My friend Matt says let’s go to Julians Pool Hall and learn how to ……….
Lets learn. Matt says. What. I ask him? How they do it? How they look a man in the eye, humble all over, and then how they say Come on want to play a game not for money of course because there is no way I little old me can play a man great and wonderful and superior like you for money. Let’s look at how the great idiots feel greater still standing in front of these old Men who just stepped out of Steinbeck novels with their Lower East Side raggedness scratching poverty despair madness in their eyes. Let’s look at how they slowly with steady cues just missing when they need to just miss just making it when they need to just make it so that the trap won’t look like a trap so that the greatones won’t feel hunted down caged dead meat on the table. And then when the greatness is greater than great god up there in the sky great. When the greatness is so great the wallstreetkings almost can’t breathe from all their glorious greatness, then the bums, canary row bums, Julian pool bums, with English whispers to the ball, all of a sudden, become lightning strikes, puffing out triangles of numbers scattered into pockets everywhere pockets one after the other pockets, and the great ones, straight ties, hundred dollar shoes, become less than great, and sooner than they can blink, they become lesser than the bums and then and only then do they see the old men for what they are, conmen from the ancient era of conmen from the golden age of New York Pool Halls and American hustles.