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| The Pool Table by Marlene McCarty |
"Now, Jake, don’t you fret," said Jake Caverhill’s wife, Mavis, leaning across the torn leather seat and planting a kiss on his newly-shaven cheek. "Remember, you’re the new president, and tonight’s your chance to show ‘em. To let ‘em know you’re in charge." Aye, Jake thought, as the old Ford pickup rattled over the streetcar tracks crisscrossing College Street, president all right, but try making that crowd pay any heed to me. At Bathurst the light turned amber. Jake slowed down and mercifully slid through without stalling. A block and a half past the lights, he pulled up outside the Down East Social Club. Stretching his arm across Mavis, he fumbled with the dangling door handle. "I’ll let you out and park," he said without looking at her. Mavis shooed his hand away. She rammed her shoulder against the door till it opened, knocking a shower of rust to the pavement. "For glory sake, Jake, I think we’re the ones that needs a helpin’ hand," she muttered as he pulled away from the curb. Inside the entrance to the club (affectionately referred to, since the cutbacks, as the "Grumblin’ Gut Club" Jake, a worried looking man of immense proportions and sporting a freshly-washed crew cut, watched the stream of women—Mavis among them—cautiously make their way up the rickety stairs to the club’s upper room. Thank God most of them will be up there and out of the way tonight, he thought. The main meeting room, where Jake was headed, was downstairs. But last year with all the belt-tightening going on, Mavis and some of the other women decided to form their own group The G.G.H.H. (Grumblin’ Gut Helping Hands) to aid needy "down east" families living in Toronto. Tonight was the regular meeting night of the G.G.H.H.; consequently, only the men would be downstairs to witness the first official meeting with Jake in charge. Earlier in the week, Jake had decided that the main clubroom needed a new pool table. After kicking the idea around with a few of the regulars, they figured that the purchase of a new pool table would be a great asset in keeping the younger crowd from straying, and would, with a little luck, entice others to join. So, being the new president, Jake had called a hasty meeting around the BS Table. Now the BS table—where as a rule, nothing but BS was ever discussed—sat in the middle of the clubroom and, on a good night, held thirty or so of the club’s more social-minded citizens. But it being the middle of the week and the playoffs on TV, Jake knew there was a good chance he’d be talking to himself. With a silent prayer for guidance from all the saints whose names he could remember, Jake entered the room—to rousing applause! With a grin of relief at the good turn-out, he faked a nonchalant wave and swaggered toward the table. But after a closer look around the room, a tight little knot of nervousness gnawed at his gut. Several non-members had showed up, too, including—to add to Jake’s distress—a smattering of curious women. At precisely eight o’clock the meeting was called to order. Jake stood at the head of the table and called for attention. "Okay, boys, you all know why we’re here this evening. And I know most of you would rather be home watching the game than be forced to come down here and drink beer and listen to me talk." Everyone nodded. But most insisted they were proud to make the sacrifice. Anything to bring in new members. "Now, then," Jake said, shifting his ever-ready handyman’s tools around his belt so they wouldn’t accidentally spill his beer, "we’ve all agreed that we need a new pool table. And we’re here tonight to decide how to raise money to buy one." "Why don’t you just pass the hat, and whoever wants one can put in so much?" This little suggestion came from Bessie Borden, who was not a member, but she was from "down east." Bessie wasn’t seated at the BS table, but she did have sharp ears and loved to help out. And after a few pints, she was usually very helpful. But tonight, Bessie’s suggestion received scant approval. "I haven’t worked in six months," said Gord Taylor. "I can hardly afford beer, let alone payin’ for a pool table." "What happened to the two thousand you won on the 6\49 last week?" goaded Bessie, with a gleeful glint in her one good eye. "Two t’ousan dollars . . . (hic) you won two t’ousand, then sat here every night bummin’ bloody beers. I outta . . . outta . . ." sputtered Gavin Fudge, a pudgy, balding little fellow sitting beside Gord. Shifting his long skinny frame uneasily, a deepening red flush crept up the back of Gord’s neck. He moved his chair about six inches down the table, away from Gavin’s indignant glassy glare. Across the table, grizzled Ole’ Sam Osborne shot up from his seat as if yanked by an invisible string. "BY THE JUMPIN’ JESUS, YOU BETTER NOT ‘AVE SPENT IT ALL, OR YOU WON’T BE IN NO SHAPE T’ PLAY POOL FER SOME TIME!" he threatened, shaking his fist across the table at Gord who sat slumped over his glass. "NO SWEARING IN THE CLUBROOM!" shouted Carmel, the orange-haired Amazon bartender, who was also Gavin’s adoring wife. "Now, now, Father, sit down. No use getting all worked up over money," pleaded Young Sam, pulling his father down by the shirttail. "Leave me be," said Ole’ Sam. "I just wants me rights. Gord Taylor’s not gonna gyp me outta a hun’erd dollars just like that." |
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| To read part two of The Pool Table please click on 'next' below. |