Parent of the Year

(or, making beer money with dad)

CRACK!

I never saw the old man

move that fast.

I mean, one minute he's 

holding a cue, the next

he's hitting this poor mark
with 18 oz of wood
on the side of the head.

That poor guy didn't see

it coming.

Hell, I didn't see it

coming.

"C'mon, we gotta go,"

I tell my dad as he is grabbing the guys money

off the table.

I pull dad along as stunned,

angry,

rednecks 

start to head our way.

Okay, let me tell you, 

I thought I was dead, 

or at best 

left in a coma

if we didn't leave. 

If he weren't my dad

I would have left him.

I  know any other

hustling,

drunk,

septuagenarian

would have died that night.

I pushed the old man

into the Cordoba,

prayed it would 

start. (it did)

We peeled away, 

no headlights in the 

rear view.

"How much did we make?"

I asked.

"$40.00."

The rest of the ride home

was silent.

All I could think was,

"What kind of parent 

hustles pool with his 

kid?"