THE BATTLE OF ORLEANS

                   So here we was see, me, Tommy the Irishman, and my pal, Nick the Greek, see. He did his high power, undergraduate work, in Chicago, while I studied under the greats at Al's pool room, in Pittsburgh.

                   So there we was, see, doing some time at the Cape, when the women folk asked: ¨What are we going to do tonight. How about trivial pursuit?¨  So I said I was not interested in answering who Supie Sales was and tried to cajole Nick into finding a pool table on this Mass retreat. ¨Nah,¨ he said, ¨Come on Tommy, what are you talking about? You don't want to shoot pool with me. I mean I'm talking about pool!¨  ¨So am I Nick! So am I!¨ I said, and after a few more vodkas, we decide to see if this tight ass, Harvard accented peninsula had a place for such an ungentlemanly sport like pool.

                    Well, we piled into his Rabbit and braced ourselves for the night traffic in Eastham.

                    ¨Let's try that place,¨he said, spying a miniature golf, video game joint, off to the right.

                     He pulled in, maybe over the curb and that, but heh, we was lookin ta play pool.

                     ¨No sir,¨the nurd behind the counter said, as thought I was coming from anther planet, or at least another generation,¨we don't have a pool table here,¨and then ¨No sir I don't know if there is a place on the Cape that has a table.¨

                     ¨No luck,¨I reported, but we was determined and the next place where I suggested we try, was a small shopping area. There a guy, who was eating soft ice cream, said:

                      ¨Yeah, you're looking for a pool table. There's one in Orleans, near the gas station, in that bar there.¨ and I was off, cause I knew we scored this time, and when I told Nick, he remembered the place too.

                         So there he was see jut a little package about six foot three, and maybe two twenty or so. And there I was, Little Tommy, who although not six feet, could pump iron with the best of em, back in my day. But heh, we was just looking for a friendly game, and when we entered the joint, we was gravitated to the green felt at the other side of the room.

                          ¨Sorry, you can't use the pool table until nine thirty,¨a guy from behind the bar said,and by my watch we was right on time. But heh, it was only a gentleman's game, so we waited.

                           We nursed a couple a bruskies, se until we could put that thirty five cents in and start to play some serious pool. So up comes our turn see, and it didn't last long until we was putting in another thirty five. Now by this time the room starts ta get a little tense, see. they was watching a couple a guys who maybe weren't doctors, in the art, but it started to look like we had some credits toward our master's degrees. It got so thick at one point, that the same guy comes out from behind the bar and says:

                           ¨Heh, I don't want no trouble here...Got it?¨

                           ¨Yeah, we got it. Just a friendly game, see,¨ I says, ¨between a couple a gentlemen, see¨so the bum goes back ta pumpin suds.

                           But then something happened. cause this group a guys start putting their names on this here blackboard, see, wanting to get a piece a the action, see, and little did we know we was about ta make history, or at least carrying on with the illustrious tradition of keepin Harinas Port on the map.

                           Well, there was this thing about being hot. see. Like I couldn't miss, and this was startin ta piss off the other young punk, so I figured he must a been Irish, with a temper like that, but when I asked him, he got more pissed off, see, and says he was American and that was that, ¨Sure,¨ I says, Ï'm American too,¨ and all that, ¨but I'm also Irish, see, and I was just wonderin if you was Irish too?¨ So he finally admits that he was of Irish descent, and all that, right, but then he goes into this big deal about his ole man, who did a lot of traveling and told him that America was the best place in the world, see, and that he should be proud of it,and like that. So, I tells him that I agrees with all that, but not because somebody told me, but because I've been livin most of my life outside of the States, and the last fourteen years in Central America, and you think I was tellin him I was a friggin Commie or something. So, then, when I'd miss a shot or something, I'd start swearing in Spanish, which was my custom. Well, it weren't a bad thing, cause since there was ladies present, and this way they wouldn't know what I was sayin. Heh, they might have even thought that I was receitin some beautiful line from Cervantes or Lope de Vega or even Garcia Lora for Christ's sake! the words are: ¨Hijo de puta!¨ or just ¨Puta!¨ which means, ¨Son of a whore,¨or just plain ¨whore,¨ and that really ain't bad, when you think about the flowery language in that department today. But the whole thing is gettin to him, and finally his turn comes up. Jesus! You'd think it was a grudge match between two Irishmen, or a fight between communism and freedom. Heh, you gotta remember my side of it. I had agreed with the bum, and when  you got my Irish up, I was poetry, songs or close friendship. But, there he was, taking his time on every shot, and making a couple of them too, butt the man just wasn't at peace with himself, so he just had to miss.    

                          ¨So, what do I got?¨ I asked him, staggering around the table, as I took another sip of my beer, ¨The little or the big?¨

                          Now this got him even mor irate, cause he thought that I didn't see all that fancy shooting he was doing, but what got him more is the fact that I beat him. Did it real clean like too. Straight pool it was, and a real tribute back to Al's in Pittsburgh. But my friend there, all he could say was,¨Puta!¨

                         So, things went on like that see. They was all wooden Indians. Nah, sittin ducks they was, and they all went down, one after another. This is what happened until I came to another guy called Nick. He was the nicest guy in the joint and had the best stick too, so I didn't mind too much, when my luck ran out, and I scratched on the eight ball.   

                         But, heh, then it was Nick the Greek's turn, and when he started, I was just happy to say I knew the bum! I'm talkin about pool! Combinations and things, until the other Nick wen down like a trooper. He even shook hands, but now the board was filled up with names, cause they just wanted a chance to get a piece a the action called Nick the Greek!

                         So games they had, and from the beginning, it was all over but the cryin. But you should a seen the array of weirdos they had.

                        There was this little fag from P-town or something and he had put his name down on the board before, but somebody had erased it, and the guy was fit to be tied. He probably would have looked great in a nice, white straight jacket, but I was feeling sympathy, and so i tells him like this see:  

                        ¨Heh, I know you put your name up on that board, cause I saw you do it, but heh! I'll just tell Nick there he's got ta beat you too. How's that?¨

                         ¨Fuck you!¨he says, ¨All I want is a chance to shoot pool with this guy,¨ so I took that as an unfriendly gesture and went back to my bruskie.

                          ¨So, I was feelin good and enjoin the hell out f a game that Nick was shootin, with a kid that looked meaner than hell. He had on a sleeveless, black t-shirt; black, skin tight, sleazy pants, which he held up with a spiked belt. You could see why he didn't want sleeves on the T-shirt, cause both his arms were all decked out in tattoos. He went down hard, cause he had a good stick, and probably if it hadn't been Nick there shootin, I'd a given him half a chance. But things bein as they were, my man was not about to loose that night. No way!

                           Then the P-town fag comes in, and boy this little guy, in the clean white shirt's got blood in  his eyes. This man proceded to shoot a serious game. Now, what would a fag like this be doin shootin pool lie that? But then Nick got his turn, and the fag was turnin greener than the felt they was playin on. Nick proceeded to dazzle him with so many combinations, that his head began to swim.

                           He went down too, and by and by that was all she wrote. Every last one of them bit the dust. Things were startin to change though, cause now everyone wanted to buy us a beer, but we wouldn't have none of it, see. One guy even comes up to me and says: Ï got it. You two are hustlers! You started off taking on the first few, because your buddy lost to you in the beginning. Then you set him up to wipe out the house. Right?¨

                           ¨Heh, what are you talkin about? Do you see any money on the table? It was a gentleman's game; all right?¨ I says, and none too soon, cause Nick finally scratches on the eight ball and calls over:

                            ¨Heh Tommy, let's blow this joint!¨so I take the hint, and the two of us get out fast like, with all these faces of hate and envy following us. But, we're not runnin, see, cause we didn't break no laws, and neither of us says a word to the other, until we get in the car and we are out of there.

                            ¨Well Tommy,¨Nick says ta me, matter a fact like, ¨you know we made history in there tonight.¨

                             Ï couldn't believe it, the way you were on tonight!¨

                             ¨Yeah, I never shot a game like that in my life, and maybe I never will again.¨

                             ¨Damn Nick!¨I says, ¨This is a story all right, but what are we going to call it?¨

                              ¨The Battle of Orleans,¨he says, ¨We didn't shoot until we saw the white's of their eyes!¨