A Night at the Horse Shoe Bar

I set out to have somewhat of a typical night, in a rural Northern Michigan community called Marion. I knew it was going to be a good night, when it started out with a $12 prime rib in a smoke filled tavern called the Ideal, you can’t beat that.
My wife’s, sister in law and her boyfriend were the only ones not wearing camo gear of the 25 in the bar. I’m sure the crowd was filled with many hunters winding down from a long night of bow hunting. After my stomach was filled with meat and my lungs and hair filled with smoke, it was time to find a cozy establishment to watch the Tigers play their first game of the World Series. So we went to the only other bar in town, the Horse Shoe.
Little did I know the chairs there were just as uncomfortable as the ones at the Ideal.
Like any decent bar lined with thin wood paneling, two pool tables filled the rear back area. Before I could even sit down and get comfortable the Tigers were down by 5 runs, so like any good Tiger’s fan, I felt it was time to shoot pool. I took my future brother in law up on his offer to shoot pool, it was either that or a dance off. He hesitantly asked if I were any good, knowing how competitive he was I mildly said, “I’ve shot a little pool before.” In actuality I spend the last 3 and ½ years of my life avoiding work on the psych unit by shooting pool. The before mentioned future brother in law’s name is Joe. Joe’s first shot sent the cue ball and 2 other balls flying off the table. He’s lucky he didn’t hit one of the bearded hunters their or we may have been pulling mechanical snips out of our behinds. I spotted the two balls and proceeded to clear the table.. Joe had another two shots before the 8 ball was sunk and six of his solids were still sitting on the table. Every shot I took was advised by a toothless, 8 ½ fingered man that lurked over the table like a fat kid at a buffet. Not a shot went by that wasn’t coupled with, “aim for this, aim for that.” After my game was done with Joe, I approached what looked to be a 70 something man and asked if he’d care to shoot a game with me. The man agreed humbly saying, “son, I haven’t shot in years.” Before he broke the old man couldn’t help but comment on the karaoke singers that were shrieking songs from Johnny Cash and Lynard Skinard. “I’ve entertained for many years, there is one thing I know, you can’t piss in a Mr. Coffee and expect Taster’s Choice!” As random as the comment was, it gave me a chuckle and beared repeating to my wife. Though the man’s resting hand was handicapped with only three fingers, he was a worthy opponent. I felt the pressure as his granddaughter
(who had no business as young as she was being in a bar) was cheering him on franticly. I had one ball left to his two, the six ball against the far rail. He leaned over to me and with a gummy grin he said, “use the rail with right English.” I used the rail just enough to send the 6 off on a wild tangent and the eight ball directly in the corner. I lost. The old man looked like a pirate who just found a treasure chest with his squinty eyes, his toothless smile and a hand that might as well have been a hook.
I thought our relationship had reached a climax and an end. I was wrong. This man seemed to think I was interested in his life outside the horseshoe. I wanted to sit down with my friends and watch my wife sing Sweet Child O’ Mine on karaoke. This man felt it was necessary to tell me about all the cars and trucks he had bought and fixed up in the last half century. I heard about an 86, 88, 89, and 91 Ranger. A 92 Bronco, 78, 82, and countless other models of Cameros. None of which were the cool kind, early seventies models that looked a lot like a Nova or GTO.
I kicked my wife under the table in a “save me now” fashion. I guess she just thought I had a twitch because she didn’t bat and eye. So there I was, stuck, hopelessly surrounded by one man and his stories. I think I would have rather been on the Edmunds Fitzgerald in a thunder storm. Thankfully the man’s 8 year old daughter started nagging her dad to leave. Yes, I now had learned this young girl was his daughter! I have no idea how this girl was his daughter, he looked old enough to be her great grandfather and dirty enough to be her uncle that no one talks about. The man thanked me for the game and departed.
As much as I wanted to walk away in the middle of this old mans rant I am glad I listened. It has been about a month since that night and looking back, I probably made that old mans day by allowing him to talk about his car stories that he holds so dear. Here’s to you Mr. 8 ½.