Chapter 7
That evening, the family of three pulled up to the entrance of grandma and grampa’s gated community, punched in the code, and proceeded up the hill. It was a relatively small subdivision of 52 homes all done in fan-styled stucco with essentially flat roofs, but with Spanish tile accents. Except for a number of single women owning some of the residences, it was primarily retired couples and it was ideally suited for grandma and grampa’s lifestyle. Normally the front light at their house would be blinking in anticipation of the arrival of guests, but at this time of year, there remained plenty of daylight. Grampa had had the optional blinker on the front light put in ostensibly as a retort to a very close friend who claimed the right house couldn’t be found in the dark because they all looked the same – sand colored fan-styled stucco with turquoise trim. The fact that there were essentially only six variant floor plans in the neighborhood did give a modicum of credibility to the complaint. In actuality, however, grampa had the blinker there looking ahead to the time when an ambulance might have to find the house in a hurry.
Grampa had been greatly amused and entertained by negotiating modifications to the basic floor plan that they had purchased. Their house was the only one in the neighborhood with a basement – the poolroom; one of but seven that had two floors above ground; and the only one with a dumbwaiter installed. The dumbwaiter paid homage to one of grampa’s most cherished childhood memories. The latest generation would probably dub it a ‘food elevator.’ It served all three floors. From the deck above the garage to the sunroom next to the upstairs master bedroom, the house had gorgeous views of Albuquerque’s environs. He says that the day he can’t climb the stairs is the day he starts looking for a nursing home. In deference to his advancing years, however, he had had installed a special light switch in his bathroom that, if you pushed and held the switch in for a full second, gave you 30 seconds to get in bed before it extinguished the light.
As the front door was opened, there were hugs all around and a to-do made over Keith’s return to Albuquerque. Cold sparkling cider and nachos were served as appetizers in the living room. Tonight’s repast called for sliced broiled flank steak and scalloped potatoes and seven-bean salad. It was one of Keith’s favorite menus because each could have as much or as little of the specially marinated meat as they preferred. Grandma’s potatoes were exceptionally delicious because she used a bit of half and half in addition to straight 2 percent milk and the bean salad was always fun with her addition of nopalitos (deneedled, skinned, spiced, and julienned prickly pear cactus) to the mix. The nopalitos were a labor of love since, as mucilaginous as they are, repeated washings are required before they’re suitable for the salad – somewhat reminiscent of fresh okra.
The dining room had a pocket door opening to the kitchen, French doors opening out to the covered patio, and French doors opening to the living room. Grandma would open the French doors with some theater as she called everyone from the living room to the table. The room’s chandelier was an absolutely lovely eight-tiered concatenation of crystals the interior lighting of which was controlled by a rheostat on a timer. Grampa delighted in having the light ebb slowly, but surely, throughout dinner thereby having a somniferous effect on the diners. Then in a quick luminiferous resurrection, the feasters would be rejuvenated ready for the piece de resistance which, in this case and to no attendee’s chagrin, proved to be humble bowls of tapioca. On this occasion, the meal seemingly took forever with wading through all the family’s catch-up chitchat.
While the ladies put away the leftovers or prepared doggy bags for the brothers’ next meal, the gentlemen retired from the dining room and descended the circular staircase to the poolroom. The carpeted staircase to the basement has pressure-sensing piezoelectric devices under the carpet on the top and bottom treads. Whenever someone begins a descent or an ascent, illuminating lights in the wall even with every third riser come on automatically to assure safe passage. The lights go off via a timer. Grandma’s choice of berber for the staircase and poolroom was ideal. It had certainly held up well through the countless circumambulations of the pool table. The brothers dearly loved this house and the thought their grandparents had put into it. The boys particularly enjoyed that their grandfather was a lighting freak. His living room Lutron light controller provided programming for six different light circuits (from over-the-sofa sconces to a variety of reading lamps to a spot highlighting the painting over the mantle to another grandiose six-foot long chandelier at the ‘foyer’ to the two-story-high living room) creating over time a resulting four different ‘moods’ for living room occupants.
Once in the poolroom, Clark went immediately to the wall phone and hit the intercom #2 button to page the kitchen. “Grandma, I forgot to turn on the music. Would you do that for me, pretty please?” This was standard operating procedure for Clark and grandma never failed to turn the CD player on for him. Grampa had installed a system that piped music optionally to the living room, the dining room, the covered patio, and / or the poolroom. Clark especially liked grandma’s recordings of French torch singers.
The poolroom had a double door to the neighboring wine room, a sliding glass door to an outside three-step bank of flowers (the alternate egress from a basement as required by the city’s building code), a cabinet-type door serving as access to the dumbwaiter, and several stools and chairs for spectators and players. The decor of the poolroom was indeed Spartan; there was a TV, of course, but no bar or garish beer signs as are found in many ‘rumpus’ rooms. Grampa had a single neon light that he considered more sophisticated, elegant even, yet apropos to the issue at hand; it read ‘Mi Querencia’. Only his wife knew that he had wanted to name his whole house, his ‘estate’, as Mi Querencia similar to Twelve Oaks, Greenbrier, Winterthur, Hermitage, Broadmoor, or The Breakers, but finally decided that it was too pretentious or too presumptuous or both. The Spartan look had not set well with grandma. She had elicited a promise from him, that ‘sooner or later’, he would add a bit more ‘socko’ to the room; that, of course, was now some years ago.
“Well, shall we open with a game of nine ball?” asked grampa. The trio had two special house rules that didn’t conform to Official Rules. One was their ‘old man’s rule’ and the other was for lags. They simply each took a lag shot in turn and order of play was determined by nearness of the lag to the head cushion with striking the head cushion permitted. While each was capable of running the table in nine ball much as one can see on TV, none of the three could resist an early shutout with a combo if it looked at all possible. Such an attempt was almost guaranteed in the aftermath of a scratch. Another ‘understanding’ was that the loser of a game or first man out racked for the next game.
Keith had purchased his own cue, which he kept at grampa’s, some time ago and the self-styled ‘intimidator’ carried him to victory in the opening game. Keith clenched a fist and blurted out a firm, “Yes!”
Because of his unusual reach, Clark routinely used one of the shorter cues and was currently feigning extreme disappointment at having just missed a game-winning shot that had now set up Keith’s easy stroke. Grampa commented, “As my grandmother used to say, winning merely signifies the end of the game.” The grandsons rolled their eyes. As victor, Keith chose rotation for the next contest.
Rotation frequently requires combos to score one of the higher numbered balls in the early on to stand a chance of winning. And since it’s not a call game, it gives one incentive to strike the more difficult shot fairly hard in hopes of scoring from ‘slop’ if the shot fails in its primary mission. This technique usually thereby results in a greater number of scratches. The winner is normally determined by who gets a hot streak with the last few balls remaining on the table. As fate would have it, Clark won rotation handily.
Clark asked, “Might we have time for a game of cowboy?” While they all enjoyed its special needs for billiard-esque skills, it can be somewhat time consuming. Hearing no support for the idea, he chose eight bal
l for the next event. In this poolroom and with three participants, it was called King of the Mountain. Since only two play at a time, the winner stays at the table until defeated.
“First one to three victories wins? I think the gals will be down here by then,” exclaimed grampa with the concurrence of the other two. “I’ll sit out the first one. I’m a little tired this evening.”
Eight ball was the game preferred by all three, not only because it was one on one, but because, as a call game, it required considerably more finesse and a much greater concern for shape. All three delighted in attempting difficult combos, kick shots, or rather extreme English whenever the situation demanded such and all three were successful uncommonly often. Bank shots, feather shots, caroms, and draw shots were all de rigueur. Clark had just holed his last stripe and the eight ball for a win in that first game when the staircase lights announced that the gals were coming down to join the fun.
This meant curtailing the eight ball tournament and switching to a game of cutthroat where each of the five players has three balls to defend with the goal of one or more of the three being the last on the table. Occasionally this can lead to someone’s nose being out of joint if it appears they are being picked on, but the restoration of a ball to the foot spot upon someone’s scratch is usually a pretty good equalizer. In fact, to terminate the game with that number of players, some kind of X-number-of-scratches-and-you’re-out rule is usually required at least in this poolroom.
“Grampa, you just fouled. You sank the ten ball; that’s one of your own balls!” said Clark.
“I thought I had seven through nine,” responded grampa.
“I’m sorry, grampa. That was last game,” said Clark. “You have ten through twelve this game. You finished next to last in the last game.”
“Humph! Someone should have told me. I used to have ‘a mind like a steel ... uh ... uh’ whatever,” laughed grampa. He was only half-kidding, of course, as his attention to detail had deteriorated in the past several years.
The line had a familiar ring to it. The whole group had grown aware of grampa’s problem over time, but this incident just got away from them.
“Let’s put the balls back as they were,” offered Keith. “Take your turn over, grampa.”
“No, no, no way. When you beat me, you beat the best I have to offer. The fact that my best is gradually lessening is nobody’s problem, but mine.” Grampa had never coddled the boys as they were growing up. When they first beat him at pool, chess, tennis, putt putt, arm wrestling or any other endeavor, they knew they had beaten him honestly.
Being more of a social game than an ego contest, the winner of the prior game in cutthroat is usually lost in the fun of the next one. According to Billiards, the Official Rules and Records Book, the game of pool ‘evolved from a lawn game similar to the croquet played in France during the 15th century. When play was moved inside, green cloth was used to simulate grass. The game is played by kings and commoners, presidents, mental patients, ladies, gentlemen, and hustlers alike’. Grampa wondered at times which of these his grandsons might become. At last, the grandparent’s bedtime came around. The felt on the pool table was meticulously brushed and the rails all-around were lovingly hand-burnished. The crutch, the balls, and the cues were carefully returned to their designated storage spots. This never-to-be-violated ritual was completed and the visitors departed with their carry-home goodies.
Keith had been especially pleased that the evening had removed all thoughts of Harrell Wade Harrison for quite a length of time. He had always felt that Wade was a ‘loose cannon’ or still ‘a work in progress.’ Keith recalled being along in the car once when Wade bought himself a late lunch at a Tuscaloosa burger shack. The drive-thru waitress gave Wade change for a twenty when Wade had given her a ten. Wade had laughed at his good fortune; Keith felt very much ill at ease.
An image from the old treasured movie, Gone With The Wind, came to him on the ride home as he thought to himself, ‘tomorrow is another day’.