Christmas spirit in the pool hall

LOLITA HARPER

I don’t mean to toot my own horn but I am one generous person.

It must have been the spirit of Christmas that came over me

because each time I executed an ill-conceived pool shot, I set my

opponent up for an easy drop.

“Merry Christmas, Richard,” I shouted during the fifth and final

game of pool at Games Plus, on 19th Street in Costa Mesa.

I ran into Richard and his friend, “Pablo.” That wasn’t his real

name. He started to utter his real name as we shook hands on the

smoking patio but then stopped himself.

“‘Pablo’ is good,” he said.

“Pablo” and Richard took pity on a lone reporter, who was working

on Christmas day and invited me to play a few games with them. I

agreed, of course, and prepared myself to get royally schooled on the

table.

“What is a girl like you doing at a pool hall on Christmas Day,”

Richard asked me. “Don’t you have any family?”

My family has their big shindig on Christmas Eve, I explained. On

Christmas morning my son wakes up at my house, opens his presents and

then goes with his dad to their big Christmas Day celebration. This

is the third Christmas in a row I have worked for the Pilot because I

have nothing better to do.

“What’s your guys’ story,” I asked.

“Ah man,” Pablo said. “I went to see my ex and my kids and she

pissed me off, so I wanted to go get drunk. So when my partner here

called me and asked if I wanna go shoot some pool, I said, ‘Sure.’

Shoot pool, drink beer, drink beer, shoot pool -- I am all for it.”

Richard, who was the less outspoken of the two, used to work at

Games Plus and knew they would be open on Christmas Day. He had no

family to celebrate with.

“Never been married,” he said proudly, as he set up a beautiful

bank shot, that left him with only two solids left on the table.

I looked at my five stripes on the green felt and scowled.

“Nice shot,” I said, forcefully.

Despite my poor showing in pool, I was having a blast. These two

men welcomed me in their pool game, and despite their rugged and

tattooed exteriors, treated me with chivalrous respect.

I was one of three women in the crowded pool hall, and actually

Richard and “Pablo” saved me from a drunk named Victor, who I

attempted to interview when I first arrived.

Victor was away from his family this Christmas, as were his pool

buddies. He was in California, from Mexico for work, and was

obviously lonely. I excused myself as he tried to steal “solamente un

besito,” (just one little kiss) and walked outside, where I found

Richard and Pablo.

Pablo kept the beers flowing and the tunes rocking, as he made

numerous trips to the jukebox. I was about to scratch on the nine

ball, when “Sweet Child of Mine,” by Guns N’ Roses blasted from the

speaker.

I was so excited to hear the song, I didn’t even care about my

shot. The cue ball landed about six inches away from the six ball and

Richard, who works as a bounty hunter, continued his domination of

the game.

We laughed and joked and asked about career paths. How did I

aspire to a career in journalism, they wanted to know. Four years in

a great journalism program and here I am, I answered them. But I was

more interested in what it was like to be a bounty hunter and a

retired biker, as Richard and “Pablo” were, respectively.

“It’s dangerous,” Richard said. “You get shotguns pointed in your

face and dogs chasing you off properties.”

“Pablo” said he just found work as at a lumber shop. He gets to

dabble in landscaping and construction, while working for a really

great company, he said.

“I do whatever they tell me to and I love it,” he said.

I asked him about the tattoos he had done on both his arms. I

pulled up his sleeve and started writing what I saw.

“Hey, you aren’t describing my ink, are you?” he said. “Shoot,

that is a death wish. I might as well tell you my real name, address

and social security number.”

It was a harsh admonishment, but his smile made me feel at ease.

As the rain got harder and my losing record got greater, we

finally called it a day. My new friends, of two hours, made sure I

had a ride home and that I was OK to drive in the rain. They asked

repeatedly how far I had to go and needed assurance that I would be

safe.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Lolita,” “Pablo” said as we tidied up our

table. “Thanks for joining us.”

“Thank you for having me and otherwise sacrificing an afternoon of

real pool,” I said.

“Pablo” went home to his new girlfriend and Richard just went

home. I went back to the newsroom. This would be a Christmas I

wouldn’t soon forget.

* LOLITA HARPER writes columns Wednesdays and Fridays. She may be

reached at (949) 574-4275 or by e-mail at lolita.harper@ latimes.com.