Title.
A thing of beauty, physics gone awry
or
1 ball, 4 walls, and 1 pocket the J-fulche story.

The Scene
Bailey's Pub.
A chintzy place complete with dozens of mounted televisions, fake memorabilia, and constant music. Tired looking waitresses in skimpy outfits hustle around with strained smiles. We are led to believe that their midriff-baring/tight-pant outfits are simply an indication of a care-free joy de'vive, but only the simple are fooled by such devices. or the Desparate. The crowd, mostly men, vary in their economy, their station, and in the way they eye their waitresses. Its the kind of place that fools fools with illusions of class. The only thing going for this place are the twenty or so pool tables kept in good condition. Fulche-dog and el Jefe can attest that the tables and cues are quality and that the beer works. The rest is fuzzy details.

J-Fulche and jefe are average pool players. They've got the right idea, but their execution is often flawed. Every once in a while though, there's a stroke of fucking genius. This is the story of that day.

It was a lunch outing, which means Sweet-tea and something from the plastic-encased menu. Ostensibly that afternoon was a good one for the jefe. Not to put it too delicately, but I was mopping the freaking floor with J. It wasn't pretty.

You see reader, it is my sad confession to admit that when pitted against a close friend in friendly combat, jefe is a fearful mocker. Not only that but the jefe has been known to stoop to all manner of idignities in order to break a players concentration. A laugh, a smile, a flicker of the eye, all introduce havoc into the delicate physics of the pool table. Many such have been inflicted to elicit the misfire. How you ask? By what means? We'll keep that under wraps for dignity's sake. Suffice it to say that when I'm in the right frame, jack-assery poses no limit. On this day, however, Jefe hadn't been drinking. He played his game like a gentleman. Sorta.

back to the story

Last game of the day. J-fulche is down 5-0. Redemption is the only prize, Mocking is failure's sure reward. J has a shot ahead of him that to the jefe's practiced eye will yield him little. Jefe leans casually on a stool and patiently watches Jfulche line up his shot. After careful consideration, JF pulled back his cue and snapped a solid hit against the cue ball.

What happens next exists in only in the memory of those assembled.

Thump, crack, thump,thump,thump.

An improbable and unexpected series of events that led to the pocketing of the intended ball and the subsequent perfect placement of the cue ball.

A hush settles, jefe leaps to his feet.

jefe:[yelling] "HOt God Damn! That's some freaking Pool right there!"

Jfulche:[in a level tone] "God damn right!"

Breaking from his reverie, a kind of zen like concentration, JF notices the room. He slowly raised his hands and looked around at a hushed room. Who would make eye contact? Who would dare?

JF: "Who else? Who wants a God-Damn Piece? What's up? ya toothless Bastards.."

Nothing. And reader, I can't blame them.

After an embarrassed moment, wherein each man examined his own worth and found himself insufficient, Fulche realized his victory was complete. After one final look around at what he obviously gaged a truly sorry assembly, he casually tossed his cue at a gape-mouthed waitress

JF: "Bronze this damnit."

The men start to sidle away, and I crouched under the pool table, pool cue across my knees, eyes unfocused as the articles of female clothing started to fly at one J-fulche, who for that moment was King of Bailey's Pub and Grill.

True Story.
El Jefe