It was a dark and stormy night, and I was hanging out in a poolroom in Mason City. I'd been working with a gypsy husking crew, and we were about to blow off a little steam after two hard weeks out in the hot, dusty cornfields of northern Iowa. I had just cashed my paycheck and was ready for action.
I spied a fellow over in a far corner, playing alone, on an antique looking five-by-ten. He was an older gentleman, with a slim build and white hair. I walked over and asked if he'd care to play some One Pocket.
"I wouldn't mind." He replied, in a slight southern drawl. "You from around here?
"No." I said. "Just passing through."
"Me, to." He said, with a small grin. "How does fifty a game sound?"
Just then a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, as the rain began to beat hard against the tin roof above us.
"Fine with me." I said, in a voice that sounded less confident than I would have wanted.
All that evening, and into the early morning hours, amid the crashing of the storm outside, we played like men possessed. I would go up three games, then down two. He would do the same. Finally I called for a break.
"Sounds like a good idea." He said, from his shadowy corner. "You rest a bit and we'll start up again in an hour."
I went over to the bar, ordered a shot of J. T. S. Brown, and sat down with my head resting in the crook of my arm. "Just a couple of minutes rest is all I need." I said to myself.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember the bartender was shaking my shoulder, saying. "Wake up young feller. I gotta close the place up."
"Yeah, sure." I said, as I groggily got to my feet. "Just let me finish this last game with the old guy over there in the corner."
"What old guy in the corner?" He asked. "The only thing over there is the juke box. And it don't work."
I looked across the room. Sure enough, the only thing I saw was a broken down Rockola and a small, dust-covered dance floor.
"What the hell is going on here?" I screamed. "I was over in that corner all night long playing One Pocket. The guy I was playing was older, had white hair, and talked like he was from the South." The bartender just stared at me. "Mister, you must have had a little too much to drink last night. We ain't had a pool table over in that corner in almost thirty years." He said.
"Come to think on it though, I do remember my pappy telling me there used to be an old five-by-ten footer that sat there, and every now and then a fella would come through town and play on it. He was up in years, just like you said, and had snow white hair. Pappy said he was a true southern gentleman. Now, what was his name? Oh yeah, Lassiter. That's it. Mr. Lassiter."
I shook my head, even though it hurt like hell, and walked out of the pool room into the bright, sunlit morning. At least the storm was over. :smile:
