The Fifty Dollar Shot

The Fifty Dollar Shot by RUSSELL MARAÑO Russell Maraño "was born a third generation Italian, the son of a coal miner and a devout housewife who could cure the Evil Eye." He lived until he was eighteen in Chrksburg, West Virginia. Since that time he has attended college and roamed the world — these among his many activities. For more details about his earlier life, see Appalachain Heritage, Spring 1975, page 26. Besides writing stories dealing with experiences of his life in Chrksburg—experiences of an aspect of Appahchian life that needs telling, and which he tells ivith considerable sensitivity—he has written a great amount in verse form which he has gathered under the title of Appalachian Wanderer . They climbed together up the sun-lit, narrow stairway. The unpainted stairway clung to the side of the hill like a minature coal tipple. The cocky boy strutted up the steps behind his stockily-built father . They reached the broad weather beaten stairway cramped between the two three story buildings. It had become dark and shadowy. The boy's foot reached the first step, when he heard the screen door slam shut behind him. He turned and saw his mother. He stumbled, but his father caught him before he tumbled back into the sunlight . His father picked him up. "Ya got 'im?" his mother shouted, tossing aside her bushel basket of clothes and moving toward them. "? okay?" "Yeah!" "Take 'is hand, Sam!" his mother shouted . "All I needs ta 'ave 'im break 'is leg. Take 'is hand, honey." '"E's all right," his father said, yanking at his arm. "Come on boy!" The boy clutched his father's hand, all the time looking back at his mother. First, she hung up his father's green and white work shirt. And then she hung up his smaller blue shirt. They were almost to the streets. He waved at his mother, and she waved back to him. "Come on, boy!" his father commanded, yanking at his arm. "Ain't got all day. Like ta play at least a couple 'a games 'a pool today. Come on, come on! They stepped out of the shadows between the buildings and onto the sun-lit sidewalk. The boy turned around. His mother was carrying her empty bushel basket into the house. She hadn't looked back at him. His quick, nervous, blue eyes, the same color as hers, lingered at the screen door remembering the vanishing tip of her dainty, pink house dress. Then his eyes moved with a swift change of mood to the tasty green apples hanging in clusters on the limbs of the trees around the roof of their little white house. He had already climbed one of the trees and eaten 56 some of them. His father yanked at his ami. "Come on, boy!" He commanded. "Yippitty -Yappitty. Let's get. The pool tables are waitin'. Ain't got all day." His father let go of his hand. And they walked up the hill past the Coca-Cola building. They turned the corner still walking up hill and passed the 'hole in the wall'. His father nodded hello to a negress strutting up the alleyway. His father yanked at his arm, and the boy puckered up his lips in a pout. They passed Romano's grocery store smelling like Italian cheese. The strong smell of the cheese was irritating to his throat. "Buon giorno, Salvatore," Mr. Romano said with a smile. He was standing in front of his store, his hands on his hips above the cut of his dirty, bloodstained, white apron. "Buon giorno." Sam nodded hello, and the boy stared at Mr. Romano. Sam yanked at the boy's arm and he pouted. They walked on, passing bars and drunks, run-down hotels and prostitutes. Tawdry neon signs hung like cheap earrings on the peeling Victorian facades of the buildings. His father yanked his arm, and the boy stomped his feet in foolish, boyish anger. His father yanked his arm again. And they stepped out of the sunny street and into the smoky noisy poolroom. The boy grabbed his father's hand. The crowded, spacious room had a polished...