Ah yes, the old Sloopster.
I was in my teens, ready to spend a Summer's evening at Brunswick Recreation (better known as Joe's pool hall) on Boonville Street hill.
Joe's was long and narrow place with a wood floor, a high ceiling covered with stamped metal squares and peeling paint, two Snooker tables, and eight pocket billiard tables. The aroma of stale urine, emanating from the one restroom, would mix with the smell of wet cigars, and squashed cigarettes giving the thick hazy atmosphere it's own identity.
Joe, a balding ex-con, jingled and clattered as he went from one table to the next. He kept a rack hanging handily round his neck, and a carpenters apron full of nickles, dimes, and quarters for making change, at his waist.
"Rack 'em, Joe." Calls someone from the Snooker table up front. "Be there in a minute!" He bellows back. He likes it when he's busy. Time seems to go by a little faster for him.
It's hot back in the back where we play Eight Ball, and sometimes Rotation. The old fan that stands in the corner makes more noise than it moves hot air, but we're young and don't seem to notice it much. When you're young you hardly pay attention to anything, except maybe your car, or your girlfriend.
I walk over to Joe's little concession area and buy a cold bottle of Pepsi, and a nickle bag of peanuts. I take a couple of big long swigs from the bottle and then pour about a half a bag of those peanuts down the neck. I'll be nursing on that most of the night. At about eleven-thirty Joe's calls out, "Last rack." Blue-laws here in town means closing time is midnight.
We settle up with Joe, and with each other, and head out the door into the warm Summer night. The night air feels good. It feels like it's supposed to be this way. One of the guys asks if I want to go over to the all-night Pancake House and get some coffee. I tell him I can't. I promised my Mom I'd be home at a decent time. She worries when I'm out late. :smile: