We didn’t really know much about him. Story was his father didn’t think the kid looked like him at all, and had been told by some Louisiana Mojo man that the boy had a curse on him, and since Willard’s mother, Marjory, was into weird business, like believing in old gods and voodoo-type stuff, this made him even more suspicious. Bottom line was the father left before the baby could crawl. Baptists around town called Willard and his mother sorry as part of their entertainment, and truth was, his mother was no prize. She later took up with a man who had a bad back and a regular check of some sort, and when he went away she took up with another with ailing posture and a steady government income.
This initiated a pattern. Men with bad backs and checks, and it kept Marjory in cigarettes and Willard in throwaway diapers. But when Willard turned sixteen, his birthday present was goodbye and the street-a place he spent a lot of time anyway. Marjory went away to who knows where-probably a fresh town full of bad backs and welfare checks-and Willard did the best he could. Dropped out of school when he was old enough and got some odd jobs here and there, the best of them being a projectionist at one of the movie houses. When he turned eighteen, he went to work at the aluminum chair factory.
It seemed obvious to me, in the short time that I had known him, that he was hungry for something beyond that, something more substantial, something that would give him respect in the eyes of the Uptown folks, though I doubt he would have admitted that-even to himself.
But to get back to it, we came into the pool hall this Saturday I’m telling you about, and there was Willard in his familiar pose, pool cue in hand, leaning over the table, eyeing a ball.
Shooting against him was a guy we’d seen a couple of times before but avoided talking to. His name was Bear, and you didn’t ponder why he was called that. He was six-five, ugly as disease, had roux-brown hair and a beard that mercifully consumed most of his face. All that was clearly visible were some nasty blue eyes and a snout that was garage to some troublesome nose hairs thick enough to use for piano wire. The same gruesome down as in his nose also covered his arms and curled out of the neck of his T-shirt to confuse itself with his beard. What could be seen of his lips reminded me of those rubber worms fishermen use, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see shiny silver hooks poking out of them, or to discover that the whole of Bear had been made from decaying meat, wire and the contents of a tackle box and a Crisco can.
There was something rock ‘n’ roll playing on the jukebox-a rarity for Dan’s, which mostly catered to country and western-and Randy went over to lean on it. Wasn’t just because he liked what was playing, it put him closer to the door.
Being black, Randy was a bit uncomfortable about bopping around a redneck pool hall. Even if he was with Bob, who wore a toothpick-laden cowboy hat, dipped snuff and wore snakeskin boots. And me, Mr. Average and All-Around Natural Blender.
Wasn’t that Randy was the only black that came into the place (though just about), but he was the only one that was skinny, five-five, with headlamp glasses and an inferiority complex. And, most importantly, he was the only black in there this morning I’m telling you about.
I guess if Bob and I had really thought about what we were putting him through as a member of our “gang,” we probably wouldn’t have gone in there in the first place.
This is not to say Bob and I weren’t nervous. We were. We felt like weenies compared to these guys. But there were those attractions I told you about, and there was also our onrushing manhood we were trying to deal with, attempting to define.
When Willard raised up from his shot he nodded at us, and we nodded back, found places to lean and watch.
Bear wasn’t playing well. He had a mild temper on, and you could tell it even though he hadn’t said a word. He didn’t have a poker face.
Bending over the table, Bear took a shot and missed.
“Damn,” he said.
Willard winked at us, shot again, talked as he did. He wasn’t a temperamental player. He liked to joke and ask us about the movies we’d seen, as he knew our schedule.
He was also interested in special effects, or professed to be, and he liked to talk to Randy about that. Randy was the resident expert; he wanted to do movie makeup and special effects when he got out of college. And there was something between those two from the start. A sort of bond. I think Willard saw in Randy the intellectual side he wanted, and Randy saw in Willard street savvy and strength. When they were together, I had the feeling they considered themselves whole, and there was a yearning to know more about one another.
Willard shot for a long time before missing.
Bear missed.
“Damn.”
Willard continued to talk to Randy, shot three more times before missing, and that one was close. He went around and got his beer off the edge of the pool table and took a long pull on it.
“Do your worst, Bear,” he said.
Bear showed a few ugly teeth at one corner of his mouth, took his shot.
He missed.
“Damn.”
Willard put the beer down, went around and took his shot, chattering all the while to Randy about some blood-squirting technique he’d seen in some cheap low budget film on television, and Randy explained how it was done. And when those two were talking, no one else existed. You would have thought the yin and yang had come together, that two destined lovers had at long last met and fulfilled the will of the gods.
Willard made one ball, missed another.
Bear grunted, took his shot.
And missed.
“Damn.” He turned his head slowly toward Willard as he straightened up. “Hey, Willard. Take your pet nigger somewhere else. I’m trying to shoot a game here and he’s talking through it.”
There was a long pause in which it seemed the seasons changed, and Willard stood where we was, expressionless, staring at Bear.
Bear wasn’t looking at Willard. He was glaring at Randy. Randy’s right foot kept turning out and in, like he was considering running for it, but he was too scared to make the break. He was pinned there, melting like soft chocolate under Bear’s gaze.
“Maybe I’ll rub your head for luck,” Bear said. “You know, with my knuckles. Or maybe that ain’t enough. Maybe I’ll pull it off and wear it on a chain around my neck for luck. How’s that sound, nigger? You like that?”
Randy didn’t say a word. His lips trembled like he wanted to say something, but nothing would come out. His right foot was flopping back and forth, not quite able to lead him away.
“Kid didn’t do anything,” Willard said.
“Talked while I was shooting.”
“So did I.”
“I ain’t forgot that. You want me to, best be quiet.”
He and Willard looked at each other awhile, then Bear turned back to Randy. “This won’t hurt long,” he said, and he stepped in Randy’s direction.
“Let him be,” Willard said, and he was almost polite about it.
“Warning you, Willard. Don’t make this your business. Step aside.”
The seasons were changing again as they stared at one another, and it was the right time for us to run, but we didn’t. Couldn’t. We were frozen.
I glanced about for help. Dan was in the back. And though I doubted he would take our side, he was damn sure one to protect his property if he thought it was about to get smashed. I’d heard he broke a guy’s jaw once for accidentally shattering an ashtray.
But Dan didn’t come out of the back and the other guys at the bar and at the pool tables looked mildly curious, not helpful. They were hoping for a little blood, and weren’t willing to let any of it be theirs. Some of them got out cigarettes and lit them, just in case what Bear was going to do might take a while.
Bear doubled up his fist and snarled at Willard. “Well, what’s it going to be?”
We held our breath.
Willard smiled. “All right, Bear. He’s all yours.”
