The tables at the poo' haw I grew up in didn't have racks. You paid at the table. From open to close, one man and one man only would rack each new game. He was a big, strong walnut skinned black man. His name was Percy. He wore a white linen newsboy hat and in the age worn creases at the top of his hat sat "The Rack." From up and down the room, methodically, like a pocket watch, a loser would cry, "Rack 'em, Percy." He had a white change apron and he always wore a white, long sleeve cotton shirt. Summer, winter, no AC, no heat, he always dressed the same, and he was always there, ready to rack 'em one more time.
They said Ol' Percy made a good living, but nobody knew where he lived. The room was upstairs, so it's possible he slept where he worked. After High School, some college, and the Army, and after I'd been home for a while, I went over town one day. The street door was locked. Percy? He was gone. Nobody knew if there had even been a funeral. Over 60 years ago now. "Rack 'em, Percy."
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