Out of the Bottle
David Malone
(An original Hamster tale).
My head hurts from drinking all of that rot-gut whiskey and I know I'm
not thinking as clear as I should. But you asked... or maybe you
didn't. Can't rightly remember. Not that I give a damn and I don't
really care... I'm going to tell you the story anyway. I ain't asking
you to believe it, mind you - I just wanna get it off my chest.
Near as I can remember, it all started with the day I bought this
curious looking bottle at a garage sale. It was dark green hand-blown
glass and covered with an old leather wrap in a sort of
three-dimensional pattern of basketry weaving. The leathers were
stained red, blue and gold and there was an old family crest of some
kind in the center with a dragon in it. An attractive object d'arte...
actually, my wife made me buy it - she thought it would make a rather
spiffy decorative holder for a candle or something. As usual, when we
got home, she tucked it away in a cupboard and forgot about it... for
several years. I didn't even know what it was when I came across it
one day - I just knew it was old and grimy and badly needed cleaning.
Holding it up to the light, I blew the dust off it and gave it a quick
rub with my free hand to wipe off some cobwebs...
You know what's coming next, right? Yep. Sure enough there was a
hissing sound like a valve releasing, a puff of vapor, and a genie
popped out of the bottle. Not that he looked very much like your
traditional oriental genie with the turban, the baggy pants, and the
curly shoes. This one was more of a scruffy, unwashed, middle-aged,
overweight, chain-smoking type of nebulous entity with nevertheless
palpably bad breath, a rumpled smoking jacket... and an attitude.
Maybe I disturbed his nap. Think Rodney Dangerfield after a bad night.
Anyway, he scowled and waved at me impatiently...
"Alright... alright... get on with it. You get one wish... and make it
snappy."
I reached up and put my jaw back where it normally rested. After all,
you hear about these things but usually only in comic books.
"I thought the usual allocation was three?"
"Don't be a smart-ass. This isn't the Arabian Nights and you ain't Ali
Baba, bubba. Do you want the wish or not?"
"Um... OK."
I definitely wanted the wish. I mean - who wouldn't? But when it's
sprung upon you so suddenly, it's kinda hard to think of something
suitable. It's like when you have an argument with your boss or your
wife. You don't think of the really good comeback lines until it's all
over, and then you can't use them without starting the argument all
over again.
"Can I think about it for a while?" I asked, scratching my head.
"Nope. I'm feeling sleepy. If you don't give me something in under
twenty seconds, I'm going back to bed and you're out of luck..."
I cast around desperately for an idea but my mind was a total blank.
The genie looked pointedly at his watch and sighed. A framed and
signed picture of me with my arm around Johnny Archer at the US Open
last year caught my eye. Nice guy... for a pool player... he'd been
very patient and signed my cue as well as the picture.
"OK..." I managed. "I want to be a Pro pool player."
"What a doofus. You wait around for a few thousand years and hope for
a creative wish or two when you get out of the bottle. And all you get
is a schmuck who's in love with his pool cue. OK... consider it done.
It's your funeral. Bye..."
And he vanished again in a small puff of smoke.
I sat around for a while wondering if I'd had what my wife's mother
would call an 'episode'. I mean, I felt okay and when I looked in the
hallway mirror, the person looking back looked like he always did...
paunchy and balding with bags under his eyes and more than one chin.
He still looked very much like a guy I was familiar with who couldn't
string three balls together if he tried. Well, no sense sitting around
wondering if it really happened. I'd better get down to the local pool
hall and see if anything had changed for the better.
"Marcy... I'm going to the pool hall."
"At one o'clock in the afternoon? Are you out of your mind?"
"Probably." I said.
The local pool hall is called Karl's PoolSharx. It's not the most
traditional pool establishment, more of a night club and video game
palace with karaoke, disco, and a half-dozen ancient Dufferin
Challengers at the back for the teenagers to bunt balls around on.
There was a dance-floor, huge JBL speakers all over the place, and big
black industrial-quality sub-woofers the size of refrigerators.The
pool tables were antiques but playable, the balls were Aramith Pro's,
and the cloth was Granito Basalt that had 'fallen off a truck' for a
rather attractive price. Not bad for a disco and it was the only
decent place with nine foot tables to play pool on for miles around.
The place smelled stale after the clean air of the street and now that
the windows were open during the day, you could see the dust on the
bar and the cobwebs hanging from the ceilings. Gabbie, the barman and
general help, was puttering around, mopping up the mess from the
evening before. Some drunken kid had spilled his guts on the
dance-floor linoleum and another had spilled his drink.
"What a mess, eh, Gabbie...?"
"No worse than usual, Tommy... punk kids can't hold their liquor.
Don't know why old Mr Hansen even lets the little bastards in. Some of
them gotta be twelve years old with fake IDs. One of these days he's
going to lose his liquor license if he doesn't get his act
together..."
"It'll never happen... nobody cares, Gabby. OK if I use number five?"
"Help yourself, son. I'll put you on the clock after I've finished
this..." he winked. "If I remember, that is..."
I made a note to myself to be nice to Gabbie when I got to be a Pro.
This wasn't the first time he'd let me play for free and it probably
wouldn't be the last. The hall didn't make any money on the tables
anyway. I picked up a tray of balls from under the bar and made my way
to number five. Billy Tremaine was hitting balls on number seven and
gave me a cursory nod as I passed by. We'd met before briefly but
Billy was one of the local pool heroes and way out of my class. We
didn't move in the same circles, if you know what I mean. Something
made me stop anyway and ask him if he was interested in a game or two.
He didn't look all that delighted but he shrugged his shoulders.
"Sure... I was only hitting balls. Five bucks a game? I don't play
except for money."
Now you have to remember that I only started playing pool in my
thirties. Couldn't hit the long side of a barn when I began a few
years ago and, to be honest, hadn't improved a whole lot since then.
People told me that I started too late in life and unless I'd been
playing since I was five years old, I'd never be good enough to play
with the Pros. Oh, I enjoyed the game and had fantasies about playing
like Efren, Mika, or Earl, but my busy life, or maybe a lack of
motivation, prevented me from putting enough time into the hours of
practice I really needed to improve.
Billy racked the balls. Looked like we were going to be playing
9-ball... I grabbed a fiberglass house cue with the vestiges of a tip
still remaining from the rack and broke sharply. Hmmn... wing ball and
a couple of others went in. Unusual for me - I had a nasty habit of
sliding off the pack and scratching the cue ball in the top right-hand
corner. I screwed the old Meucci together and it felt unusually light
as I stepped up to the table. The break had left me a clean shot on
the one and I made it, getting reasonable shape on the two. After that
it all seemed rather easy and I finished off the rack with an
authoritative power draw stroke into the top corner - just for the
hell of it. Wow... only the third or fourth time in my life I ever ran
a complete table at 9-ball.
"Rack 'em..." I said, casually. I'd always wanted to say that to
someone.
"Nice out...", said Billy. His right eyebrow appeared to be
permanently raised in a look of astonishment. "You almost looked like
you knew what you were doing there, Tommy my boy."
Well there it was. It seems I suddenly looked like a Pro and in fact
was I was even starting to feel like a Pro. I managed to reel off
another couple of racks, gaining in confidence all the time, and then
got a tad careless and missed an easy sitter. But I didn't mind. I
knew I had Billy's number... and I think he knew it too. I didn't
really want his money. It was time for a real test.
"What time is the Friday tournament tonight, Bill?"
"Starts at seven'ish... the way you're playing today, you might have a
chance. Shall I sign you up?"
Why not? I was back down there at six-thirty and raring to go. It may
have been a little local tournament but there were some pretty
heavyweight players who came up from Hatchers Mill to play in it and I
was interested to see how well I would do against the big boys. It was
no contest. I went through the winners bracket like oat bran through a
Baptist minister. There were some good sticks that night, but I always
felt in command and was never in any danger of losing. I wasn't
perfect, you understand, just quite a bit better than any of the
amateurs I was playing against. I dumped the cheap pot-metal trophy in
the waste basket outside McDonalds but hung onto the paltry $300 bucks
first place money and made my way home. My mind was in a turmoil and I
wondered if I had what it takes to just drop everything and hit the
road as a pool player. I would be giving up a comfortable, if not
Donald Trump type, existence and up until now had been quite happy
with it. I was thirty-seven years old and not getting any younger. I
sat on the couch in a funk and pretended to watch the boob tube until
Marcy went to bed.
An hour later, I stood up - galvanized. I had decided to go for it. I
packed some clothes and my cues, left a note for Marcy, and got in the
old Rambler headed for Vegas. I had no idea if there was any action
there at this time of year but it felt right... in my imagination,
that's where the Pro players go.
The bright lights on the strip filled me with excitement and I felt
like taking on the world. Found myself a place to stay which cost me
an arm and a leg - looked like there was no such thing as a cheap
motel in Vegas anymore - and started looking for some action. I
finally found a traditional pool room called something like "Mickey's
Cues & Brews" on Eastern Avenue with decent tables and some players
who looked like they knew what they were doing. The bar also had
listings of the Pro tournaments scheduled for the next few months on
the notice board, and since no-one was looking I borrowed the list and
pocketed it. This would be my calendar and my reference guide for the
foreseeable future. I hadn't been in there more than a few minutes
before I was approached by an old, fat guy wearing a golf cap
backwards who was looking for a game. Took seven hundred from him, but
then lost half of that to a young gangly kid who looked to be about
fifteen years old. Appearances can be deceptive. It seems I wasn't
always destined to win and I'd have to pick my spots. The remaining
three-fifty less the table fees and drinks almost paid for the hotel
room, so after I'd eaten I was only down about a hundred bucks. Thank
the Lord the adjacent casinos were handing out free drinks or I'd have
been even further in the hole.
I was looking forward to my first Pro tournament at a place called the
Crystal Palace in Vegas but it was somewhat of a disappointment. All
the big names were there. I got bumped into the one-loss side my first
match by someone you may have heard of called Earl something or other
and struggled to make it into the money through the back door. A
respectable tie for 6th and 7th place. The $400 purse was a start, but
not quite what I'd been hoping for. After paying the tournament fees,
the hotel room, food and travel expenses, I was left with a whopping
thirty-five bucks to put back in my pocket. Hmmn... I realized I'd
have to do better or I would soon be living on the street. Fortunately
I still had a substantial reserve of cash I could use from my bank. Or
so I thought. The next time I tried to use the ATM, it told me flatly
'Sorry insufficient funds available'. What the hell? Turns out my dear
wife, Marcy, had hauled ass to the bank and withdrawn every penny from
our joint bank accounts. I guess she figured out I wasn't coming back.
I don't recall much of what happened in the years after that. The days
seemed to run into each other - the same old same old. The Pro
tournament trail became a bit of a blur and any satisfaction I had in
playing well on any given night was overridden by the necessity to
survive. I actually recall winning a few smaller local tournaments and
this helped me financially for a while until the next one came along.
Any surplus funds got used up in booze and what I would
euphemistically call 'companionship'. Women, that is. I slept in the
car most nights - hotels are expensive. I quickly learned that I
wasn't even close to being world championship material, just another
average Pro who had some good days and more bad days on the table. On
a good day, if I avoided the big dogs or simply got lucky, I could
maybe win a regional tournament or one of MJ's Viking Tour events and
make a little cash. If I tried the bigger tournaments, I'd inevitably
run into the big dogs, have trouble making back my entrance fees, and
end up not paying the bills. The only logical way to keep afloat
seemed to be the back-room action that followed each tournament as
inevitably as spring follows winter. I learned some painful lessons in
how to match up - there's an art to it. I also learned that some of
the best players out there don't even bother playing tournaments -
they are just there to scavenge the winnings like a pack of hyenas
after it's all over.
Now, years later, I'm sitting here in this sleazy motel with the
flashing neon lights lighting up the room, just thinking about what
happened...
I'm broke... never won any of the big tournaments. I'm eating at soup
kitchens, Marcy divorced me, and the only clothes I have are the ones
I'm wearing. My only constant companions are the fleas and bed-bugs in
the mattress of this crappy room. The only things I can call my own
are a cheap vinyl cue case that I stole from a drunk in Vegas, two
Players piece-of-shit cues that I took in a bet from a hustler in
Atlantic City, and the old Dodge. I'd sell the car but nobody wants it
- it's actually not in the best of working condition. I lost it in a
bet once and the high-roller that won it threw me back the keys on his
way out and told me to keep it.
But, God help me, that sonnovabitch genie kept his promise.
I'm a professional pool player...
David "The Hamster" Malone
pltrgyst
>Out of the Bottle
>(An original Hamster tale).
Nice one!
>... This one was more of a scruffy, unwashed, middle-aged,
>overweight, chain-smoking type of nebulous entity with nevertheless
>palpably bad breath, a rumpled smoking jacket... and an attitude.
Smorg -- is that you? 8;)
How come these guys who get just one wish are never bright enough to wish for
more wishes?
-- Larry
JohnA(Kent,WA)
--
JohnA(Kent,WA)
David Malone
<pltr...@spamlessxhost.org> wrote:
>How come these guys who get just one wish are never bright enough to wish for
>more wishes?
I think that's against the genie WGB* rules...
*Wish Governing Body
David "The Hamster" Malone
Pat Hall
PatH
lfigueroa
> Now, years later, I'm sitting here in this sleazy motel with the
> flashing neon lights lighting up the room, just thinking about what
> happened...
>
> I'm broke... never won any of the big tournaments. I'm eating at soup
> kitchens, Marcy divorced me, and the only clothes I have are the ones
> I'm wearing. My only constant companions are the fleas and bed-bugs in
> the mattress of this crappy room. The only things I can call my own
> are a cheap vinyl cue case that I stole from a drunk in Vegas, two
> Players piece-of-shit cues that I took in a bet from a hustler in
> Atlantic City, and the old Dodge. I'd sell the car but nobody wants it
> - it's actually not in the best of working condition. I lost it in a
> bet once and the high-roller that won it threw me back the keys on his
> way out and told me to keep it.
>
> But, God help me, that sonnovabitch genie kept his promise.
>
> I'm a professional pool player...
Monkey Hamster Sucker Puncher.
Lou Figueroa
but a good yarn nonetheless :-)
bvinco
Becky
Becky
---
: the next generation of web-newsreaders : http://www.recgroups.com
Aunty Dan
him warm at night) but I liked how you avoided the easy way out for Tommy,
where Marcy rubs the bottle herself and wishes you were back to normal.
--
Aunty Dan
------------------------------------------
"For 'tis the sport to have the engineer
Hoisted with his own petard."
- W. Shakespeare
------------------------------------------
"lfigueroa" <lfig...@att.net> wrote in message
news:0LzJd.25016$8u5....@bgtnsc04-news.ops.worldnet.att.net...
> "David Malone" <mal...@ca.ibm.com> wrote
Donald Tees
> Out of the Bottle
> (An original Hamster tale).
>
Good read David.
Donald
David Malone
wrote:
>Monkey Hamster Sucker Puncher.
Oh, oh... does that mean I'm on JAM's list? I hope not - I don't know
any women in purple dresses and I think Earl is a fine fellow...
David "The Hamster" Malone
David Malone
<aunt...@xhotmail.com> wrote:
>I liked how you avoided the easy way out for Tommy,
>where Marcy rubs the bottle herself and wishes you were back to normal.
lol... I imagine after he left, Marcy would have been so miffed she'd
either have moved in with the genie or wished Tommy a painful
accident.
Hell hath no fury, etc.
David "The Hamster" Malone
pltrgyst
> I don't know >any women in purple dresses....
No one ever said the world was fair, Monsieur Hamster.
-- Larry
David Malone
<pltr...@spamlessxhost.org> wrote:
>No one ever said the world was fair, Monsieur Hamster.
How did I suddenly get to be a French Hamster? Now Jimbo won't even
talk to me...
David "The Hamster" Malone
RIPP
George C
RR
One more dream down the drain. Thanks to you, this time.
RR
Fast Larry
This is a true story.
An elderly Florida lady did her shopping and, upon returning to her
car, found four males in the act of leaving with her vehicle. She
dropped her shopping bags and drew her handgun, proceeding to scream at
the top of her voice, "I have a gun, and I know how to use it! Get out
of the car!"
The four men didn't wait for a second invitation. They got out and ran
like mad. The lady, somewhat shaken, then proceeded to load her
shopping bags into the back of the car and got into driver's seat. She
was so shaken that she could not get her key into the ignition. She
tried and tried, and then it dawned on her why.
A few minutes later, she found her own car parked four or five spaces
farther down. She loaded her bags into the car and drove to the police
station. The sergeant to whom she told the story couldn't stop
laughing. He pointed to the other end of the counter, where four pale
men were reporting a car jacking by a mad, elderly woman described as
white, less than five feet tall, glasses, curly white hair, and
carrying a large handgun. No charges were filed.
If you're going to have a senior moment, make it a memorable one!