Last Call

Tourist night, or as I like to say, a "Seattle's Best Places" night, where all sorts of folks who I have never seen before pile into the tavern. At one point, I am the only regular there, which is very rare (not me being there, but being the sole familiar face).

When it becomes a tourist night, what you get is a complete and total sense of non-community, which is no fun for anyone really. Might as well have stayed home (and that applies to all parties involved).

Scene: Two chuckleheads shooting pool. I call them chuckleheads as it sounds like knuckleheads but is a tad less sharp-edged. The banter between said two chuckleheads involves supposition of eventually playing pool for money juxtaposed against what is obviously a lack of talent. Admittance of a very short career in 8-ball is made, and I observe it all.

Enter stage right: Dave, who has beaten the piss out of me at 8-ball on many an occasion. His name is scrawled atop the chalkboard and the waiting commences.

Enter stage left: Margaret, another pool shooter and long time regular, who is to say the least vociferous when it comes to the social graces of billiard playing in bars.

Our intrepid chuckleheads are playing bank-eight, meaning of course that they wind up chasing the eight ball around the table for quite some time. Margaret suggests (in her own inimitable fashion) that bank-eight should be foregone as people are waiting. Slightly harsh words and accusations of pool-playing ability are traded, and thankfully chucklehead #1 scratches on the eight.

Dave begins to rack up the next game, and the rules are set by chucklehead #2, fancying himself a pro -- Vegas rules, bank-eight. Dave plays dumb and the longest and most pedantic explanation of the rules of 8-ball ensue. I am trying so hard to not giggle.

Rule numero uno when it comes to playing pool for money: You have to learn how to miss shots.

Rule nummert zwei: If someone sits and watches you play pool for a game or two, and then offers to play for money, just give him the cash and be done with it.

Long story short, our man Dave wins the day, ten bucks richer for his efforts. Chuckleheads #1 and #2 beeline to the door and leave, which is sad as I was up soon and had hoped to take them for a beer or two.

So, had the regulars not started to arrive like the cavalry, I would have had to put up with listening to these two profess their prowess to each other in a mutual self-admiration pact, as I simply hadn't the stomach to deal with them myself. Nauseating, it was.

The most entertainment I've had there in some time.