The Billiard Room - short story

Morialekafa is becoming more and more a victim of comment spam. If these people knew the limited readership of this blog they would probably stop wasting their time. If it continues I will have no choice but to go to word verification, a relatively simply procedure. Anyway, as there is little more to be said at the moment about the dismal, actually abysmal, unconscionable, stupid, moronic, disgusting, racist, vicious, and basically useless response to the Hurricane disaster in New Orleans, and the Roberts hearings won't begin until monday, here is another story to pass the time.

The Billiard Room

The billiard room, at the end of the south wing of the faculty club was dingy at best, with two billiard tables and two pool tables. On two of the institutional green walls were racks for cuesticks which contained numerous inexpensive examples, mostly without tips or otherwise damaged. Beneath the two pool tables were locked drawers in which the regulars kept their private cues, mostly antiques, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. On one of the walls hung a bulletin board with polaroid pictures of the regulars bent over the tables in various idiosyncratic poses. Postcards received occasionally from traveling members were also pinned there, along with a sign that read "NO SWEARING." This was ignored, particularly by the one player towards whom it was specifically addressed. The room had not been swept or cleaned for months. Near the bulletin board was a coat rack with a locked cabinet overhead. The billiard balls were kept there along with other equipment: brushes, cue chalk, glue, coffee cups and other miscellanea. Near the coat rack stood a larger than lifesize Melanesian woodcarving with a gigantic phallus. It had not been placed there for the decor but, rather, as Wally the Elder delighted in reporting, because some of the female faculty members had objected to its being in the dining room. He referred to it as our "scrotum pole."
Wally the Elder was eighty-seven years old, a Professor of Drama, retired for the past twenty years. At the time of his retirement he had been Chairman of his department, a fact he did not allow you to easily forget. He didn't brag about it. He merely kept repeating anecdotes about it and recalling problems he had faced, not the least of which involved the virtual impossibility of letting go a black faculty member. Wally the Elder had been an actor with minor speaking roles in a number of motion pictures both before and after joining the faculty. He regaled us endlessly with tales of the famous actors and actresses he had known and worked with. He joked that most of his movies were so bad they did not even appear on late night television. His other claim to fame was the fact that his wife "had money. From timber. Up in Oregon." In short, Wally the Elder was a handsome and entertaining fellow. Everyone was fond of him. He was also the backbone of the small group that met daily over the billiard tables.
Wally the Elder was so named to distinguish him from another Wally who also frequented the billiard room. Wally the Younger was eighty-five years old, an internationally known authority in his field, with an ego to match. He was retired, but through his connections with the administration (he had been a faculty member for over forty years) managed to get himself reappointed on a year to year basis. The subject he now taught was himself. Although pompous, he played a good game, had a sense of humor, and was well liked. We joked that he would still be lecturing when they tried to fit him in his coffin.
The oldest member of the "club" was Bill, a ninety year old retired mathematics professor who, because of his failure to keep up with his field, had spent most of his pre-retirement years in administration. Astoundingly, although he had played billiards for more than fifty years, he was no better than the day he began. Fortunately he no longer played very often. And happily, the same thing was true of Rudy, a retired physicist who, although quite distinguished, was now becoming senile. We had to let him play because, after all, it was a gentleman's game, but everyone groaned inwardly when he showed up with his fly undone and his shirttail partially untucked. Rudy often forgot what he was doing when it was his turn to shoot and would have to be reminded.
Aside from these oldtimers there were few billiard players, a fact that troubled Wally the Elder who was fearful that his beloved billiard room would be closed and converted to a storeroom. This was, in fact, a genuine possibility. We all assumed that when Wally went the billiard room would likewise go. This was not unreasonable; the room was now used only for a couple of hours a day and by only those few of us who played. Aside from myself there was Alan, a professor of English and very English himself, Al, from Business Administration, who earned four times his faculty salary with his outside consulting firm and never tired of telling us about it. He also had a loud, obnoxious, and penetrating laugh. It always sounded forced even when it was not. Like myself, he was approaching retirement but not quite there. Richard was younger and also from Business Administration, a permanent Associate Professor who, Al assured us, would never make his full Professorship because, "They just don't like what he does." Richard was in a permanent state of depression and used the billiard room in an attempt to escape. He was still learning the game and showed promise. Al was terrible and, like old Bill, never improved.
Aside from the billiard players there were four retirees from Business Administration who came in regularly to play pool. Eightball. They were terrible players but had a wonderful time working out their various strategies and maneuvers. They played in pairs and changed partners everyday. Even though they never wagered on their games one would have thought they were playing for their lives. As they would use virtually any means to thwart their opponents a single game of eightball could last for an hour or longer. Gregory thought their games were so entertaining they should be televised.
Gregory was the youngest. He was "staff" rather than faculty. Although he was there frequently and participated fully he always felt out of place. This was because of Wally the Elder's repeated grumbling. "I remember when this was the Men's Faculty Club," he would grouse. "Then we had to let the women in. They used to have their own club. Now even the staff can belong. It used to be a nice quiet place where you could come and relax. Have lunch. Sit around and read. Play bridge. Play billiards. But now they rent all the rooms out for meetings and there's not a moment's peace. What business do they have renting out conference rooms to all these outside businesses that have nothing to do with the University? They're only interested in the money, that's all. This is the only room we have left and now they want to take it away. For storage! Storage! Well, they won't get away with it. I'm a past President. One of the founding members. I've still got plenty of friends...I'll..." Wally the Elder repeated this spiel at least once a week. We sympathized.
Wally the Elder's tirade would set Wally the Younger off on his. "The whole University's like that," he would begin. "All they think about now is money. Grants and money. We never should have let all those damn professional schools on the campus. Business Administration, Law, Medicine, even Nursing! What the hell does a University need with nursing? This is supposed to be a University, not a goddamn trade school! And they all get those inflated salaries. You know, get a grant and increase your salary. Most of them don't even need to do any more research. They can't even write up what they already have. Grantsmanship! It's ruining the place. People asking for grants they don't need just to augment their salaries. The Arts and Sciences budget gets cut year after year and the trade schools get more and more. It's just not right." Then he would turn apologetically to one or another of the Business Administration players: "Nothing personal, you understand."
And of course they understood. Wally the Younger, whose salary had not kept pace with more recent arrivals (through no fault of his own) had been preaching the same sermon for twenty years. There was much truth in his complaints but of course nothing would be done to change anything. The University never stopped building and never moved backwards.
Gregory, not a purist like most of us who played either billiards or eightball, would play both billiards and eightball - or nineball - or any game of pool for that matter. Unlike the others it was obvious he had learned the game in his youth and in a real pool hall. Jackson, a young and gifted Professor of Psychology, would carry his lunch everyday from the dining room to the billiard room and eat while watching the games. He seldom played but like Gregory, would play anything if asked. Unlike Gregory, he was not adept.
The only other two regulars were senior Professors of Psychology. They played only against each other and only either rack pool or nineball. They seemed to genuinely hate each other. They swore and insulted one another and argued over every conceivable detail. Left-handed Andrew was a political ultraconservative whereas his diminutive opponent, Edward, was merely a conservative. Not that their politics made any difference, they disagreed about everything. Edward (who never let you forget that he had been a Colonel) was by far the most disagreeable of the two, although he was no match for Andy when it came to swearing. A pretentious round little man with the metabolism of a hummingbird, Edward was forever rasping the tip of his cue, chalking it unnecessarily, picking lint, imaginary and otherwise, off the table, positioning himself just so before each shot, and in general making rather a fool of himself. We all marveled at their strange relationship and often had to ask them to calm down.
Such was the little informal group that used the billiard room, the members of which knew themselves to be part of what was in reality a genuine but informal old-fashioned and waspish men's club. This had not come about by design. It had just evolved that way. Perhaps devolved was a more apt description because at one time there had been a much larger membership and a much better kept room.
Females, whether faculty members or not, simply did not enter the billiard room unless they did so by mistake. In this event they would take one look and quickly leave. This surprised me as the billiard room provided a convenient short cut to the parking lot. But I can recall only one instance in which a woman passed through the room and exited out the back door. It was a exceptionally rainy day. There was no overhang over the door so water poured down directly on whomever was foolish enough to open it. We all watched as the woman made her way daintily across the room. Everyone knew what would happen. But no one said a word until the unfortunate woman was soaked, at which point everyone yelled in unison, "Surprise!" I might have suspected this of a group of children but not a group of octogenarians. Wally the Elder told me later there once had been two young faculty women who had come to play pool and had been allowed to do so. "But they didn't last," he reported seriously. "I don't know what happened to them. They just quit coming."
*
"My brother just entered a nursing home," Wally the Younger announced one day. "He calls it the Penultimate Arms."
Wally the Elder laughed. "We'll all be there soon. Get your war club."
The two Wallys had played each other twice a week for more than thirty years. Wally the Elder was technically the better player and knew more about the game; but it was obvious he was "getting along." He often miscued and had trouble shooting with enough force to make three and four cushion shots on the badly maintained tables. Too, Wally the Younger was almost pathologically competitive. While the Elder made jokes and enjoyed himself, mostly at his own expense, the Younger played with only one intention: to win. If one could have tallied up all the games they had played quite likely they would have been about even.
Alan and Richard began a game on the other table. Although Alan held his cuestick in an unorthodox manner and did not have a complete repertoire of shots, he was exceptionally good at the shots he did know and as a consequence won more often than not. Richard was a good loser but was getting better every week, something that could certainly not be said for the rest of us.
"Did anyone see my knife?" Wally the Elder asked. "I must have set it down when I was cleaning my pipe."
"One of the staff probably took it," Alan said in his typical superior and sardonic tone. "They like knives you know. Even little ones" (the staff was mostly Hispanic). Then, as if inspired by his comment, he continued. "Now there's what's wrong with the University. Those Ethnic Study Centers. Hispanic Studies, Afro-American Studies, Indian Studies, Asian Studies. What on earth do we need those for? They make a mockery of what a University is supposed to be. This is supposed to be a place where one pursues knowledge for its own sake, objectively, and in a scholarly manner. Those Centers do nothing of the sort. They just try to promote their own image, their own politics. There's nothing objective about them and they certainly aren't scholarly. It was a terrible mistake to have started those centers. I said so at the time. And now, heaven help us, we've even got a Women's Studies Center!" Alan's feelings on the subject were well known. There was an embarrassing silence.
"I've looked everywhere for my knife," Wally the Elder began again. "I even asked at the front desk."
"You probably just forgot where you put it again," Gregory, who was watching, growled. "You lose it all the time. Hell, you'll probably be able to hide your own Easter eggs soon." It was true that Wally was getting forgetful. He was as aware of it as the rest of us. Gregory teased him endlessly but without malice. "That reminds me of a golf joke I just heard," Gregory continued. "There was this eighty year old golfer, see. And he wanted to play in a tournament; but they wouldn't let him because he couldn't see very well. They told him, 'You always lose sight of your ball and have to look for it and hold everyone up. We don't think you ought to play.' But the old guy was determined. He kept pestering them and then finally he suggested, 'How about if I take Jones with me? He's ninety, it's true, but he can still see.' They finally gave in. So...on the first tee the old guy hit a long drive but it tailed off a little at the end. Did you see it? Did you see it? he demanded of Jones. 'I saw it,' Jones replied. Well where is it? Where'd it go? Jones paused for a moment, looked puzzled, and then said, 'I forgot.'
The room exploded with laughter. The oldtimers loved this kind of humor. Wally the Younger offered a joke that had something to do with farting in an old people's home. Everyone guffawed and went back to their games. Wally the Elder triumphed. Andy beat Edward in nine consecutive games of nineball. Edward, red-faced in frustration, anger, and embarrassment, but trying not to show it, left hurriedly but with dignity. "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Gregory observed.
Being midway in age between the younger players and the octogenarians I was in a comfortable position. If one of the younger players beat me I whined they were taking advantage of the elderly. If an older guy beat me I complained they shouldn't take advantage of children. Of course it was all just fun. But whenever one of the older players didn't show up when we thought we should be worried. It was true, as Gregory pointed out, that among the older guys there wasn't a single intact prostate. And it did seem like one or another of the older players was always in the hospital or visiting his doctor, or recovering from something or other or attending a funeral. When Wally the Elder, who was in better shape than most, announced that he and his wife were going to Paris for a few days, then added wistfully, "for the last time, I guess," no one spoke for several minutes.
*
"Well Jackson," I asked one friday, looking for a bet, "Who's going to win the big fight tonight?"
"Oh, one of the nee-groes, no doubt," he answered with obvious disinterest. Jackson, unlike Gregory who participated in virtually every sport, was totally unathletic and looked it with his soft round belly, soft hands and slack posture.
Gregory, who would bet on anything, said, "I'll take Holyfield. Ten bucks."
"You're on," I said.
Just then Edward entered carrying a bottle of wine and a glass.
"What's the celebration?" Jackson inquired.
"My Porsche just turned over 250,000 miles so I'm celebrating," Edward announced proudly in a loud voice.
"Congratulations," Wally the Younger offered. "I had a Porsche once but I didn't like it. I bought a Jaguar instead. I liked the Jaguar better...of course now I drive the Mercedes."
"I'm still driving my old Peugeot," Wally the Elder, just back from Paris, reminded us for what must have been the two thousandth time. "It runs fine. Twenty years old. Only has 37,000 miles on it and it..."
"Shoot!" ordered Gregory, who was playing him. "We know all about your Peugeot. Why don't you tell us again how you painted your house. We only heard about that everyday for six months. And stop wearing those damn white shoes when you come here. They squeak. How in the hell can anyone play billiards with you squeaking like that every time you walk around the table?"
Wally looked around the room at everyone, bowed slightly, and smiled his wonderful stage smile before taking his shot. He ran eleven points, then said, "There, Greg, match that." No matter how hard he tried, Gregory, who was every bit as competitive as Wally the Younger, could not beat the old man. It drove him crazy, much to the amusement of the rest of us.
The following Monday Wally the Elder did not appear promptly at his usual ll:30 hour. We immediately assumed the worst.
"No," Wally the Younger assured us, "I think maybe his son is visiting, and his two grandchildren. He'll be back in a day or two."
The games went on as usual but it was not the same without the old man, our "house post," as Wally the Younger had taught us to call him. When he did not show the following day Wally the Younger said he would call.
"I called and called but didn't get any answer," he reported the next day. "I'm worried."
Three days passed and there was still no word. The billiard room was rapidly taking on all the charm of a morgue. Everyone played but mostly in silence. No jokes were offered. Even Andy and Edward were subdued. Wally the Younger left abruptly even though it was his turn to play. He returned the following day, later than usual, ashen-faced and unsmiling, interrupted the eightball game long enough to open the drawer and remove his expensive antique cuestick. Without a word he broke it over his knee. He flung the two pieces into the farthest corner of the soon to be deserted storeroom.