Young Men

Young Men

                                  In Chapultepec

          By Oaken Beeson

















Three old men in a hole in the wall pub/diner. Place looks more like an old fifties diner than pub with a bronze cappuccino machine on the counter and plastic plates stacked up everywhere. Everything’s cheap white tile or plastic, slightly browned and unchanged for decades. Two men are playing pool on an old ratty table that takes up most of the room, the third man is sitting at a side booth smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking cheap bourbon. He is black skinned and looks to be at least seventy or more years old. He has an old world feel to him like he’s seen it all. We’ll call him Jazz.

The two men playing pool are also very old. At least seventy years old but with the possibility that life has aged them faster than it should. Perhaps they’re only fifty? One is shorter, olive skinned with huge ears. Stoops a little and seems too twitchy to be comfortable. He has an air of immaturity, he just doesn’t belong. We’ll call him Banker.

The other pool player is bigger but more hard worn. His hands are gnarled from use and his face is weather stained. He is Caucasian to the bone and wears an old blue shirt that might have once been green. He is quiet, either from knowledge or lack there of. We’ll call him Farmer.

The scene opens with Jazz discussing cars with the other gentlemen. Farmer is watching a cubbies game on a little black and white TV waiting for Banker to make his shot. Banker doesn’t seem to be any hurry to shoot, possibly because he’s losing.

“I tell you, I can sell that car for at least ten thousand bucks, no problem!”

“You can not, and you now it. Nobody in their right mind would pay that for a piece of shit Cadillac from your backyard,” replies Banker, supposedly still trying to find the best shot.

“What do you mean, piece of shit! That there is a classic. It was ahead of it’s time and people know that. It’s a piece of art in metal. If I could drive the fucking thing still I’d be hippest cat in town. You just don’t know good metal if it bit your ass,” Jazz seems a little irate, cars are his love.

“Whatever you say. You still can’t sell that for over a hundred bucks. It don’t even run, hell it don’t even roll.”

“It just needs some love is all, I could have that runnin’ in a week with the right tools.”

“Ya, uh-huh, you can’t even see past your own face, how you gonna see to fix that? And where you gonna get tools for that, too? You got a sugar momma we ain’t heard about yet?”

“What? Who’s got a sugar momma,” Farmer finally broke in. Seems the game is on commercial.



Banker points his cue at Jazz, “He’s sayin’ that he got some kind of sugar momma gonna give him free some tools to fix that broken down Cadillac of his.”

“Is that true,” says Farmer only half listening.

Jazz is giving Banker a look only someone of that age can give, “Hell no that ain’t true, this weasel is dreaming up stories to fill his addled mind, is all. If I had a sugar momma you think I’d be sittin’ in this crap hole talking to you two morons? No, I wouldn’t.”

Farmer shakes his head and goes back to the game. He looks unhappy, Cubs must be losing. He’s waited sixty-three years for the Cubs to win a series. That’s a long time to wait. They haven’t won since the twenties and they haven’t even been since the forties. Hell of a time to wait.

Banker finally aims and looks like he might take a shot. “Well, sugar momma or no, there’s no way you could fix that car to any working order. You just keep dreaming over there and let me know when you come back to reality,” He takes his shot and misses, glances at Farmer and frowns. “Your shot. Hey! Your shot, quit watching that stupid game and take your damn shot already.”

Farmer looks up and raises an eyebrow at Banker. “You in some kinda hurry now? Got some important wall street business to attend to this evening?” He gets up and looks over the table.

“Someday you’re gonna ask me that and I’m gonna say yes, I do have some business to do thank you very much. Just take your shot.”

Farmer walks around the table, sees an opening and leans over to aim. Suddenly, shouts ring out from the television. Farmer runs back over to see what happened. “God damn it, you made me miss a double. Here,” he shoots one handed while sitting at the counter. “Your shot.”

“‘Bout time.”

Another older gentleman comes out from the back with a plate of some sort of food. Looks like a burrito. He sits in the booth across from Jazz and begins to eat. He’s heavy set, dark features, Mexican or Italian, possibly Greek, hard to guess. He seems almost at home, without saying it; you know it’s his place. We’ll call him Lefty, seems to fit.

“Who’s winnin’ there today,” he asks Farmer who seems oblivious to any outside noise. “Hey, who’s winnin’ I said?

“Don’t ask,” grumbles Farmer without turning around.

“I meant, the pool game, we all know who’s winnin THAT game,” he points with his plastic fork at the television.

“Twitch here is playing himself,” says Jazz.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Twitch? You do see this large stick in my hand right, oh, I forgot you can’t see shit.”

“I might not see shit but I can smell shit and I can tell exactly where you’re standin’ with that there stick. You come any closer and I’ll show you I can still HIT shit too........Twitch.”

“That’s it, that’s just it, I’m done with you, that’s it,” he talks but never leaves the pool table.



Farmer turns his head and looks at Jazz, “You be careful what you say or I might have to remind you about Pogo,” he winks to Lefty and goes back to the game. Lefty chuckles but says nothing.

“You just keep your mouth outta this you here me? Just shut it and watch your TV.”

“Pogo? Who’s Pogo? What are you talkin’ about,” Banker has now forgotten the pool game. He pokes Farmer with the cue. “Hey, who’s Pogo, what the hell are you two talking about?”

Farmer starts laughing, “I don’t know, ask him, ain’t my story to tell.”

“Oh, no, I ain’t tellin’ him shit. You just keep your cracker ass mouth shut too,” Jazz gets up from the table and walks to the back kitchen using his hands and the counter to guide him.

Meanwhile, Farmer and Lefty are trying not to laugh. Twitch takes Jazz’s seat and leans over to Lefty, “Okay, what are you guys talking about, come on tell me you old bastard.”

“Heh heh okay okay, when he was young we all used to call him Pogo. That’s it. No more to it. Now go back to your game.”

“That’s it; you used to call him Pogo? So why? What’s Pogo? Huh, hey don’t start nothin you can’t finish Pop, what the hell is Pogo?”

Jazz has come back with a plate of chips and chili. “What are you telling him? Get outta my seat Twitch.”

Banker looks as if didn’t hear Jazz. Jazz leans in closer to the table and whispers something we can’t hear. Banker still seems like he doesn’t hear Jazz but he gets up out of the seat and moves back around the pool table a little too quick.

“I didn’t tell him anything don’t you worry yourself,” Lefty says.

“I know you were called Pogo. And all I can say is it fits. And I’m gonna be callin’ you that from now on I think.”

“Well, why the hell did you go tellin him that, dammit. I don’t go around talking about you now do I?”

“Sorry, Pogo, but it’s only fair. Now you’re on even playing fields.”

“Even playing fields my black ass. Me and him ain’t never gonna be even on any damn field.”

Farmer slams the counter and turns off the television. He stares at it for a minute then goes behind the counter and pours a drink. Looks like whiskey.

“Game over I take it,” Lefty says as he finishes up his dinner.

“Yup,”

“You okay?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, just checking.”

Farmer downs his glass and pours another. “Whose turn is it,” he asks Twitch.

“Mine, and don’t rush me.”