Bar Fight Last Night!

I’d just rolled into my driveway after a long day. The sun had long settled down for a well-deserved rest, and I was thinking I might do the same. I kicked around the idea of doing a quick wash of the bike (filthy, from the past weekend’s rains), but the lack of daylight allowed me to justify just rolling it into the garage and slowly lowering the door.

I strolled into the house and started kicking off the boots. Ahh but wait, the phone is buzzing. I have a text – It’s Michigan Paul (see prior post; he’s in town and we’ve been trying to catch up with each other). Looks like out schedules have finally lined up and he’s asking if I’m interested in meeting up for a beer. Hell yeah I am! So it’s back to the garage and up goes the door. A minute later, I’m blasting down the highway, heading for the agreed-upon watering hole.

Arriving first, I saunter into the tavern and survey my surroundings. Patronage is light this evening – all the better for me. No hassles finding a couple empty bar stools to lay claim to. Sliding my ass into place, I order a beerverage from the buxom bar maiden and settled in. A few minutes later, Paul and Bettina come in and we exchange hugs and greetings and the laughter and story telling ensues.

This goes on for several hours and we’re having a grand old time. We’re not bothering anyone else and no one else is bothering us. Then the bar maiden informs us that it’s last call. Whoa – last call? Where has the time gone? Oh, that’s right; it’s a Monday night, and last call is at 11. All the better, actually, for tonight is a school night for some of us. (And those who don’t have to work in the morning have an even more daunting task of driving back to Michigan…)

The night has been going marvelously and it looks like we might make it out of this place unscathed…when suddenly the bill is deposited in front of us. Paul starts to reach for it, but I grab it out of his hand. I inform him that I’m paying. He fixes me with a cold stare and informs me, that HE is paying. We stand and face each other… Suddenly everything is quiet….it’s high noon at the OK corral. Conversations cease in mid-sentence…people hurriedly rush for the exit…the bouncer dives for an empty booth. Paul distracts me with a “Wow, look at the funbags on her!” and when I turn to look, he snatches the bill from my grasp. That’s it! It’s go time!

Next thing I know, fists are flying, bottles are smashing, bar stools are crashing through windows – pure and utter mayhem. I land a solid uppercut, nearly lifting Paul off of the floor entirely. He responds with a vicious roundhouse which leaves me cross-eyed and calling for my mother. I stumble backwards, steady myself and pull my blade from its sheath. He pulls a gun. Damn.

Tossing the knife aside (inadvertently impaling a passing busboy), I dive back into the fray. But he’s ready for me. He sidesteps my charge and brings the butt of the gun down on the back of my head. Now I’m starting to get annoyed. I grab the popcorn machine and, with a cry of “Taste Hot Buttered Kernels!”, I bring it crashing down upon his head. There’s a sudden silence. Everyone else has cleared to the outer edges of the room, not daring to get caught up in the melee. I’m standing there, gasping for breath, exulting in my victory…when I feel something grab my boot. Looking down, I see Paul climbing out from under the machine. With a final shove, the machine soars over the bar and he’s on his feet again. He grabs a bar stool, tearing the center stand free from the concrete and begins swinging it over his head like a giant war hammer. I’m timing the swings and preparing to make my move, when I hear the barmaid whisper in my ear “You’re not supposed to pay, when it’s your birthday”. Her sultry voice, combined with the intoxicating scent of her perfume, distracts me. I turn to survey her heaving bosom one more time...taking my eyes off of Paul and that swinging bar stool...and that’s when the lights went out in Georgia.

I came to on my back, with Paul’s boot-heel pressing firmly on my neck. “Looks like I’m paying, dirtbag” he snarls at me. I tried to twist free, but he simply pressed down, cutting off both my air and circulation. Just before I blacked out again, I saw him hand his credit card to the lovely bar maiden with a tip of his hat and a smile.

When I came to a second time, everything was quiet. There were some boards covering the holes in the windows, the broken popcorn machine was sticking out of the trash, and the floor had been swept around me. Slowly easing myself to my feet, I staggered outside to an empty parking lot. Empty, save for my bike…and the bar stool (complete with a dent that appeared to match the contour of my head) that had been bungied to the seat. Getting closer, I could see a note pinned to it with my knife. Tearing it free, I scanned the words and a smile began to (painfully) spread across my face.

“Happy Birthday, you old F***. See you in August.”