[Cadaverous Pallor]

"I can’t believe they’re closing it down.”

Stan was lining up his shot carefully, one eye shut. No break in his concentration for Jim’s statement. The cue slid easily on his arched finger, back and forth, as he gauged the strength needed for this shot.

“I’ve been coming here since I was 13,” continued Jim, twisting and untwisting his cue absentmindedly. “Sal used to let me in even though I was underage, though he never sold me liquor. Just let me play at this table. When I was 15 I ditched my last class o’ the day too often to come here and the office called my parents.” He shook his head and smiled at the memory.

Stan took into account the slight angle of the aged table and poked at the cue ball. Four ball slipped into a corner pocket, easy as you please.

The old jukebox had given out perhaps 3 years back. It sat sullenly in a corner, still plugged in. The tiny color TV sitting above the old bar whined in the background; volume too low for anyone to understand, picture too fuzzy for anyone to watch. Only other noise was the vehicles on the Interstate going 70. One dirty field worker sat taking his whisky lunch on a barstool, and he made no sound at all. Barkeep was hanging halfway out the back door, smoking a cigarette and watching traffic.

Stan smiled his lopsided grin and stretched his back. Jim’s far-off look caught his eye and brought him out of his momentary triumph.

“Look, you know how it is. They’re fixing up this street. Don’t want an old bar with a screwed-up pool table and walls with the word “fvck” on it next to the new ice-cream shop, now do they?” Stan’s voice was gruff and sharp.

Jim kept quiet and Stan scoped out his next shot. Long shot for the corner which would be hard to get later, or the sure pretty little thing into the side right next door?

“Ten, corner” murmured Stan and let fly.

Instincts failed him and the ten hit the bumper.

“Sh!t.” Said simply, a state of fact. Stan had a seat on a hard plastic orange chair and gulped Rolling Rock. No use in standing, Jim would clean him out now. Fvcker always won.

Instead of looking at the table, Jim looked at Stan.

“’S different for you. I grew up here. This piece of sh!t place is a part of this town. See that, on the wall there, next to your head? Where it says ‘Small Block Chevy’?” Jim pointed to Stan’s right, and Stan obligingly turned to look. “My friend Carlo wrote that. Was obsessed with his car. I could point out 50 more things on this wall to you. It may not be pretty, but this crap on the walls, this is history.”

Stan looked at him, mouth held shut. Isn’t much you can do when a man’s feeling his sense of belonging, he thought. Poor guy never went anywhere but here. Hell, he’s still here. I may be here now, but least I been other places.

Jim seemed to have more to say, so Stan let him say it.

“D’ya ever see those pictures that cavemen drew inside of caves? Sure, they’re pictures of animals and crap, and people today think they’re about spirits and voodoo and what all, but I tell you what – ain’t nothing spiritual ‘bout it. Not at all. It’s just some people with a wall to draw on. What makes them ancient places any better than ours?”

Stan looked at the floor, considering the ancient dirt and beer stains.

Sated for the moment, Jim considered the table. A few seconds later the three had found a home in a side pocket. He was deciding on his next tactic when Stan spoke.

“It’s progress. No use in whinin’ ‘bout it. Didya think this place would be here forever? That they’d mount these filthy walls in a museum? Man, you’re crazy. They’re gonna come in here, paint these walls clean, make this a fancy coffee shop, and that’s that. And let me tell you something, ain’t a moment too soon. This place smells like sh!t to me.”

Jim didn’t respond. He moved slowly from his frozen position…lined up his shot…let the cue slide.

He missed.