(John, 21)

I said before that Frank's nephew J.T. was retarded.  This was not en-
tirely accurate.  J.T. was autistic.  All I know about that comes from
the movie "Rain Man", which I thought was a boring piece of crap.  I
rented it again when Frank told me what was wrong with J.T.  The guy
in the movie was super-smart about some things and super dumb about
other things.  Not J.T., though, J.T. was dumb about almost every-
thing.  I don't know if he could count cards or do math like Dustin
Hoffman did in that movie, but what I do know about J.T. is that he 
was a stupid freak.  He stood about six foot eight and weighed in at
over 350.  He probably would have played pro football or been a wrest-
ler like Hulk Hogan if he hadn't been so simple.

During the week, when things were slow, Frank would have J.T. wiping
down the bar and mopping the floors and cleaning toilets, but on the
weekends, J.T. was a bouncer.  He thought it was pretty funny when 
Frank called him that, even though he didn't literally bounce at all.
He just stood next to Frank with his arms crossed and his mouth shut,
watching the games.  Frank's sister would have killed him if she knew
what he had her little boy doing on the weekends, but like I said, 
J.T. kept his mouth shut.  When the bar was open on the weekends, J.T.
was like a soldier on guard duty, ever vigilant and watchful.  When he
wasn't bouncing though, J.T. would do what Frank told him to and noth-
ing else.  That's why I don't play pool anymore.  That's also why I 
quit drinking.

Seventeen years ago, I was the best player ever to walk through the
door of Frankie's place.  I was writing a piece on an antique pool 
table for Smithsonian magazine and I knew I was in the right place 
when I saw the painted sign in the window.  "Finest pool table in the
land," it said.  The neon sign over the door was missing a couple of 
sections.  The sign still hadn't been fixed on the night Frank poured
his last beer.  But that's another story.

I walked in the door with my cue slung over my shoulder, my notebook 
in my hand, and looked around the place.  There were a few haggard 
looking souls sitting in the gloom, staring down into their beers and 
listening to Patsy Cline on the jukebox.  It's funny how someone al-
ways seems to play Patsy Cline on the jukebox when you're in the bar.
No one spoke.  Even the groans of displeasure died down as the door
swung shut and once again banished the light from outside.  I walked
up to the man behind the bar and asked where the famous pool table 
was.  He looked up from the mug he was polishing and flipped a switch
behind him.  A light came on in the center of the room, illuminating a
sight that was both stunningly beautiful and horrifyingly intimidat-
ing.  The table was the most beautiful of its kind I had ever seen.  
As I looked over its pristine wood finish and its spotless green felt,
a sense of home had come over me.  I realized that the table was some-
how familiar to me.  I understand now that what I was feeling was the
sensation of finally finding my niche, the one place in life where I 
was meant to be forever.

I removed my cue from its case and walked towards the table with false
confidence, my notepad forgotten.  I knew somehow that this was silly,
I mean it was just a pool table, with the same dimentsions as any 
other pool table.  I was arguing with myself internally.  I would tell
myself, it's just a pool table, relax.  Then, I would rebut with, and
the Holy Grail is just a cup right.  This thing was an alter to great
pool players and craftsmen alike.  A testament to all that is great
about the game.  I turned halfway to it and addressed the bartender.
"That thing ought to be in a freakin' museum," I said.  Without 
looking at me, he responded, "It is."

I guess he was right about that.  In the following weeks, I played so
much pool, and drank so much scotch, that I lost my job with Smithson-
ian.  I got a job at the air conditioner factory in town, and an 
apartment on the second floor of the building that housed Frankie's
place.  The job paid slave wages but I won enough money playing pool
at Frankie's Place to make up the difference.  I played every day
until closing time.  In the interim, as I became used to the idea of
the table, I began to notice other things.  Frank had old photos of 
some of the great pool players who had played on his table pinned to 
the wall.  Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason had posed with it to promote
their movie "The Hustler".  Larry Flint wheeled himself up next to it
for a photo shoot with this magazine that was doing a story about him
and his girlie mag called, you guessed it, "Hustler".  Frank ended up
asking J.T. to escort Mr. Flynt off the premises because he wanted to
come back and shoot some women getting it on the pool table.  He had
antique cues in a locked glass rack on the wall, each one with a story
and a very big price tag.  Anyway, I said earlier, that the table was
an alter to great pool players.  Well, if that's true, then Frankie's
Place was the temple.

And I, for two years and three months, was a priest, or at least a 
disciple.  Frank's was just beginning to be a hot spot for pool sharks
on the weekends.  At first, only hundreds of dollars would change 
hands after a game, then thousands, then tens of thousands.  But I had
hung up my chalk long before things got that heavy.  I would play the
regulars during the week for the jingle in their pockets, but when the
weekend hit, I made some real money.  Frankie's was smack in the cen-
ter of downtown, in one of the biggest college towns in the state, and
rich kids would come in on Friday nights and try to dethrone the king.
I would win a hundred here and three hundred there (we called hundred
dollar bills H-bombs at Frank's).  Frank would front me by betting 
money until I won enough to pay him back (at a nifty percentage) and 
still make a profit myself.  Which wasn't long.  I'd buy the house 
some drinks and walk away a happy man.  Most nights.  Some nights, I'd
have to have J.T. escort me home because some drunk kid would lose an
H-bomb to me and decide he was take it out of my butt.  No one ever 
touched me.  When I think of the number of bottles that J.T. took to 
the head in my defense, I just want to kiss that big, expressionless
face.

Then, finally one night, it was over.  The first, real big money play-
er that came in was a Chinese guy.  He walked into the bar with two 
other guys and just sat and watched me for awhile.  He was carrying a
cue, so I was hoping that he would offer me some action because he 
looked like he was also carrying a lot of money with him.  The way he
was dressed, I figured he was good for a thousand-dollar game easy.  
That was enough H-bombs to level all of my bills back then.  And I was
hot that night.  I was wiping the table with everyone who had enough
guts to step up and take a shot.  I was making enough that I could 
stake my own bet without having to ask Frank to front for me.  But it
was getting late, and I was getting drunk.  Between games I would sit
at the bar and have a nice glass of scotch, always keeping my eye on
the Chinese men in the corner.

Finally, closing time came and everyone began to clear out.  I began
to unscrew my cue feeling very disappointed that the Chinese guy 
hadn't challenged me.  Then he stood up and said, "Wait, I want to 
play you."  Before I could respond, Frank said, "Sorry buddy, it's 
closing time."  One of the guy's friends walked over to the bar and
threw a hundred-dollar bill in front of Frank and said, "Mr. Hong 
would like to play the gentleman."  Frank agreed and told J.T. to lock
the door and then go clean the toilets.  Mr. Hong nodded his head and
said, "Excellent."  He walked over to me and extended his hand and we
were formally introduced.  The game he suggested was nine-ball.  Of
course.  All of the big money players play nine-ball.  He wanted a 
race to seven for thirty-five hundred dollars.  This meant that we 
would play until one of us won seven games.  First one to seven walks
home happy and the other guy just walks home.

My eyes lit up like a little kid at Disneyland.  I pulled all of the 
cash out of my pockets and found that I only had a little over a thou-
sand from that night's winnings.  I looked up at Frank and he simply
nodded.  One thing that I'll say about Frank is that he was always 
looking for three things:  a good investment, a profit, and a good 
money game of nine-ball.  Needless to say that staking me for the 
money would provide him with all three, so we played.  But, like I
said, it was getting late, and I was getting drunk.  We played for two
and a half hours.  During the game, J.T. would come out of the back
and watch us for a while before Frank would send him back on some 
other task.  As the clock ticked over to four-thirty, I broke the rack
on the thirteenth game.  Mr. Hong and I were tied at six games apiece.

Nine-ball is a tricky game.  I sunk the one on the break, then shot 
the two and the three.  After that, I was stuck and played a sloppy, 
drunken safety.  Mr. Hong sunk the four, five, a six-seven combo, and
the six.  He played an excellent safety and stuck me with the nine 
ball sitting on the brink of the side pocket, right between my cue
ball and the eight ball, which was sitting on the far rail.  I looked
over the situation, my eyes clouded with the brown tint of scotch, and
held my index finger up to Mr. Hong who nodded in response.  He sat
down patiently and I walked over to Frank who had come from behind the
bar.  In the twenty years I'd known Frank, I think that was one of ten
times I'd seen his legs.

"What do you think Frankie?" I asked.  "If I miss this shot, we're 
done."

Frank, the most understated and subtle man I have ever met, crushed a
cigarette out on the floor, red sparks running for their lives from
under his boot.  He then looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Don't
miss."

That was it.  I walked back to the table and tried to steady myself.  
I must have looked over the shot for fifteen minutes before making up
my mind.  My plan was to bank the cue off the right side rail, back 
towards the eight ball, nicking the edge and sending it to the corner
pocket.  In AA terms, it was an easy shot for a "sane" person.  I 
lined up, noticing my reflection in the smooth white surface of the 
cue ball.  I nodded my head and took careful aim.  The cue ball hadn't
moved six inches before I heard Frank mutter, "Well, I'll be full of 
crap."

The first part of my plan worked.  I banked the cue ball off the right
side rail.  The rest of the plan went down the toilet in a hurry.  I 
must have put the wrong English on the ball becuase it came spinning
back at much too sharp an angle.  The game ended when the cue ball,
the one I used to call my cue ball, struck the nine and deposited 
neatly in the side pocket.

Game over.  Frank cursed under his breath and threw the money down on
the table.  Mr. Hong's friend picked it up and put it into his pocket.
When Mr. Hong reached out to shake my hand, he said, "Good game."  As
is customary in pool halls.  What is not customary was my response.  
In al the years I played pool, I was never once a poor sport.  I had
also never lost so much money on a bet that I was so sure I could win.
I picked up my cue and broke the thin end across the right side of Mr.
Hong's face.  He began to bleed immediately.  Everyone, including me
was so shocked we just stood there silently for a moment.  I stood
there looking down at the broken piece of wood in my hand until one of
Mr. Hong's friends, who were actually his bodyguards as it turns out, 
grabbed me and put me into some kind of police restraint hold.  I 
don't know exactly what he did;  all I can remember is that it felt
like he tore my right arm clean off. His partner picked up my feet and
they carried me outside.  They threw me down on the sidewalk next to a
shiny black car.  Mr. Hong stepped over me and got in.  He looked down
at me and shook his head.  He then looked up at his bodyguards and 
nodded, one sharp jerk, up then down.  The bodyguards forced my hand
into the doorframe of Mr. Hong's car and he slammed the door sharply 
against my left hand.  He then opened the door and slammed it again.
This time, the bodyguards let my arm fall to the concrete and over my
screams, I heard Mr. Hong say again, "Good game." He shut his door, 
now with my blood dripping from it, and they drove away.

What came next is a blur, even today.  I remember staggering back into
the bar, past Frank who had followed us outside only to helplessly 
watch as they destroyed my hand.  I went straight to the bar and wrap-
ped my hand in a towel.  Frank was calling the police when J.T. came
out of the back to tell Frank that he was finished cleaning up.  He 
saw me at the bar, bleeding, cradling my mangled hand.  He looked at 
Frank and asked, "Wha happen?"

I walked around the bar at him and screamed, "What happened?  They 
crushed my hand you big stupid freak!  That's what happened!  Where 
were you?  You're supposed to watch my back!"  I slapped him across 
the face with my good hand.  He started to cry.  He said, "I was 
cleanin' the back lie Unka Frankie tol me too."  He kept saying it 
like that, over and over.  He plopped his big butt down on a stool and
put his face in his hands.  While he sobbed, Frank hung up the phone,
grabbed me by the collar and shoved me towards the front door.  While
we went, he growled in my face.  "You don't ever lay your hands on my
family you drunken crap!  Now get out of my bar."  He planted me on my
can on the sidewalk outside and shut the door.  I'll never forget what
it felt like, sitting there on the sidewalk, with the light from the
bar bathing me with its shadowy gold, and then to have that light wink
out with the slam of the door.  It felt like Hell.

The next few months were strange.  I had socked away a few thousand 
dollars from my winnings, which I used to pay the bills.  I certainly
couldn't build air conditioners anymore.  The doctor told me that 
there was no hope for my hand.  He had to amputate the first two fin-
gers.  He straightened the other three the best he could but they're
stilled crooked and useless to this day.  They also hurt when it gets
cold outside.  I went to a bar down the street for a while.  I'd sit
there and watch the other guys play pool and drink my scotch. But that
didn't last very long.

One Friday night, some college kids were in the bar playing pool.  One
of them made a sloppy shot, and I made a sloppy comment.  After clos-
ing time, I walked out into the pouring rain and found him waiting for
me in the street.  He didn't talk.  He just hit me.  He knocked me to
the asphalt and kicked me in the stomach and then in the chest.  He
spit on my leg and walked calmly through the rain to his car and drove
away.  I laid there for a while, coughing and hurting.  When I finally
got the strength, I got to my knees.  I sat there on my feet in the 
middle of the road, looking down at what used to be my left hand, and
began to cry.  My crying turned to wails of regret and pain as it all
came flooding back to me.  My savings were gone.  The hospital was
ready to come take my car for not paying my bills.  I'd probably lost
the best friend I would ever have.  And to top it all off, I'd made 
J.T. cry.

A horn honked behind me.  Someone's trying to pass and there's a path-
etic looking hunk of flesh in the middle of the road.  How incoveni-
ent.  I got to my feet and waved.  "Sorry," I said.

As I walked the six blocks to my apartment, the rain began to subside.

The next time I spoke to Frank was exactly twelve months later.  I 
walked confidently into Frankie's place with my head held high.  J.T.
was sweeping the floor when he looked up and saw me.  His face opened
up in a smile, as forgiving as a child's.  I smiled back and J.T., as
if remembering, looked worriedly at Frank who was forever polishing
mugs behind the bar.  He looked up at me and said flatly, "Scotch, 
right?"  I sat on the stool and flipped the red disk in his direction
like a coin.  He caught it and looked at it.

"What is this?" he asked.

"I'm dry Frank," I said nervously, "That's my chip.  I've been on the
wagon one year today.  I joined AA, you know, the twelve-step thing.
It's great, really.  Once you finish the twelve steps, you start all 
over again.  It works for some but not all.  So far, I've been lucky."
He looked at me, sort of shocked and asked, "So what step are you on
now?"

"Actually," I said, "I'm starting over at step one today," I paused 
with a lump in my throat.  I swallowed hard and continued, "Making
amends."  Frank held up his hand and shook his head as if to tell me
that nothing more was needed to be said.  He grabbed a glass from un-
der the bar and said, "So what'll ya have?" I smiled and said, "Make 
it a Coke."  J.T. watched all of this with great attention, and when
he saw Frank hand me my glass, he clapped his giant hands together 
once and let out a din of braying laughter.  He ran to me and grabbed
me up from my stool in a great bear hug, spilling my Coke and squeez-
ing most of the air out of me.  He bounced me up and down, still 
laughing and said, "I miss you!"

I rubbed the back of his big head and said, "I missed you too buddy.  
I missed you, too."

J.T.'s forty now.  That would put me at fifty-eight.  We're getting 
old as I suppose everyone does.  I've found a nice living publishing
stories about my life, some truer than others.  I've still got plenty
of stories in me to tell but I think this one was the hardest.  I 
still have dreams of that night.  Frank's perfectly calm eyes looking
into mine, saying, "Don't miss."  The door slamming on my hand.  Me
screaming.  J.T. crying.  That light as I sat on the sidewalk, going
out while the door swings shut.  I've learned to accept them as God's
reminders to me of what a monster I had become and of what a monster
I'm capable of becoming again.  I'm sure that J.T. has forgotten my
transgression that night, but I think Frank still locked it away some-
where deep inside of him.  Despite my betrayal, he was the best friend
I ever had.

Frank died yesterday.  Almost exactly twently years from the day I met
him.  But that's another story.