AT PETE’S HUT ONE SATURDAY NIGHT
A memory from my time in Jacksonville, Florida
Cue balls scatter,clicking through the Marlboro hazethick enoughto choke a horse.He wheels around, bearlike handgripping the edgeof fading felt.He stops, says,“Let’s put that puppy right there.”Then, aiming froman otherwiseawkward angle,slaps a clean crosstable shot intothe side pocket. Three girls, sittingon a bench, watchas the winning continues.He is handsome:broad shoulders, a squareface, framed bya dark beard, breaking into wide smiles.And were it notfor the brokenlower halfof his body,he might have left the place that nightand gone homewith any one of them—or all three.