The night was dark and the moon hung up in the sky like a dartboard. Me and Gene were down at Happy’s, the same place we went every night. Although we didn’t really like the other patrons or the staff, it was the only place in town to drink cheap beer, shoot pool, and occasionally, if you were lucky, a new girl might be around who didn’t know any better.

It was Gene’s shot, a real messy combo, but if he sunk the four-ball, his shot on the eight wouldn’t be too bad. They were good, too. One of them, the lanky one, had a mean, smooth shot, a steady hand and a perfect elbow that hardly wobbled or gave. The other was okay—a bigger kid, a little bit soft in the mid-section, and his two battleship-sized Nike’s angled out like a duck’s feet.

Gene has a temper. I’d never seen him quarrel with anyone who didn't deserve it, but when it came to what he loved best, he could be pretty hard on himself. Now, due to a few of the pitchers of Budweiser, and, as Gene would believe, a pool cue no straighter than an elm branch, he misses the shot, and he misses it bad. Gene steams up and the pressure knocks out that champagne cork temper of his; he curses and swings the pool cue like a baseball bat and slams the butt end into the wall. But the damage wasn't done with a cracked pool cue. The stick bounces and flips back at Gene. Gene, still on his follow through and cursing a bit too loud, doesn't even see it coming. The stick catches him between the eyes and Gene goes down. All two-hundred and forty pounds.

A couple of people look to see about the commotion, but in a moment they’re back to chatting and watching the game on the new big screen.
Now, I’d seen Gene pass out before, from drinking too much, and another time an Irishman from the Hills cold cocked him one and layed him flat for a second, and that shook him up pretty good. But I’d never seen something so ludicrous as this.
Gene started to move a bit. He sat up and looked around the room the way a person does in that sort of state. And right when I was thinking I’d have to drag his fat ass back up the driveway to his pick-up, we locked eyes and he nodded to let me know he was done breaking pool cues for the night. He held out his hand, heavy as it was, and I helped him up.
“You good?” The skinny one asked. Gene didn’t respond. He kicked the broken pool cue under the pool table and grabbed another from the rack, then leaned against the wall.
“Who’s turn is it?” he says, to the heavy one.
As we left the place, and said a good-bye to the bouncer, Gene rubs his head, turns to me and says, "You see this?" A welt like a knuckle poked out above his hair line.
"Don't touch it," he says, and recoils back a few steps, his hand on his head as if trying to push the last fifteen years down into a proper shape.