I spend my days walking up and down the main thoroughfare of Morgantown.  It's not a big town, quaint I suppose is the word.

There's only about 30,000 people here and 70% of them are college kids.  So, in short, it's full of assholes.

There's a poolhall underneath a renovated theatre called the Met.  It's at the bottom of this long narrow staircase.  And it's as cliche and wonderful as a poolhall could ever be.  I fell in love.

An older woman is always posted at the 50's era cash register.  Behind her is the low hum of four beverage displays full of cheap American beer.  For a quarter you can buy some Doritos.  

The tables are old and lopsided.  The sticks are bent.  The sitting is ratty, reclaimed theatre seats.  It is in every possible sense of the word perfect.  This is a kingdom of American hopeful abandon.

It's king is Elias.

He's not from around here, at least that's what the old timers say.  He showed up a couple of days before I did and set up shop at table number fucking one.  When he is not playing he leans against the wall with his elbow resting on the chest high ledge, installed only for beer and cigarettes.

He is a dark black man, large in every sense of the word.  He has a scar from the back of his bald head running through his milky left eye and ending in his lip, giving him a look between Elvis and a harelip.

I tried to play against him a few times but he's just too good.  A hustler.

The only thing he's ever said to me was, "Figuered you be coming around, but I'm waiting for another."

He eyes me like I'm a meal.  He makes me very nervous.  

I think I like him though