The Yukon and Fiji

I go into the Yukon Tavern to play some pool. I start up a game with a housepainter and a man called Ram with an enormous curly black moustache. We set up a game of nine ball and the housepainter goes first. Before he shoots, he walks over to me and says, “You think you can kick my ass?” then laughs until he stumbles. His breath smells like old French fry grease and beer.

We trade shots for awhile, Ram carefully balancing his bottle of beer when he is not shooting, and the housepainter taunting anyone who will listen. No one is any good, but everyone is very drunk, so who knows where lack of skill ends and drunk begins?

When it is Ram’s turn, the housepainter says, “I love tamales!’ and bangs on the table’s bumper.

Ram sets down his stick and, looking uncertainly toward the housepainter, says, “I am from Fiji.” Then he sets up his shot, pulls the stick back slowly and stabs it past the cue ball. The housepainter laughs. In the corner, a jukebox plays a Ricky Martin song, the chorus of which sounds like this:

By the balls! Let the rhythm of the blah blah blah by the balls!

After awhile, two women in tight sweaters take anchor at the jukebox and shout “By the balls!” in time with the chorus. The carpet is covered with stains but is somehow still bright red.

I make a few shots then miss. The housepainter puts the four ball in the pocket, strutting around the table toward his next shot. No one points out that the three ball is still on the table. The housepainter misses, and Ram spills his beer trying to pick up his cue and hold a bottle at the same time. As he is gliding the stick back and forth over his thumb and index finger, the housepainter stands right behind him and shouts, “Do they make good tamales where you come from?”

Ram puts down his cue and turns slowly around, his eyes not quite tracking with his head, and says, “I am from Fiji.”

The housepainter says, “Right. They have good tamales there?” Ram turns slowly back around strikes the cue ball on the side, sending it slowly toward a bumper, where it stops.

At the other end of the table, another housepainter, waiting to get in the game says, “Wow! I sure have been doing a lot of cocaine in the bathroom!”

I say nothing. The second housepainter puts his arm around me, says, “Do you know who Kris Kristofferson is?” just as the first housepainter sinks the five ball.

“Sure, a star is born.”

“Well,” he says, “Me and him used to be real good drinking buddies down in Texas. You know that song Lord Wont’cha Buy me a Mercedes Benz? I wrote that, and he stole it from me. That’s right, I wrote that song! Now look at me, doing cocaine in the bathroom of this very bar!”

The first housepainter misses, sits down. His girlfriend comes in the door wearing a Slayer tee shirt. She sits on his lap and says, “I been looking for you honey,” rubs his shoulders.

“What do you want?” he asks, “I been here since 3:00.” He looks at Ram and they laugh at the same moment. “We’ve been drinking since 3:00!” The girlfriend whispers something in his ear, nibbles on it for good measure. “I ain’t got any money,” he says.

I make a few shots, miss an easy one. Ram stares into space for a few minutes until I say, “It’s your turn.” Ram smiles and takes aim on the eight ball.

The housepainter’s girlfriend walks happily to the bar with two twenties in her hand. The housepainter rises and asks Ram, “Do they have that mo-lay sauce where you come from?”

Ram raises his head and throws down the cue stick. He grabs the housepainter by the shoulder. They struggle toward the shuffleboard table like sailors on the deck of a gale-wracked ship. They push their feet through the red carpet, not lifting them too high for fear of being blown over. They concentrate on each foot movement, clinging to each other for support. They have been drinking since 3:00. They arrive.

Ram waves his empty bottle at a map hanging over the shuffleboard table. The brightly colored countries of the world have all been stained a hazy nicotine beige. “Right there!” he shouts,

“I…..AM…..FROM…..FIJI!”

The bar is silent except for basketball noises on the television. The girls at the jukebox turn from selecting a new song. Ram stares murderously into the housepainter’s face, gripping his empty bottle like a belaying pin.

The second housepainter says, “I sure had some good burritos when I was down on the beach in Mexico!” Everyone laughs, including Ram. A quarter falls in the jukebox and the first strains of the Doors L.A. Woman fill the room.