This was a dry slice of wisdom handed down by Mr. Joe Watson, and on the surface, it was nothing new.

This is a man’s world, Lucky, he told me. They are the takers, the mapmakers. Self-appointed gods of history. And if there’s one thing God’s incapable of, it’s offering any kind of explanation of what he is or who he’s supposed to be. Men are so accustomed to existing as-is, what can they tell you? That I am a man. That you are a man. Self-evident truths we’ve relied on for so long, they’ve grown salty, turned our mouths to slabs of sheetrock.

It was Autumn, early in the season as far as the leaves went. Pantheon was back in town.

Joe’s eyes made short work of the eight o’clock crowd. Sliced clear through the haze of cigarettes and overcast bravado. Rested his back against the bar. Took another pull of Miller and tilted his head closer towards mine.

Lucky, he sighed, running a quick sound check. Plucked another Camel from the pack. Waited for me to finish waiting, then followed up with, what happened to all the men?

Nothing there I was qualified to answer. Made do with following the scope of his stare. Another night at On The Rail, this one just a little different from the others. Half the room plastered with college kids. Frat boys. Interchangeable smiles, cloths, haircuts. All colors of the palest pallett, their stuttering chuckles punctuating talks of class, kegs and pussy.

Back to Joe. Scratching lightly below his peppered beard. Furrowed brow, cropped crown and crow’s feet. Wasn’t the sort to be world weary. His skin was far too thick, his smile too many shades of grim compassion. Battle tested was the best way to put it.

I look at these boys and I fear there’s no hope. All bluster and no brains. No humility. Showmanship in place of experience and empathy. These are the leaders and representatives of the 21st century.

I asked if he wanted me to lighten their load.

That might help, he said. Don’t kid yourself though… It won’t change a thing.

I took an empty table alongside a thick bottleneck of Greeks. Picked a cue stick, 20oz weight. Rolled it across the surface, checking for warps in the wood, my ears picking up on their conversation. Each one talking over the other in an aggressive clash of matching philosophies. Repetitious advice, everyday household uses for the female body. Shared ownership of a not-too-distant future.

I racked for a game of nine. Broke with enough force to send a minor shockwave through my neighbors. Casually pulled a twenty from my jacket and dropped it into the top left corner. Went on a shooting spree. Nothing spectacular, pulling the odd punch or two. Chalked my cue on occasion. Taking my time.

It was Joe who had told me Sure, there’s a couple of hustles out there that work. Work with surprising consistency. But the mythology is a bit overblown. It’s like basics for breakfast. You can pretend you don’t know the first thing about leave, cushions or top-left English. But that’s a whole lot of effort. Whole lot of makeup and special effects. Yes, of course, without a doubt, people love a sure thing. Love being right. But if there’s one thing they love more, it’s proving someone else wrong. And they will dig that grave down to the bedrock before realizing they’re the only ones standing in it.

I heard the question in mid stroke. Drew back, took an unflattering shot on the eight. Straightened. Face to face with a six-two powerhouse sporting a Nets jersey, white Pantheon lid. Confident grin of a landowner. Not quite where I wanted him yet.

Had him repeat the question, then told him the twenty was my way of looking for a game. Took a moment to look past his mammoth shoulders. I sent a polite nod to his brothers. They threw a few deliberately indifferent responses my way, too cool for school.

He seemed interested. I told him it wasn’t like eight-ball. He seemed a little exasperated, made it clear he understood how nine-ball worked. I asked him if he understood what a race to three would entail. He said yes, best two out of three. I corrected him, right there in front of his boys – first person to win three games wins the kitty. Took it one step further, began to explain that kitty was really more of a poker term, cool if he didn’t know what I had meant.

But of course he did. And, of course, he had to insist.

And I had no choice but to tell him it wouldn’t be in his best interest. Him and his boys were eight-ballers. There were strategies and angles he wouldn’t know how to play. He’d be pissing his money away.

And New Jersey didn’t like that. He reached into his khakis, pulled out a leather tumor and sifted through a few twenties. Dropped one into the pocket and told me to rack.

I suggested we lag for the break.

He pretended to know what I meant, and I pretended to pretend.

Chalked my cue, and glanced over to find Mr. Joe Watson watching from his post.

Casually sending a nod my way as he lit another smoke, even though none of it would make any damn difference.

***

If you lived in Verona, there was only one sunset for every day.

If you lived at On The Rail, closing time was a second chance at twilight.

Two in the a.m. Tabs settled. Undesirables out the door. Each individual light over each individual table turned off, leaving the remains with a dirty bulb above the bar, buzz of electric signs. Fresh round for everyone in the know. A game of cards, late night movie shining down on the outdated television.

On this particular night, Casper had a batch of Bullet waiting beneath the bar. Poured some beauty into a couple of ugly red cups. Added a few ice cubes. We corralled one or two regulars into a progressive game of three-ball. Five dollars a round. Seven draws later, I was out thirty-five. Then thirty. Made the mistake of winning on the low end. My fifteen dollar victory was quickly meted by an interminable hour that left me down fifty when Casper dropped two on the snap then made short work of the third.

From the Greeks, to my own pocket, to the coffers of Casper Noel. So went the underground economy. Breaking even was as good as it got, and I sat down at a table with Mr. Joe Watson.

Nice work on those Pantheon boys, he told me.

I nodded, helped myself to some bourbon.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized what defined me, he said. Because I worry about you, Lucky. I’ve met one or two of you in my life. Once or twice. And then I never met them again, if you catch my meaning. Or even if you don’t. Either way, I never did see those cats cross my path after the last time I saw them.

I had a drink.

Casper was at the bar, restocking. Running down the checklist.

I’d like for you to do something with your life. Not in the general sense, like those boys tonight. Blow a few years at college, go into the family business. Run a hedge fund, run the whole goddamn world into the ground. That’s not doing something. That’s following. And not following is something you are good at. But you can’t let it be a rule. The defining factor. It’s one thing for a person to be free. The minute a man’s brain turns to anarchy, that’s the bottom of the ninth.

My eyes fluttered towards the bottle.

Joe gave me the go ahead, said he wouldn’t take it personal if I had myself another go.

I don’t remember where I was when Kennedy was shot, Joe said. Don’t tell a lot of people this, because it isn’t true. But it might as well be. Truth is, I just don’t care to remember. Which is far worse of an admission. Purposefully removing yourself from the collective sorrow of that day in ’63. Sad to say, I never liked it as a moment. Wasn’t interested in it. Slide that pack of cigarettes on over my way, and I’ll tell you what I remember instead…

I did as I was told. He had himself a Marlboro.

Slid the pack on back.

I helped myself to both a smoke and another drink and waited.

I was sixteen years old in July of 1969. It was the twentieth. There was a girl I had been chasing after named Madeline. Her full name was Madeline Mae. I knew her as Maddie. And it was on that night, after much of what passed as courting in those days, that we bunked together in her tiny house. Practically a shack by today’s standards, but it had running water, electricity. All the basics. Might not have been her first time, but it was certainly mine. Stretched across the couch. Mother out for the evening, a nurse on second shift. Television on. Anticipation of what was to come overwhelmed by anticipation of what was to come. Because we were supposed to be watching history. And in a way we sort of did, Lucky. Making love on those old cushions, thinking to myself there’s nothing more that could be going right in this ugly old world, when I had it in me to turn to the television. I took a moment. Turned to her. Kissed her to let Maddie know it was all right, what was about to happen. Gently moved her face, turned it so that we were both looking at the screen. There was Neil Armstrong, taking his first steps on our sister satellite. I told her, watch this. Look at this. And we smiled in the middle of it all. Time out in the middle of making love on the moon…

He didn’t smile this time around. His eyes did, a little.

I favored him with a nod, too busy waiting for him to finish his story.

He never did.

Somewhere in the middle of the history, Casper had taken a seat at the table.

Puffing on a decent, ten dollar cigar.

The Jukebox playing a little Jimi Hendrix, reminding us that Somewhere a king has no wife.

He offered Joe a pull.

Joe gave it a taste. Nodded. Smoke trailing from his lips in felonious wisps.

When the offer came my way, I declined with a grateful smile.

At home with another cigarette, another pour of bourbon and the endless sunset of Joe Watson’s story.

We sat and listened to the music for another half hour or so.

Joe had been there and back. He’d done the road, hustled Harleys, laid sheetrock, shot at killers from behind the badge, laughed in the face of Atlantic City, been left for dead, lost everything he had in a single night, been married, divorced, brought his daughter up through the years, all the while watching, always, for any sign, any hint, for the reason we kept fighting.

I took a few bullets down my throat.

Somewhere in the distant past, Joe ended up owning On The Rail.

And I ended up living there for far too many years before something else came along to define whoever I was, in what otherwise was a man’s world.

###

stories from a bar with no doorknobs is available at smashwords.com

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