The Pool Hall Hustler comes around a couple times a week, always looking for a quick bite, always slick and sly as he passes through. Although I’ve never personally heard his shtick, it is easily inferred through his mannerisms.

“Hey, hey. How ya doing? Is anybody going to eat that? Nah, nah. Nobody wants that slop. Looks like it’s been sitting out here for two days, am I right? It’s like chum all up in here. I’ll just get that out of your way and move on, waddaya say? Yeah, we’re all good. Don’t pay me no never mind. You’re busy folks, got things to do, am I right? Yeah, yeah. Course I am, course I am. You’re my busy buds.”

The Pool Hall Hustler blows in and blows out like a phantom breeze on a summer night. He’s there and gone before you know it, always leaving an empty plate behind. The others watch him with passive amusement from their various perches.

“The dude’s a trip,” the Muscular Fellow seems to say. And that’s funny because the Muscular Fellow doesn’t typically speak very much. Maybe it’s because he’s got this squeaky little voice that just doesn’t jibe with his big frame. It’s an amusing juxtaposition that reminds everyone of Mike Tyson.

Not that anyone would say so to the Muscular Fellow’s face. The Muscular Fellow is almost always there. Knows everyone, doesn’t take guff from any of them. He just sits and watches. You get the feeling that, in his head, he’s beating the snot out of you and enjoying every second.

Nervous Nellie doesn’t take any chances. She comes by only on those rare occasions when the big guy is away. And when Nervous Nellie comes to look around for leftovers, she’s a nerve-jangled wreck, jumping at the slightest sounds, trying to look everywhere at once, and occasionally bolting at the slightest movement of an innocuous shadow, even if that shadow was cast by her own twitching tail.

Nervous Nellie doesn’t eat much because of this skittish disposition. That’s how she keeps her girlish figure.

It’s always an occasion when The Player comes sauntering by. He’s big and immaculate, always freshly groomed and always charming. The others watch him with a funny and familiar mix of admiration and envy. How DOES he do it? How DOES he stay so fit and clean in this city jungle?

The Player always has a winking glance for the ladies, but the eye that isn’t winking is scanning for the goods. He may be pretty, but that doesn’t make him a fool. He knows that sometimes the Pool Hall Hustler leaves a few scraps behind and he knows that sometimes there’s a bit of dope blowing in the wind.

“How YOU doing?” he asks the others in his sexy Al Green voice. “You ladies looking hot tonight. What do you say, pretty girl? Is there any herb goin’ ’round?”

There is usually no herb goin’ ’round. The Muscular Fellow tends to suck that stuff up like a Hoover, leaving not the tiniest flake for the rest of them. He’s got a problem and we all know it, but what are you going to do? Orchestrate an intervention on a guy who looks like he could take your face off with one swipe? Go ahead, friend. I’ll be over here, where it’s safe. Me and Nervous Nellie.

These cats are cool. And because you’re smart people with amazing powers of discernment, you’ve probably deduced that they actually ARE cats. I’ve got a whole city of them over here on summer nights. I watch from my window and I’ll tell you what, humans. Cats are every bit as interesting to watch as their Homo sapiens counterparts who hang out on street corners in every city across the land. I mean, these cats are straight out of central casting, each with his own set of curious quirks and puckish peccadilloes. The dialogue practically writes itself.

This cat community also serves as a lesson in the consequences of too much human kindness. All I did was put out food, a small shelter and an occasional sprinkling of catnip to get one mangy stray through the tough winter. The rest came calling soon after, and suddenly I’m the mayor of Cat Town.

In my defense, the original cat was the big one, he of the long fangs, the massive paws and that crazy gleam in the eye. I swear, that beast looks like he lifts sleeping dogs to stay in shape. He was cold and hungry and he looked at me like he was wondering what I might taste like.

What, was I supposed to say no?

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. If you have a pinch of catnip to spare, email him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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