Guy Vanderhaeghe - Man Descending

My old man gave me a nudge to get out. We were the last.

“No,” I said quickly and hooked my fingers in the mesh.

“We get out here,” said the old man. He hadn’t caught on yet.

“No, I can’t,” I whispered. He must have read the look on my face then. I think he knew he couldn’t have pried me off that mesh with a gooseneck and winch.

Fred, the cage operator, lifted his eyebrows at Pop. “What’s up, Jack?”

“The kid’s sick,” said Pop. “We’ll take her up. He don’t feel right.” My old man was awful embarrassed.

Fred said, “I wondered when it’d happen. Taking kids and women down the hole.”

“Shut your own goddamn hole,” said the old man. “He’s got the flu. He was up all last night.”

Fred looked what you’d call sceptical.

“Last time I take you any place nice,” the old man said under his breath.

The last day of school has always got to be some big deal. By nine o’clock all the dipsticks are roaring their cars up and down main street with their goofy broads hanging out their windows yelling, and trying to impress on one another how drunk they are.

Dad sent me to look for Gene because he didn’t come home for supper at six. I found him in the poolroom playing dollar-a-hand poker pool.

“Hey, little brother,” he waved to me from across the smoky poolroom, “come on here and I’ll let you hold my cards!” I went over. He grinned to the goofs he was playing with. “You watch out now, boys,” he said, “my little brother always brings me luck. Not that I need it,” he explained to me, winking.

Yeah, I always brought him luck. I kept track of the game. I figured out what order to take the balls down. I reminded him not to put somebody else out and to play the next guy safe instead of slamming off some cornball shot. When I did all that Gene won – because I brought him luck. Yeah.

Gene handed me his cards. “You wouldn’t believe these two,” he said to me out of the corner of his mouth, “genuine plough jockeys. These boys couldn’t find their ass in the dark with both hands. I’m fifteen dollars to the good.”

I admit they didn’t look too swift. The biggest one, who was big, was wearing an out-of-town team jacket, a Massey-Ferguson cap, and shit-kicker wellingtons. He was maybe twenty-one, but his skin hadn’t cleared up yet by no means. His pan looked like all-dressed pizza, heavy on the cheese. His friend was a dinky little guy with his hair designed into a duck’s ass. The kind of guy who hates the Beatles. About two feet of a dirty comb was sticking out of his ass pocket.

Gene broke the rack and the nine went down. His shot.

“Dad’s looking for you. He wants to know if you passed,” I said.

“You could’ve told him.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Lemme see the cards.” I showed him. He had a pair of treys, a six, a seven, and a lady. Right away he stopped to pocket the three. I got a teacher who always talks about thought processes. Gene doesn’t have them.

“Look at the table,” I said. “Six first and you can come around up here,” I pointed.

“No coaching,” said Pizza Face. I could see this one was a poor loser.

Gene shifted his stance and potted the six.

“What now?” he asked.

“The queen, and don’t forget to put pants on her.” I paused. “Pop figured you were going to make it. He really did, Gene.”

“So tough titty. I didn’t. Who the hell cares? He had your suck card to slobber over, didn’t he?” He drilled the lady in the side pocket. No backspin. He’d hooked himself on the three. “Fuck.”

“The old man is on graveyard shift. You better go home and face the music before he goes to work. It’ll be worse in the morning when he needs sleep,” I warned him.

“Screw him.”

I could see Gene eyeballing the four. He didn’t have any four in his hand, so I called him over and showed him his cards. “You can’t shoot the four. It’s not in your hand.”

“Just watch me.” He winked. “I’ve been doing it all night. It’s all pitch and no catch with these prizes.” Gene strolled back to the table and coolly stroked down the four. He had shape for the three which slid in the top pocket like shit through a goose. He cashed in on the seven. “That’s it, boys,” he said. “That’s all she wrote.”

I was real nervous. I tried to bury the hand in the deck but the guy with the runny face stopped me. He was getting tired of losing, I guess. Gene doesn’t even cheat smart. You got to let them win once in a while.

“Gimme them cards,” he said. He started counting the cards off against the balls, flipping down the boards on the felt. “Three.” He nodded. “Six, seven, queen. I guess you got them all,” he said slowly, with a look on his face like he was pissing ground glass.

That’s when Duck Ass chirped up. “Hey, Marvin,” he said, “that guy shot the four. He shot the four.”

“Nah,” said Gene.

Marvin studied on this for a second, walked over to the table and pulled the four ball out of the pocket. Just like little Jack Horner lifting the plum out of the pie. “Yeah,” he said. “You shot the four.”

“Jeez,” said Gene, “I guess I did. Honest mistake. Look, here’s a dollar for each of you.” He took two bills out of his shirt pocket. “You got to pay for your mistakes is what I was always taught.”

“I bet you he’s been cheating all along,” said Duck Ass.

“My brother don’t cheat,” I said.

“I want all my money back,” said Marvin. Quite loud. Loud enough that some heads turned and a couple of tables stopped playing. There was what you would call a big peanut gallery, it being the beginning of vacation and the place full of junior high kids and stags.

“You can kiss my ass, bozo,” said Gene. “Like my brother here said, I never cheated nobody in my life.”

“You give us our money back,” threatened Marvin, “or I’ll pull your head off, you skinny little prick.”

Guys were starting to drift towards us, curious. The manager, Pat Bert, was easing his guts out from behind the cash register.

“Give them their money, Gene,” I said, “and let’s get out of here.”

“No.”

Well, that was that. You can’t change his mind. I took a look at old Marvin. As I said before, Marvin was big . But what was worse was that he had this real determined look people who aren’t too bright get when they finally dib on to the fact they’ve been hosed and somebody has been laughing up his sleeve at them. They don’t like it too hot, believe me.

“Step outside, shit-head,” said Marvin.

“Fight,” somebody said encouragingly. A real clump of ring-siders was starting to gather. “Fight.” Bert came hustling up, bumping his way through the kids with his bay window. “Outside, you guys. I don’t want nothing broke in here. Get out or I’ll call the cops.”

Believe me, was I tense. Real tense. I know Gene pretty well and I was sure that he had looked at old Marvin’s muscles trying to bust out everywhere. Any second I figured he was going to even the odds by pasting old Marv in the puss with his pool cue, or at least sucker-punching him.

But Gene is full of surprises. All of a sudden he turned peacemaker. He laid down his pool cue (which I didn’t figure was too wise) and said: “You want to fight over this?” He held up the four ball. “Over this? An honest mistake?”

“Sure I do,” said Marvin. “You’re fucking right I do, cheater.”

“Cheater, cheater,” said Duck Ass. I was looking him over real good because I figured if something started in there I’d get him to tangle with.

Gene shrugged and even kind of sighed, like the hero does in the movies when he has been forced into a corner and has to do something that is against his better nature. He tossed up the four ball once, looked at it, and then reached behind him and shoved it back into the pocket. “All right,” he said, slouching a little and jamming his hands into his jacket pockets. “Let’s go, sport.”