A Little Brando Maybe

From 2012

Last week I was playing pool at the Abbey. Maz was in town from Alaska. THe jewelry salesman was leaving for the islands on Wednesday. His time in the Far North had not effected his hand and eye coordination and the bald-headed genji ruled the table for several games. I lost to him on a double-miss on a game-ending corner shot on the 8-ball.

While awaiting my next shot at the champ, I watched the popular bar on Driggs Avenue filled with young people. I spoke to several sci-fi fans about RESIDENT EVIL and a BBC correspondent about the current BBC sex scandal. We agreed that Jimmy Sevillem the TV announcer was an unpentent child molester, but he argued that Jimmy Savile was the only person involved during the decades of under-age sex at the media center in London.

"Not bloody likely."

He dropped his quarters in the slot and Maz offered him the break.

His pool cue was missing the tip from the ferule.

"Your stick's accent is 100% Cambridge." It was a good guess and he admitted to having graduated from that prestigious university. "Playing pool well is the sign of a misspent youth."

His blonde girlfriend thought that was funny. She was a literary agent.

"I handle mostly non-fiction." She was young and smart with long legs. She would have been beautiful in any bar in New York. Her unnaturally curly hair discounted her tale about working only with the truth. Her friend lost to Maz and after they left he asked me, "Would you slept with her?"

"No." I am faithful to Fenway's mom.

"No." Maz is astounded by my self-imposed celibacy.

"She's not my type."

No one believes my restraint, since my reputation as a ladies man had once been world-wide. I looked around the bar. The women in the Abbey were laughing with the freedom of youth. None of them had eyes for a man my age. I had once looked like an Irish Brando. Probably still do but more like his appearance in APOCALYPSE NOW plus thitty years. I'm overweight, but he was a giant in that film. More like he had transformed into Orson Wellles. I dropped four coins into the pool table slot.

"Not a single woman in here is my type.

"I don't worry about types." Maz was a free agent as was I at his age.

I was forty years old twenty years ago.

I accepted the truth of my ruin and racked the fifteen balls tight. After Maz's break I ran the table with a series of combos and bank shots. The next player was a black girl in her 20s. She was wearing a short black skirt.

"Nice shooting."

"Thanks."

I lost once more on the last shot, which was always better than the first.