LatinosUSA

TIZZY felt himself jinxed; nothing he hit went in; he’d stopped expecting anything to drop. Defeated before he even shot: screwed, out-of-luck, royally fucked. But he could not lay down the cue (the wood glued to his palm). He thought of his wife, two kids, at home…And the month’s rent due. He threw the thought out of his mind.

     Tizzy dished-out twenty-five clams. Something fishy in his gut. Sweaty hands.

     Gee-Boy bent to break a new rack. His legs bowed in an O, belly hung like a beer keg. He crushed the cue and balls scattered, fled, spun, danced, crisscrossed each other’s paths…The nine-ball ran into a corner pocket, the three into a side. Gee-Boy saw two ducks in a row and laughed.

     “Jesus Crise,” Tizzy said.

     Gee-Boy ran six balls, missed a seventh, but left Freddy blind. Tizzy sank the seven and eight but missed the nine. Gee-Boy banked the ball in, looking as he shot like Willie Mosconi in his prime.

     Tizzy checked his wallet: 35-dollars left (out of his $300 paycheck). He felt like sobbing but knew he had to keep a grip. His luck could change. Gee-Boy go cold. Freddy blind. He might make a comeback, Tizzy told himself; run rack after rack; get his money back, then some. He could not fold—not yet.

     Nothing went in on the break. The great Gee-Boy felt he’d been betrayed. Had the billiard gods abandoned him to an alternate fate? Freddy sent the one for a ride. Tizzy put the one into a corner and the two into a side. He studied the three; the ball looked back indifferently. He stroked the cue, watched the ball go into a hole—as the cue-ball strolled into a side pocket. “Bastard!” Tizzy exploded. “Son of a bitch!” Gee-Boy potted the three, four, five, six. Freddy the seven and eight.

     Tizzy had twenty dollars left in his wallet. It was time for him to go, blow the twenty on booze, he thought; or else buy the wife some flowers.

     Freddy missed a gimme: Tizzy stared, surprised. Maybe the gift that would turn the tide. He stepped up, took aim, hit the ball straight. The three-ball nipped the angle of the pocket, juked, and sat on the lip—like a high diver frozen in place.

     Tizzy swung his cue stick overhead in an arc, like cracking a whip. The stick shattered on the green felt table.

     Huck, the owner of the joint—he had a pitted face and pool hall skin the color of dust—shouted “hey TIZZY! That will cost you TWENTY BUCKS!”

 
(NOTE: Nine-ball is a billiard game played with nine balls only—numbers 1-9—which are made in rotation. The 3, 6, and 9 are “pay” balls. The shooter potting a pay ball collects from the other players.)