| The Pool Table Page2 |
"ORDER! ORDER!" Jake brought his hammer down on the table. "We didn’t come here to argue over money. We came here to raise money. Now, if anyone got anything sensible to say, say it." "I do," said Gavin. "Okay, boys, let Gavin have the floor," said Jake, wiping his glasses with a shaky hand. Gavin stood with an exaggerated bow; then he stumbled and sat down with a hard little thump. "Whoopsie!" Bessie called, in a loud jolly voice. "Gavin won’t see da’ floor no more t’night; leastways not on his feet." Carmel, watching the proceedings from behind the bar, cast an indulgent smile at Gavin followed by a murderous glance at Bessie. "YOU SHUT UP BESSIE!". Then remembering her position, she lowered her voice. "Gavin’s all right. He just had too much medication for his asthma." "ORDER! ORDER!" Jake’s glass hit the table. "Well, boys, I’ve had enough; gotta be headin’ home," Gord mumbled, draining his glass and looking for a quick escape. "Have t’ be down at the unemployment office bright an’ early in the mornin’. When you boys decide on a plan, count me in." "SIT DOWN! You’re not going anywhere. This meeting is not adjourned yet." Jake was on his feet, his red face glistening with sweat. One hand clutched his pants, which were in danger of being dragged down by the combination of his considerable girth and the vast array of tools dangling from his belt. Young Sam asked, "What were you going to say, Gavin?" "Say? Hic I . . . I just want . . . want to say . . . I just want to ask Sam, how it wuz that Gord gypped him outta that ‘underd dollars." "Yeah, yeah. Tell us, Sam. What happened? Wuz the power company shuttin’ Gordie off again?" Bessie howled, wiping her chin and slapping her knee. Gord’s head sank lower; the ends of his droopy grey mustache met the frothy foam topping his glass. "ORDER!" Jake’s command went unnoticed. ‘Ole Sam lunged to his feet, his black eyes blazing. And oblivious to Young Sam yanking on his shirt, he leaned across the table and shook a knobby, nicotine-stained finger in Gord’s face. "NO SIRIEE! ‘TWAS LIKE THIS: LAST WEEK WHEN WE BURIED POOR UNCLE ALEX SNOW, YOU SAID YOU DIDN’T ‘AVE A DECENT SUIT A’ CLOTHES TO BE PALLBEARER. YOU ROTTEN, CHEAP SON-OF-A . . ." "OUT! OUT!" Carmel stormed out from behind the bar; and upon reaching Ole’ Sam’s side, grabbed him by the collar, lifting him bodily off his chair. "I TOLD YOU . . . NO SWEARING IN THE CLUBROOM," she shrieked in his face. "I didn’t swear. I only said . . ." "Like I always say, don’t tangle wit’ Carmel," Gavin said, supporting his chin with unsteady hands and his wife with unwavering pride. "She don’t take nuttin’ from nobody." Disgusted, Carmel pushed Ole’ Sam back in his chair, tipping him backwards as Young Sam grabbed him just in time. The chair came ahead again, and Ole’ Sam made a desperate grab at the table, capsizing an ashtray—and his beer bottle. The ashtray landed in his lap. The bottle rolled across the table and plopped into Gord’s lap. Carmel bolted back behind the bar. Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, she savagely dialed the police station. Then noticing a couple of newcomers—a blond-haired young man and a girl in tight jeans—she slammed down the phone and rearranged her face. Then she sauntered over and asked," And what can I get you fine folks, tonight?" Meanwhile, peace was restored to the BS table. Gord mopped up the beer, as best he could; young Sam persuaded his father to sit down and take it easy; and Jake, forgetting his hammer, used his beer bottle to bring the meeting to order. "Now, like I was saying," he began, mopping his forehead and keeping a wary eye on Carmel, who was—at the moment—busy with her customers, "what we need here is some suggestions. Anyone got any ideas how to raise money?" "Why don’t we hold a Bingo night?" This came from a thin-faced, timid-looking young man at the opposite end of the table. He spoke barely above a whisper and looked expectantly around the sea of faces for some sign of approval. His suggestion brought sour looks all around. "Naw, naw . . . bingo is just for silly old women. They wouldn’t come out if they knew it was for a pool table," scoffed Jake, smiling wisely. "Your wife would," yelled Bessie, opening a stack of Nevada tickets. "Mavis wouldn’t stay away from a bingo hall if . . ." |
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