After delayed puberty kicked in, this sixties Dormonster had a reoccurring role in Nick’s cast of usual suspects. Besides playing pool, this place offered a classic combo loved by young male teenagers: No parents, no teachers, and no problems. Our dads might go to ‘beer gardens’ for male bonding and relaxation. Us ‘youngins’ could go to Nick’s for our spirit of camaraderie. Becoming a member in good standing of Nick’s patrons carried an unalienable right to yell to your friends, “Meechaupnicks”! That [Meet you up at Nick’s] contraction applied to meetings before dances, football games, rumbles that never happened, and other teenage events. Sights and sounds in our refuge changed little day to day. Clouds of cigarette smoke thick enough to resemble fog in horror movies restricted visibility. Occasional curse phrases echoed in the hall following a frustrated player’s loss. Aside from intermittent profanity, Nick’s clientele regularly hollered jargon relating to playing pool. Shouts of “RACK”! “CHRISTMAS!”, “SLOP”! “GOOD PO”! SCRATCH!” was exclamations heard on a regular basis. Like in most pool rooms, ‘Shark’ meant skilled player. In contrast, ‘Fish’ or ‘Fishman’ meant the opposite. Sometimes when a new player walked in, a regular guy silently crouched behind him pantomiming the act of reeling in a fish. Once in a while, Nick himself would point to someone and blurt out, “No Chinese Business”! The significance of that command remains a mystery to this day. No fat wallets needed in this establishment. Nick charged one thin dime per game, no matter how long it lasted. And some matches involving novices approached marathon status. During my couple year tenure, this patron never remembers any price increase. That more than reasonable playing fee left money for snacking. Chocolate pop and cheese crackers went well with my taste buds but the Scooter Pie and grape soda combo for dinner rated four stars. During summer, some regular clientele arrived when Nick first opened and left at closing time. This strategy avoided summer employment and other personal accomplishments. Even total strangers could recognize the ‘boys of summer’ by their lack of suntans. Like lost members of some subterranean culture who never witnessed sunlight, those pale faced souls sat in silence waiting their turn to play or just loitering in prone position on benches. Black leather coats worn even in July added to their appearance predating the Gothic look of the 80’s. Once, a fair-skinned friend of mine wore shorts while rafting the first sunny day of summer. His burn bordered on sun poisoning. Describing how pale his legs were prior to the sunburn he quipped, “My legs looked like I spent the summer in Nicks with black pants on”! Talented players brought their own collapsible cue sticks but average guys could choose from many sticks mounted on vertical racks. Veteran customers eventually received the privilege of writing their name in blue magic marker on their favorite cue stick after receiving permission and a marker by the owner. On the shark-to-fish ability scale, my ability admittedly leaned more toward the latter. Still, the honor of inscribing your favorite stick, much like receiving a varsity letter, eventually came. As far as betting goes, this average player knew his limitations, kept wagers limited to round currency, but remembers watching games for higher stakes. More than a couple middle aged executives from offices on West Liberty Avenue thought they’d stop in at lunch hour to teach some kids how to play pool. Many execs ended up leaving with wallets a lot lighter than when they came in. My memory includes weekend nights when different sharks stopped by to play locals for $100 per game. That’s $100 in the mid sixties money. One night, a shark from a more affluent bordering neighborhood lost lots of games and lots of money. His final strategy was to use the ‘go to the bathroom and then duck out the front door’ move. Strategy might have worked except that door was flanked by two big guys with cue sticks crossed like swords in military pose. If memory serves, both parties eventually agreed to a payment plan. All in all, our poolroom was a good place for young guys to hang out. Fighting was taboo and everyone seemed to get along. More than a few times, Nick lectured us on saving money, studying in school, and respecting our parents. Years went by and teenage leisure activities became distant memories. One warm day in the early eighties, my convertible was stopped at the top of Biltmore and West Liberty. Suddenly, a callused hand grabbed my neck. I turned to its owner and saw Nick smiling and asking “Where you going Baby Face”? Honking horns behind me made our conversation a short one. That was the last time I ever saw Nick but whenever I see a group of pool tables that little guy with a big smile comes to mind.
Posted on: Mon, 27 Jan 2014 01:41:00 +0000
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