They Call Me Mr. Pibb

I'm shamed into adding to my blog by recent comments that Lee made on the "Mamushka!" and "In Case of Rapture" entries. They were entertaining and reminded me that that was the purpose of this blog. Or more specifically, I guess its job is to amuse.

As graduation day approached recently, I took it as an opportunity to revisit some of my favorite Morgantown locales and bid them a fond adieu as I wiped a single tear from my eye, which was kind of silly because I keep going to Morgantown weekly. At any rate, one of my stops was the Metropolitan Billiards Parlor, affectionately known as the Met.

I first went there in 1989 at the age of seventeen with two guys from the dorm who may have been from New Jersey and whose names I believe are Jay and Greg. I lost touch with them after freshman year. I was actually nervous the first time I played there, feeling as if I were on stage and all eyes were upon me. When I went back recently, I tried to tell a young man of twenty two or twenty three that story, and it seemed utterly ridiculous because, even though the place was filled with spectator seats, it was nothing more than a collection of strangers going through the motions of their own games of 8-ball.

Over the next two or three years, I became a regular fixture at the Met. I had something of a routine. I would watch for a while, practice by myself for an hour, then buy something from the bar, and watch some more. Since I was well under twenty one, I would always buy a pop and a bag of chips, and the pop was always a Mr. Pibb. Eventually, the owner, Ruby, a grizzled and gruff old pool hustler, got to know me. He would ask me, "What's your name?"

"Louie."

"Where you from?"

"Near Weirton."

Then he would say how they had some really good pool halls in Wheeling. Eventually when I came down the stairs, he would yell out "Mr. Pibb!" I loved becoming one of the regulars, but I cringed a little at the nickname. Then, once known as Mr. Pibb, it became impossible to order anything else. (My residence advisor in the dorm had the same problem once he became known as "the Tequila kid" at a bar called the Dungeon.) Then one day I turned twenty one and ordered a beer. Ruby paused. "Are you twenty one?" I said that I was, and he served me.

The next time I came down the stairs, Ruby looked over at me, was quiet for a moment, and then hollered out, "Mr. Pibb!" And the name remained.

This is probably the best photograph of Ruby that exists. I'm guessing this was taken about eight years ago.