games, the pockets seemed the size of basketball goals no farther than the end of your cue. The other benefit was the dance. It was harder for any challenger to gauge your pool game on a different table.

The player got a tray of balls that had a cue ball and two cubes of blue chalk perched on top and a rack and went to the first empty pool table near the snooker tables. He dumped the balls on the table and, without racking them, started putting them down like he was playing straight pool. The player went one tick up in Jimmy’s and Rex’s assessment of his skill level. Not because of how well he was shooting; no one would shoot up to his level of ability during the dance; but because straight pool is a player’s game, while eight and nine ball are beer drinkers’ games.

Rex slightly raised his eyebrows to Jimmy. Jimmy, who was, most days, the best player of the group, and a southpaw, very slightly swung his head left then right. He had seen that the player had to look when he screwed the two halves of his cue together. He should have been able to do it by feel. He got pegged a notch down for either having a new cue or being new at hustling.

You would not think being a lefty would give Jimmy an advantage like it would in boxing or some other one-on-one sport, but it did. Good pool players study a table, but they are not looking at the shot. They are looking at the layout of the balls and several shots ahead. Shooters focus on strategy and control of the cue ball. The actual shot is taken using what jocks call muscle memory. You just lean over, breath out and pull the trigger. It’s like the difference between a gunslinger that pulls and shoots and kills versus someone who has to take time to aim and out-thinks himself. Jimmy’s advantage in the dance was that when you watched him shoot, most of the pictures your eyes took were matched with the hundreds of thousands of similar pictures you had etched in your brain, except that the part that was Jimmy was backward. Messed ‘em up.

Cole, who was from the East side and poor and not excessively verbose, was partnered with Rex, who was a big boy and a bigger loudmouth. Greg, who favored long-sleeved sweatshirts under sleeveless tees, even in the summer, was standing in for Smoker while he trucked the burgers. Rex clomped over to Jimmy and said, a bit louder than he should have, “I want this one.” Rex tended to overestimate his own talent.

“You couldn’t beat your mama, you crew cut candy ass,” Jimmy came back, loud and sincere enough for the player to hear. It was better they didn’t look like a tag team.

There was a hierarchy within the crew based on skill. Jimmy got first crack at new meat. If he passed, it went to Ed, but Ed, whose girlfriend gave him married-style grief about being a pool hall fixture, wasn’t there. Next was Smoker, who, just then, came strutting in from seeing the Ladies.

“Jeeeezzzuz! They looked good! I’d never pay for it, but if I did, I’d take a bag a burgers and spend the day. Thigh high silk and swingin’ jugs. Kee-riste!” Smoker had either had a good trip or he wanted the others to think he had.

Normally, the next half hour would have been minutely detailed discussion and re-discussion of the body parts Smoker had seen and the relative attractiveness of the three of the Ladies whose names they knew, Alice, Bonnie and Cherise. But there was a sheep to be sheered. The shine in Jimmy’s eyes from under his curly blond bangs was enough to get Smoker’s attention. Smoke was only five foot eight when he stood up straight and near bone thin, but he had a lot of respect. He seemed to know something about almost anything and had coasted through school despite spending more time at Joe’s than in class. And he had a facility for skewering friend and foe alike with wit that everyone except the target found funny. Lastly, and most importantly, next to Jimmy, he was considered the best clutch shooter when a game got tight.

The player picked up one of the cubes of blue chalk and started delicately scraping the open edge against the tip of his cue, moving it around to

النتائج (العربية) 1:

جدير، والعاهرات، ومسرعاطريق لاري Crainشعر الأخضر السلس للجداول تجمع ستة ولفت جدولين سنوكر الطاقم مثل الواحات مغذية، والخضراء في صحراء جرداء كان الجزء القديم من المدينة. المتجر جو يجلس على تلة تدريجي الطوب الأصلي الشارع الرئيسي تسبب همهمة متقطع في إطارات السيارات القليلة التي أزعجت إلى تحرك محدثاً صوتا أعلى والشريحة التي تتحول فيها إلى أسفل تجاه المصانع المهجورة والقطار مستودع أقسم لك أن كانت فارغة، باستثناء صوت المعدن على القضبان كما تدرب مرتين أدلى يوم منحنى بطيء أن رئيسية موازية.وكان جو لبعض، تفريغ، مع الأرضيات الخشبية البالية، وغير متساو، تﻻشى على جدران من الطوب المارون مع قطع من مدافع الهاون أكوام صغيرة مفقودة والماثل من أعقاب السجائر وقذائف الفول السوداني. ولكن حيث أنها تحسب، المتجر كان الكمال. أوه، تلك الجداول. نعم، كل السكك الحديدية الخشبية الصلبة العتيقة، وكانت مغطاة بعلامات الدارة من سنوات من حرق السجائر توضع معلقة على الحافة الرماة ثم نسي الفقراء حتى أنهم أحرقوا ومتفحمة في النهاية. وتتخللها الحروق كانت الخواتم أربعة بوصة من ذوبان الجليد في جو التوقيع مبردة أكواب البيرة. داخل حدود تلك القضبان الجدول، رغم ذلك، كانت الأراضي المقدسة. شعر الخضراء التقليدية هنتر كان دائماً كما لو أنه فقط قد امتدت وتثبيت جديدة كل صباح. وكان لائحة بوصة سميكة ومسطحة تماما وسلس تماما. مع عدم وجود قنوات أو العرضية لفة، يمكنك يمكن إطلاق النار كرة الناعمة، كقبلة وأن لفة إلى الأبد حتى لمست ذلك التحديد حيث من المتوقع في نهاية بكثير من الجدول.The crew felt like men at Joe’s. You couldn’t buy beer, but if someone bought one and set it on the tiny tables that jutted up from each tall stool-chair like a miniature version of those wraparound grade school desks, you could drink the frigid amber ego enhancer and nobody cared. Across the street and up some uneven stairs were rooms where nothing but women lived. Once in awhile, they would call over and order about twenty of the Emporium’s small, greasy, delicious hamburgers, no cheese. Of the two dozen or so regulars at Joe’s, there was a core group of shooters who spent most of their free time there, the crew. Gerry, who ran the place, would pick one of the crew to deliver the bag of burgers to the upstairs rooms. No one ever turned it down, because you not only got a free hour on a table, but you got to see the Ladies in their frilly, fancy underwear and lingerie. Everybody believed there was a red light on the back of the Ladies’ building, facing the train track, but no one ever bothered to go see. Hooch, whores and hustling - what more could a 17 or 18 year old man want.“Smoker! Delivery across the way!” Gerry yelled. He didn’t bother to turn around from the flat grill that was right behind the bar because he knew the acoustics would carry his voice to the wall and up and across the curved ceiling and back down to the tables. Smoker sauntered slowly over and put his cue in a specific place in a specific rack. He went real slow because it was not cool to seem anxious to go across the street, though of course he was."الدخان! لا أريد 'م البرد!" Barry أحبها عندما ندعو الناس له المدخن، أو كنيته أخرى، شجاعة. فمن الصعب أن يشعر وكأنه أدى سريعة أو الدهون إذا كنت دعيت Barry. جاء لقب "المدخن" سبب احتفظ سيجارة مضاءة في فمه بينما هدمت الكرات. إذا حصل على انطلاقة جيدة، سوف تجف شفتيه وستلتزم السجائر للجسد. واعتبر أنها شارة مطلق النار الحقيقية وعلمت بنوع من دحر cig قبالة شفته حتى اللاعبين لم أستطع أن أقول أنها تؤذي. ولم اسم المدخن واجب مزدوج لأنه يبدو وكأنه وأنه يمكن أن تدخن المنافسة.الأجراس مرتبطة بالعارضة على زجاج الباب الأمامي جانجليد ودفعه من الهواء الشوارع الساخنة وهرعت إلى الغرفة. عن الرجل البالغ من العمر 30 سنة في الدينيم سترة تﻻشى من الاستخدام، لا من النمط، صعدت في ديمنيس النسبية الداخلية، التي كانت مقسمة إلى جزر صغيرة من الأضواء الساطعة بلياردو. كان الرجل بركة انهيار جديلة في قضية ناوجاهيدي سوداء لامعة. جريج يميلون إلى جيمي وقال، مجرد صوت عال يكفي للإذن جيمي، "الأسماك."هذا النوع من لحظة كان ردها عدة مرات في أسبوع. الطاقم تتوهم نفسها تكون المزاحمون، وإلى مستوى منخفض، كانوا. راهن على كل لعبة، ولكن المخاطر منخفضة بصفة عامة ضد بعضها البعض. وكان الخروج من المدينة الأسماك التي سمحت لهم بدفع جيري لجميع ساعات اليوم لعبوا دون استخدام أموالهم الخاصة. وكان هذا جيدا، منذ أيا منها وكان الوقت للحصول على وظيفة على أي حال.جيمي تحولت قليلاً حتى أنه يمكن رؤية الباب دون أن تكون واضحة. أنه أمل سيكون هناك لاعب ثاني. مستوى المهارة من أفراد الطاقم كانت جيدة بما يكفي أن ربما قد فاز المتطفل موهوب حقاً واحد واحد من أفراد الطاقم، ولكن كان من المستبعد أن اثنين من شركاء اللعب معهم يمكن التغلب على اثنين من أفضل اللاعبين البيت. ولكن لا، جيمي كان قليلاً بخيبة أمل؛ وكان هذا واحد.وكان الروتين المقبلة موحدة إلى حد ما. لا لاعب بلياردو يمشي في قاعة تجمع غريب والتحديات أفضل لاعب في المنزل مثل السيناريو يبدو أن تعتقد أنها تفعل. مسابقة أكثر مكرا. أنها مثل رقص حيث تحاول يؤدي كلا الراقصين.لاعب يرتدي تقريبا تفحص الغرفة من الجدار إلى الجدار، وثم جلس على الشريط من الباب. أنه أمر من بيرة، وليس العلامة تجارية، فقط بيرة، الذي جاء في قدح مغلفة بالجليد. قال مرشوف أنه في حين أنه قدم الحديث الصغيرة إلى الجزء الخلفي الرأس قال جيري وشاهد العمل.كانوا يطلقون النار شباب السنوكر. وكان السبب الرئيسي في أنهم يفضلون سنوكر أنها لعبة أكثر تعقيداً بكثير من الكرة ثمانية أو تسعة الكرة، التي يمكن أن تحصل مملة جداً في 8 ساعات في اليوم. وهناك فوائد أخرى. وكان أحد بعد إطلاق النار كرات أصغر السنوكر في جيوب صغيرة على مسافة أكبر، عندما قمت بنقل إلى طاولة بلياردو للألعاب المال، الجيوب يبدو أن حجم أهداف كرة السلة لا أبعد نهاية الرمز الخاص بك. وكان فائدة أخرى الرقص. كان من الصعب لأي منافس قياس الخاص بك لعبة تجمع على جدول مختلف.The player got a tray of balls that had a cue ball and two cubes of blue chalk perched on top and a rack and went to the first empty pool table near the snooker tables. He dumped the balls on the table and, without racking them, started putting them down like he was playing straight pool. The player went one tick up in Jimmy’s and Rex’s assessment of his skill level. Not because of how well he was shooting; no one would shoot up to his level of ability during the dance; but because straight pool is a player’s game, while eight and nine ball are beer drinkers’ games.Rex slightly raised his eyebrows to Jimmy. Jimmy, who was, most days, the best player of the group, and a southpaw, very slightly swung his head left then right. He had seen that the player had to look when he screwed the two halves of his cue together. He should have been able to do it by feel. He got pegged a notch down for either having a new cue or being new at hustling.You would not think being a lefty would give Jimmy an advantage like it would in boxing or some other one-on-one sport, but it did. Good pool players study a table, but they are not looking at the shot. They are looking at the layout of the balls and several shots ahead. Shooters focus on strategy and control of the cue ball. The actual shot is taken using what jocks call muscle memory. You just lean over, breath out and pull the trigger. It’s like the difference between a gunslinger that pulls and shoots and kills versus someone who has to take time to aim and out-thinks himself. Jimmy’s advantage in the dance was that when you watched him shoot, most of the pictures your eyes took were matched with the hundreds of thousands of similar pictures you had etched in your brain, except that the part that was Jimmy was backward. Messed ‘em up.
Cole, who was from the East side and poor and not excessively verbose, was partnered with Rex, who was a big boy and a bigger loudmouth. Greg, who favored long-sleeved sweatshirts under sleeveless tees, even in the summer, was standing in for Smoker while he trucked the burgers. Rex clomped over to Jimmy and said, a bit louder than he should have, “I want this one.” Rex tended to overestimate his own talent.

“You couldn’t beat your mama, you crew cut candy ass,” Jimmy came back, loud and sincere enough for the player to hear. It was better they didn’t look like a tag team.

There was a hierarchy within the crew based on skill. Jimmy got first crack at new meat. If he passed, it went to Ed, but Ed, whose girlfriend gave him married-style grief about being a pool hall fixture, wasn’t there. Next was Smoker, who, just then, came strutting in from seeing the Ladies.

“Jeeeezzzuz! They looked good! I’d never pay for it, but if I did, I’d take a bag a burgers and spend the day. Thigh high silk and swingin’ jugs. Kee-riste!” Smoker had either had a good trip or he wanted the others to think he had.

Normally, the next half hour would have been minutely detailed discussion and re-discussion of the body parts Smoker had seen and the relative attractiveness of the three of the Ladies whose names they knew, Alice, Bonnie and Cherise. But there was a sheep to be sheered. The shine in Jimmy’s eyes from under his curly blond bangs was enough to get Smoker’s attention. Smoke was only five foot eight when he stood up straight and near bone thin, but he had a lot of respect. He seemed to know something about almost anything and had coasted through school despite spending more time at Joe’s than in class. And he had a facility for skewering friend and foe alike with wit that everyone except the target found funny. Lastly, and most importantly, next to Jimmy, he was considered the best clutch shooter when a game got tight.

The player picked up one of the cubes of blue chalk and started delicately scraping the open edge against the tip of his cue, moving it around to