aplus
05-11-2005, 03:08 PM
Some new ish. Let me know what you think...and if this is worth working on more.
Holla...
Instinct
It is twenty minutes before closing time and someone is charging through my bar. While exiting the men’s restroom where I just unclogged a toilet, dripping plunger still in hand, I turn and notice a man approaching rapidly. He has on a navy blue blazer and designer shirt, the type of clothes that I’d only wear to weddings or court appearances. The sportcoat hangs loosely on his gaunt frame, so I assume that whatever this guy does in his spare time doesn’t involve lifting weights. His devilish smirk tells me that he plans on doing something pleasingly evil.
“What the hell are you…” I start, but he plows right through my question. “You a**hole!” he screams. Then he plants two hands firmly into my torso and pushes, forcing me to backpedal.
My head aches after it ricochets against the textured concrete wall. However, I manage to recuperate quickly and regain my balance. If he pushes me again, I won’t budge. In fact, I won’t hesitate to bash in this preppy bastard’s face. I’ve been in plenty of brawls with guys who were larger and more menacing than him.
The man cocks his fist back, a telltale sign that he wants to scrap with me. I’m prepared to block his telegraphed punch and retaliate with a few jabs of my own. But then the sound of sobbing sidetracks him. The guy turns around completely, taking his eyes off me. I could easily slide my arm under his chin and lock in a choke hold. It’s obvious that he’s never been in a genuine fight.
“Honey, calm down,” a woman whimpers near the pool table. “Please stop all this fighting.”
Her voice seems vaguely familiar, which prompts me to involuntarily drop my defenses. Glancing at her tear-filled eyes, I remember her instantly. A few hours ago I kicked this lady out of my bar. I tossed her into a dumpster with the rest of the day’s trash.
* * *
It was a normal weekday evening at a neighborhood tavern. The smell of damp pretzels and stale beer floated in the air, inhaled by hard drinking patrons. The jukebox was spinning early Motown, Smokey Robinson and Stevie Wonder, good music that didn’t match the drab mood of the crowd. The doldrums hung over the joint until a sexy woman bellied up to the bar, wearing a black camisole, a long skirt, and clunky boots. Her toned backside switched over and annexed a torn barstool. Every man in the establishment got whiplash cranking their heads to scope out her splendid looks and well-aerobicized body. I was happy that she chose to come inside, but she was much too sophisticated to be in this dump.
She ordered a shot of Patron, so I poured it. I tried to flirt, but she wasn’t the talkative type. “Don’t blame me, it’s my nature,” she explained. “I’m just a shy Libra.” And that was okay with me, because between her platinum wedding ring and astrological sign, conversing with her seemed like it might cause me trouble.
So I politely left the lady alone with only a shot of premium tequila to keep her company. Soon five or six other shots joined her private party, and she became thoroughly smashed. As pretty as this woman was, she was a nasty beast of a drunk. She became obnoxiously loud, foul-mouthed, and rude to other customers. And although this woman was centerfold material, I eventually had to lay down the law.
“Ma’am, please stop harassing everyone,” I said in a friendly voice. “I think maybe you’ve had enough to drink.”
“fu*k you,” she roared. “I want another shot, you sonuvabi*ch.” Her voice was shrill, causing other people to look. I hate it when drunks make scenes in public; it’s the type of thing that makes us good-natured alcoholics look bad.
I tried to remain calm. After all, she wasn’t the first rowdy lush who needed babysitting. “I can’t serve you anymore liquor. The cops would strip my license if I poured you another drink and you ended up in an accident.”
But, like most drunkards, the woman couldn’t accept logic. She continued cussing and pushing the buttons of my regulars. They were all blue-collar types who scowled at the backtalk emanating from this whiny princess. Her squawking was ungodly sonic pollution. Soon the noise became enough to kill my patience.
She was a bi*ch. I let her know this. She responded by pitching a shot glass at me, underhanded softball style with an impressive amount of velocity. I ducked and the glass hit Jerome, a bachelor who usually sits in the corner drinking from noon to night. He swore and dropped off his chair down to one knee, astonished at the blood gushing out of his face. Jerome claimed that he had just lost a tooth, but he was always exaggerating, so I didn’t pay him any attention.
Instead I chose to restrain the tipsy vixen that was going nuts in my bar. I hopped over the counter and hoisted her up in a fireman’s carry. I had never been violent to women, but this one was sure testing that tenet. I lugged her squirming body out the back door and into the alley, dealing with her biting and scratching the entire way. Once we got outside, it was time to set the lady down nicely, but something took hold of me. I heaved her over my head like a professional wrestler and tossed her into the dumpster.
Depending on your viewpoint, throwing the woman in the trash may have been good or bad. On one hand, she should’ve been content to land on top of garbage rather than plummeting to the bottom of an empty metal container. Then again, it would challenge the most devout Zen Buddhist to find the positive side of being trapped in a waste-filled dumpster. I strolled back inside my bar, listening to her yelling, not caring about whether she could climb out.
When I came back in, Jerome, who now looked somewhat sober underneath a bloody mask, had staggered to his feet. He mumbled something about leaving; if he wanted to lose a tooth, he could’ve stayed at home and let his damn wife injure him. I poured him a free beer as a peace offering and apologized for the incident. Then I proceeded to serve the dwindling remainder of my customers.
* * *
Now the woman is back, and she can’t get this rabid man to back away from me. “You had no business pushing around my wife,” the man says with his hot breath blowing in my face. “Look…” I start to say, but he thrusts a finger in my face and orders me to shut up.
And for some reason, I do.
“I know that she’s a mean drunk,” the overzealous husband roars. “But you should’ve never put your hands on her.” He starts raising his voice at me like he’s reprimanding a bad dog. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t defend her?”
This statement sets my mind spinning. I suppose he has a right to be down here. After all, I would do the same thing for my girlfriend.
“I just thought if she…” I try to explain.
“You just thought what? That you had a free pass to put a woman in a dumpster!”
Now I understand exactly why he’s challenging me. He isn’t here to justify his wife’s actions; hell, he knows she deserved the reprimand that I gave her. This is about that primal urge all men have to look tough around women, the need to show that we are capable of handling any situation with testosterone and adrenalin. This is more about this man’s ego than anything else. The woman’s tears reemphasize that she doesn’t even want to be here.
I see him loading up another obvious punch, but I don’t even attempt to dodge it. It lands flush on my jawbone and sends me to the floor. The guy tags me good, and I’m not saying that just to salvage my manhood. I wonder whether he’s going to lay a few more hits on me. But then I notice the way he is wincing and holding his fingers, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to throw anymore punches.
“If you ever touch her again, I’ll fu*king kill you,” he barks. The man heads towards the doorway, nursing his tender hand. Then he huffily orders his bride to follow him.
His wife is now awestruck by him, so I suppose this is my apology for putting my hands on her. She’ll always have this moment as proof that her weasel husband is really a specimen of manhood. This will be the infamous night that he knocked out the surly bartender. When she’s elderly, she will tell her grandkids this exact story. By then I will be a faceless villain in a fable, probably taller, more intimidating, with a knife in my hand.
Gossip about this hellish night will spread to my customers and friends, but I can easily shrug it off. What was I supposed to do, punk this man out in front of his wife? He’d be verbally castrated by her for the rest of his life. Nobody would doubt that I could’ve beaten this guy’s brains out, but they would have to respect my judgment.
Using a chair to get to my feet, I feel my face pulsing. Then I hear something towards the front of the bar. It’s my girlfriend, who has just arrived to drive me home for the night. She sees my bruised check and is now crying. Between sobs she mumbles, “Baby, are you okay?”
At that moment, I remember something from a magazine that I had read earlier. It talked about aggressive tendencies in males. Scientists trace it all back to when we were more like animals. For prehistoric men, fighting was inherent behavior, often triggered by seeing a companion become distressed. The article mentioned that modern humans still have that basic mental framework; when a man sees someone that he loves crying, instinct prompts him to attack whatever has caused their sadness.
And just then, feeling a combination of amusement and disdain, I decide to do what comes naturally. I charge out the door at the guy, who is still milling around the parking lot. I run him down and swing as hard as possible. The first punch lands squarely on the back of his skull.
Holla...
Instinct
It is twenty minutes before closing time and someone is charging through my bar. While exiting the men’s restroom where I just unclogged a toilet, dripping plunger still in hand, I turn and notice a man approaching rapidly. He has on a navy blue blazer and designer shirt, the type of clothes that I’d only wear to weddings or court appearances. The sportcoat hangs loosely on his gaunt frame, so I assume that whatever this guy does in his spare time doesn’t involve lifting weights. His devilish smirk tells me that he plans on doing something pleasingly evil.
“What the hell are you…” I start, but he plows right through my question. “You a**hole!” he screams. Then he plants two hands firmly into my torso and pushes, forcing me to backpedal.
My head aches after it ricochets against the textured concrete wall. However, I manage to recuperate quickly and regain my balance. If he pushes me again, I won’t budge. In fact, I won’t hesitate to bash in this preppy bastard’s face. I’ve been in plenty of brawls with guys who were larger and more menacing than him.
The man cocks his fist back, a telltale sign that he wants to scrap with me. I’m prepared to block his telegraphed punch and retaliate with a few jabs of my own. But then the sound of sobbing sidetracks him. The guy turns around completely, taking his eyes off me. I could easily slide my arm under his chin and lock in a choke hold. It’s obvious that he’s never been in a genuine fight.
“Honey, calm down,” a woman whimpers near the pool table. “Please stop all this fighting.”
Her voice seems vaguely familiar, which prompts me to involuntarily drop my defenses. Glancing at her tear-filled eyes, I remember her instantly. A few hours ago I kicked this lady out of my bar. I tossed her into a dumpster with the rest of the day’s trash.
* * *
It was a normal weekday evening at a neighborhood tavern. The smell of damp pretzels and stale beer floated in the air, inhaled by hard drinking patrons. The jukebox was spinning early Motown, Smokey Robinson and Stevie Wonder, good music that didn’t match the drab mood of the crowd. The doldrums hung over the joint until a sexy woman bellied up to the bar, wearing a black camisole, a long skirt, and clunky boots. Her toned backside switched over and annexed a torn barstool. Every man in the establishment got whiplash cranking their heads to scope out her splendid looks and well-aerobicized body. I was happy that she chose to come inside, but she was much too sophisticated to be in this dump.
She ordered a shot of Patron, so I poured it. I tried to flirt, but she wasn’t the talkative type. “Don’t blame me, it’s my nature,” she explained. “I’m just a shy Libra.” And that was okay with me, because between her platinum wedding ring and astrological sign, conversing with her seemed like it might cause me trouble.
So I politely left the lady alone with only a shot of premium tequila to keep her company. Soon five or six other shots joined her private party, and she became thoroughly smashed. As pretty as this woman was, she was a nasty beast of a drunk. She became obnoxiously loud, foul-mouthed, and rude to other customers. And although this woman was centerfold material, I eventually had to lay down the law.
“Ma’am, please stop harassing everyone,” I said in a friendly voice. “I think maybe you’ve had enough to drink.”
“fu*k you,” she roared. “I want another shot, you sonuvabi*ch.” Her voice was shrill, causing other people to look. I hate it when drunks make scenes in public; it’s the type of thing that makes us good-natured alcoholics look bad.
I tried to remain calm. After all, she wasn’t the first rowdy lush who needed babysitting. “I can’t serve you anymore liquor. The cops would strip my license if I poured you another drink and you ended up in an accident.”
But, like most drunkards, the woman couldn’t accept logic. She continued cussing and pushing the buttons of my regulars. They were all blue-collar types who scowled at the backtalk emanating from this whiny princess. Her squawking was ungodly sonic pollution. Soon the noise became enough to kill my patience.
She was a bi*ch. I let her know this. She responded by pitching a shot glass at me, underhanded softball style with an impressive amount of velocity. I ducked and the glass hit Jerome, a bachelor who usually sits in the corner drinking from noon to night. He swore and dropped off his chair down to one knee, astonished at the blood gushing out of his face. Jerome claimed that he had just lost a tooth, but he was always exaggerating, so I didn’t pay him any attention.
Instead I chose to restrain the tipsy vixen that was going nuts in my bar. I hopped over the counter and hoisted her up in a fireman’s carry. I had never been violent to women, but this one was sure testing that tenet. I lugged her squirming body out the back door and into the alley, dealing with her biting and scratching the entire way. Once we got outside, it was time to set the lady down nicely, but something took hold of me. I heaved her over my head like a professional wrestler and tossed her into the dumpster.
Depending on your viewpoint, throwing the woman in the trash may have been good or bad. On one hand, she should’ve been content to land on top of garbage rather than plummeting to the bottom of an empty metal container. Then again, it would challenge the most devout Zen Buddhist to find the positive side of being trapped in a waste-filled dumpster. I strolled back inside my bar, listening to her yelling, not caring about whether she could climb out.
When I came back in, Jerome, who now looked somewhat sober underneath a bloody mask, had staggered to his feet. He mumbled something about leaving; if he wanted to lose a tooth, he could’ve stayed at home and let his damn wife injure him. I poured him a free beer as a peace offering and apologized for the incident. Then I proceeded to serve the dwindling remainder of my customers.
* * *
Now the woman is back, and she can’t get this rabid man to back away from me. “You had no business pushing around my wife,” the man says with his hot breath blowing in my face. “Look…” I start to say, but he thrusts a finger in my face and orders me to shut up.
And for some reason, I do.
“I know that she’s a mean drunk,” the overzealous husband roars. “But you should’ve never put your hands on her.” He starts raising his voice at me like he’s reprimanding a bad dog. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t defend her?”
This statement sets my mind spinning. I suppose he has a right to be down here. After all, I would do the same thing for my girlfriend.
“I just thought if she…” I try to explain.
“You just thought what? That you had a free pass to put a woman in a dumpster!”
Now I understand exactly why he’s challenging me. He isn’t here to justify his wife’s actions; hell, he knows she deserved the reprimand that I gave her. This is about that primal urge all men have to look tough around women, the need to show that we are capable of handling any situation with testosterone and adrenalin. This is more about this man’s ego than anything else. The woman’s tears reemphasize that she doesn’t even want to be here.
I see him loading up another obvious punch, but I don’t even attempt to dodge it. It lands flush on my jawbone and sends me to the floor. The guy tags me good, and I’m not saying that just to salvage my manhood. I wonder whether he’s going to lay a few more hits on me. But then I notice the way he is wincing and holding his fingers, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to throw anymore punches.
“If you ever touch her again, I’ll fu*king kill you,” he barks. The man heads towards the doorway, nursing his tender hand. Then he huffily orders his bride to follow him.
His wife is now awestruck by him, so I suppose this is my apology for putting my hands on her. She’ll always have this moment as proof that her weasel husband is really a specimen of manhood. This will be the infamous night that he knocked out the surly bartender. When she’s elderly, she will tell her grandkids this exact story. By then I will be a faceless villain in a fable, probably taller, more intimidating, with a knife in my hand.
Gossip about this hellish night will spread to my customers and friends, but I can easily shrug it off. What was I supposed to do, punk this man out in front of his wife? He’d be verbally castrated by her for the rest of his life. Nobody would doubt that I could’ve beaten this guy’s brains out, but they would have to respect my judgment.
Using a chair to get to my feet, I feel my face pulsing. Then I hear something towards the front of the bar. It’s my girlfriend, who has just arrived to drive me home for the night. She sees my bruised check and is now crying. Between sobs she mumbles, “Baby, are you okay?”
At that moment, I remember something from a magazine that I had read earlier. It talked about aggressive tendencies in males. Scientists trace it all back to when we were more like animals. For prehistoric men, fighting was inherent behavior, often triggered by seeing a companion become distressed. The article mentioned that modern humans still have that basic mental framework; when a man sees someone that he loves crying, instinct prompts him to attack whatever has caused their sadness.
And just then, feeling a combination of amusement and disdain, I decide to do what comes naturally. I charge out the door at the guy, who is still milling around the parking lot. I run him down and swing as hard as possible. The first punch lands squarely on the back of his skull.