Well, it wasn't a pool hall but a strip club that was next door to the motel that I was staying at in Little Rock while working in the States.
I had a United Motorcyclist tee shirt on. That was a small bike club where I was from. Toy runs, dances, swap meets, that sort of thing but certainly not a club patch.
A lot of clubbers in there as some of their property was dancing and working the bar.
Needless to say, some drunk clown out of towner with a patch got a hard on for me because of the shirt and was lucky to git when the gittin was good.
So, altho it was not a pool hall, I can say I know the feeling of being out gunned and out numbered.
When I hit the outside, lets just say I wasn't going for a night stroll, I was double timing it.
I used to play guitar at a bar out in the boonies above Altamont, NY. Pay was $40/night, plus drinks and tips and a sandwich now and then. It got me by during my last summer of freedom as a young man, living in a tent in a nearby field.
One day I rode my bike up to the place on a hot July afternoon. The place would be empty and I could get in some pool on the table in the back. With luck, the owner would be there and would comp me the beer and food and give me a stack of quarters for the table.
When I pulled in the parking lot was empty. Good sign. I pulled the bike up on the stand and walked in. Sure enough, the owner was there. We exchanged greetings and he poured me a cold one. While I was sitting there sipping, I heard the sound of thunder in the distance. Only thing was, it was a sustained sound, that kept getting louder by the second. Then it became a roar, so I ran onto the deck to see what the hell it was. About thirty hogs come rolling into the lot, with the meanest and nastiest looking bikers I'd ever seen (and I came of age in a biker town "The Breed" called home).
Oops.
The sound alone almost made me crap myself. Then they parked the bikes all around mine - a shiny new Honda 550SS rice burner - and poured past me into the bar. I could feel my manhood begin to shrink as they each looked at my little scooter in disgust, and then at me. I was pretty scruffy and tough looking back then, but nobody would ever take me for a lone wolf biker. Even their bikers babes made my blood run cold.
Now, a sane man would have left his maroon helmet with the four reflective stripes right there on the bar, and never would have second-guessed the decision as he hopped on his diminutive Honda and got out of Dodge. But I was broke and needed that helmet, and besides, it was beastly outside and that beer was tasting mighty good. So I lit a smoke and walked back inside.
No hope of getting on the table, nor did I want to. These guys sucked so bad they couldn't hit an end rail, but I wasn't about to put a quarter up and show them how. I drank my beer and the owner quickly poured me another one. He had no interest in seeing me leave. He was more scared than I was. But basically, they all acted like I wasn't even there. They were there to get drunk and have fun. Who cared if there was a fruitcake in shorts and tank top sitting shaking at the bar?
After the second beer I decided I'd had my fill and headed for the bathroom to drain a vein. Then I thought better about it and decided to pee alongside the road someplace. God only knew just what I might find inside there. So I grabbed my sissy helmet and strolled out the door, past a few nasties on the deck, and over to my bike. PLEASE let it start! It turned right over like it always did, and I goosed the throttle and got that (now very anemic sounding) Honda whirr.
I strapped my helmet on, pulled in the clutch, kicked it down into first and turned around to look at the guys on the deck. I raised my fist up in the universal biker's salute. One of them raised his fist back at me, except one of his fingers wasn't folded in all the way, I think it was his middle finger. It was at that precise moment that I fully grasped the nature of the situation I had just encountered. I cracked open the throttle, popped the clutch, and left a rooster tail of dirt and gravel all the way down the driveway.
It was about five miles before I had the nerve to stop and pee.
