Calvin said nothing, just sat there, hoisted his beer and sipped. My hero. My friend. I kept my head down
as far as I could while keeping both eyes on the mirror. I was dazzled by my predicament; blinded by the
headlights of fully-loaded on-coming tractor-trailer, fascinated by the unavoidable catastrophic collision
that was at hand. I felt like I was observing myself from outside. The barkeep came down, stood directly
in front of me, blocking the mirror and my view of my gargantuan admirer, slapped a napkin on the bar
and said, “Mike?”
“Bucket,” said Mike.
This I swear to you, the barkeep took an aluminum bucket from off the counter behind the bar and stood
in front of me filling it with draft beer. It was, as far as I could tell, about a four hour process. Meanwhile
“Mike” and the barkeeper were both fixed on me.
“And?”
“Turkey,” said Mike. He had turned to face me again while he said this.
For some reason this got a big laugh from everybody behind me, and when I looked at Calvin, he was
laughing too. The barkeep took down a bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey and poured out a healthy shot
and put it in front of Mike. When he left, returning to the woman at the end of the counter, I got a clear
view of the big man beside me again. He was slugging the beer from the bucket, had it up to his mouth
with both hands…a BUCKET. Where I came from they filled such a thing with ice and stuck three or four
bottles of beer in there. After setting the bucket down, he slowly turned and looked at me with hooded
eyes. I could feel his beery breath on my face. Was he purposefully breathing on me? In the mirror I
watched in horror as Calvin grimaced in exaggerated fear. Meanwhile, the big man beside me continued
to stare at me in silence. Calvin was mouthing something to me repeatedly, but I could not tell what.
By this time Calvin had finished his two beers and reached over to take one of mine. The barkeep saw
his hand reaching for it and ran the length of the bar to grab the beer from Calvin and stare at him. He
said, “Nuh. You can’t come in here and drink other people’s beer now.” He pushed my beer back in front
of me. Calvin was smiling and nodding and, god help us all, he actually leaned in across the bar and
gave a goofy little wave to the monster beside me.
The big guy finished the tub of beer and slammed down the shot of Wild Turkey and leaned onto the
bar with his huge, monumental, forearms. He intertwined his meaty fingers and started nodding his huge
head while staring, in the mirror directly into my eyes. I tried to concentrate on the beer in front of me,
but couldn’t help but look up from time to time. Each time I stole a glance, he was still staring at me.
Neither Calvin nor I knew what to do.
The barkeep yelled, “More, Mountain?”
The big man turned to me and said quietly, “What do you think?”
My eyes moved toward the man who had addressed me but my head stayed facing the counter in front
of me. I scratched the side of my face nervously. “Me?” I asked weakly.
“Yeah. You think I should have another bucket…” he said moving his big head closer to my ear,
“Snowflake?” Though he’d whispered it, all the folks in the bar laughed and made comments. Calvin
covered up his own laugher. I kept my eyes to myself.
The big man was patient, in no hurry, immobile, waiting for my answer. There had been a lot of chatter
going on behind me up to this point. That had all disappeared. Everybody in the bar was waiting for my
answer. It was like some kind of badly staged play. The barkeep was now leaning with both elbows on
the bar, he seemed entertained by my situation.
“Well..?”
I shrugged. “Well… you’re a pretty big guy,” I began pseudo-casually, “why not?”
My voice cracked as I spoke, and I spoke very softly, and I had to clear my throat a couple times before
getting all eight, finely crafted words out, but I said it. I did not smile nor did I look at the man, but I said
what I had to say. He leaned away from me and shouted, “Willie!”
“Mountain,” said the barkeep from his place at the far end of the bar.
“Bucket and a shot.”
“You want another?” the barkeep asked me while filling the bucket and looking down at my two full,
warm, putrefying bottles.
“I’ll take another,” said Calvin suddenly.
“No, you will not. You,” he said widening his eyes, “definitely will not.”
After downing half the bucket of beer, the big man said, “You shoot, Snowflake?”
“Shoot?”
“Use a stick?”
“Stick?” I was frightened and disoriented; I had no idea what he could possibly be saying.
“Pool,” whispered Calvin. “He’s talkin’ about pool.”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah, I shoot a little.”
“Let’s shoot, Snowflake,” said the big black man as he put two huge hands flat on the bar top and raised
his bulk off the two flattened stools that he’d been sitting on.
I got up and followed the huge man to the tiny, ill-lit pool table.
“Don’t forget your beer,” shouted someone from the dark and there was laughter. “Bofe ob ‘em,”
someone added and that got more raucous laughter.
At the pool table, Mountain put out one huge palm and stood looking at me. I looked to Calvin for
guidance and he started fishing around desperately for the quarter that was needed to get the game
underway.
“Eight Ball,” said the big man and put out his other hand. From the darkened side of the bar someone
stepped forward and placed a pool cue in the man’s huge hand. It looked like a toothpick. I started to
look around for a cue. This was a process that seemed to demand the advice of several people who
advised me loudly. “Take a heavy one; you gonna need it.” “Don’t use Jerome’s, he don’t like no one to
touch his stick.” “Ain’t got y’ own custom stick?”
As is my habit, I just took the first thing my hand fell to. I looked at the tip briefly and went back and
stood nervously beside the table.
“Solid ebony,” said the big man holding his stick out for me to admire, “hard as a rock, made of the
same stuff white cops use to bloody the black man’s skull.” He turned it so I could appreciate the butt
end. “Cue like this,” he said, slapping the thing in the palm of his hand, “you can beat any man…and I
mean beat.” I nodded…I may have whimpered. “You don’t want t’ sight down that stick, check it for
flaws?” he asked. There was laughter.
“Naw.”
“You sure? You sure that’s the stick for you, now?” He licked his big lips and grinned.
“Uh, you want to break or you want me to break?” I said with more than the slightest trace of
nervousness.
What the Mountain didn’t know, Calvin didn’t know, no one in that bar knew, is that we had a pool table
when we were kids and rarely in life did I feel more comfortable than with a pool cue in my hand. When I
was shooting pool, I was at ease. “Guest breaks,” said the man, “Loser drinks a bucket and a shot.”
Who was I to argue?
“He don’t drink,” said Calvin quickly.
“He lose, he drink,” said the big man, while looking at me.
This was the funniest thing anyone in that bar had heard all night. He lose, he drink. They’d win no
matter who won the game. If he won I was force-fed beer and a shot of whiskey, if I won I guess tradition
dictated that I buy him his next round. It didn’t seem fair, but it did galvanize my conviction to beat this
guy, if I could.
I moved to the side of the table, inserted the quarter, released the balls, listened to them drop. Calvin
racked them. I moved to the end of the table while the big man repositioned himself on the two bar
stools he’d previously punished. I broke without hesitation, got a pretty good scatter and dropped a
couple balls. I didn’t know what anyone’s reaction was, because when I shoot pool nothing else exists for
me beyond the table.
“You want?” asked the big man from his throne.
“Huh?”
“Balls you want?”
“I have to sink a called shot first,” I said.
“What?” There was loud complaining coming from throughout the bar.
“You have to sink a called shot before you can choose,” I said, “It’s the rule.”
“What you talkin’ ‘bout. I been shootin’ eightball all my big fat BLACK-assed life and you just sunk two
balls, so choose.”
Sitting near me, Calvin was urging me to choose and choose quickly. Martyred, I winced and hung my
head and sighed deeply. Should I attempt to explain the rules of this game to this man, in this situation?
“OK,” I sighed. I studied the table. “I’ll take the high ones.”
“You sunk solids and you takin’ the stripes?”
“Yes.” I said.
“You sunk SOLIDs and you takin’ the STRIPES?” He was shaking his big head from side to side and
there was laughter throughout the place…and plenty of free advice.
“Yes.” I said.
He nodded. “Go ahead then.”
I shrugged, called and took my first shot. It was a nice clean shot, nothing special, but there was a
rumbling in the crowd. I called the next shot and it dropped softly. The atmosphere was infused with
drama. Calvin was sitting on a stool behind me, as I lined up the next shot, chanting, “Don’t do this,
Edward, don’t do this, Edward, don’t do this, Edward.” It was like a bad Hollywood movie: a white-boy
comes to Harlem and teaches the locals how to shoot pool. I looked at the table; it was tempting; nicely
set up for an easy victory, but I didn’t want this mountainous black man angry at me; if necessary I’d
figure out how to get out of drinking the bucket of beer later. Calvin, who’d been raised in that
neighborhood and who knew these people better than anyone, was pleading with me, quietly,
desperately, to throw the game. I started shooting riskier and riskier shots, but they continued to drop
like in a dream.
Calvin jumped off of his stool and threw himself on my shoulders saying, “What are you doing? What are
you doing?” I looked at my opponent and he was smiling at me.
Now, all my doubts were gone. The table was set for me to sink two balls with my next shot. No matter
what I did one of them would drop, and with either luck or skill or any combination of the two, they’d both
disappear. It was a rock-solid certainty. I took the time to glance over at the big guy (smiling,
encouraging) and then at Calvin (neither). He had his eyes closed; he’d given up on me and now
seemed to be pleading directly with the powers above. He was shaking his head and saying
breathlessly, “No. No. No. Edward, no.”
The big guy was leaning back with his elbows on the counter behind him, smiling, waiting. He had a
toothpick in his mouth. He didn’t seem concerned. The barkeep had abandoned his post with his lady
friend and he was standing behind him, supposedly cleaning glasses. He didn’t appear to be either for
me or against me.
This game was being orchestrated in heaven. I called the shot. I pointed. The phrase, cock-sure comes
to mind for some reason here. Recognizing what I was about to do somebody stood up and shouted,
“OK, Slick! When the magic’s workin’, work the magic!” (An informed audience is always heartening.) I
took the shot--and maybe it was better for everyone—one ball came to rest on the lip of the pocket. If I
had whistled a sharp note that ball would have dropped. When I looked up to surrender the table, things
in that place had changed.
An undeniable chill had blown in through the open front door.
CALVIN continued...