Chris Gets Rough (Chris and Boot, part 4a)

[tortolis]

Fourth installment of Chris and Boot. I've gone back and inserted numbers in some of the previous titles per suggestions I've received. - tortolis

4a. Chris Gets Rough

Chris
Timing is everything, I guess. I stopped by Boston Charlie’s on Thursday night two pick up two new shirts I had left in my locker. Going in I didn’t notice anything special, just a lot of noise. But after I had threaded my way to the back, Abe found me there, and he looked agitated. He looked down at my shoes, not at me.

“We could use your help up front,” he said. “There’s been a bit of a dust-up and it looks like Tim is out cold.” Abe calls his regular bouncer Tiny Tim. As a tiny joke.

Now, I’m not keen on a fight. All along I’ve been a little worried about intervening with customers, but it seemed like it would never happen. On Thursday, I wasn’t even on duty. But something kicks in when there’s trouble, and I wanted to help. “What happened?” I asked him. “Is anyone else hurt? Did you call the police?” I had grabbed my store bag and we started hurrying up front, but it’s a long way.

“The thing is,” said Abe, “we really like to nip these things in the bud without having to call the police, it can make a lot of trouble for us.” It seemed a little late for him to be worrying about that. When we got to the bar, Tim was on the floor trying to get up but not quite making it, with blood in his hair. A girl with dark hair was behind the bar, crying. A bartender I didn’t know was trying to calm her down. And a big, fat guy had a crowd around him, all standing back. He was yelling and holding a longneck, and the front of his shirt was wet — with beer, surely. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, except for the word “filthy” over and over. He was slurring his words, and they didn’t make sense; “right in the back yard…and the lighter…”

The girl looked at me and said, “He got him with the bottle when I — and then — ” I couldn’t really make her out, either.

I went over to the fat guy and faced him from about four or five feet away. “How about you and I walk outside and take a couple of deep breaths?” I said.

“Put it down,” he said to me.

I wasn’t holding anything.

“The lighter! Put it down!”

Then he rushed at me, brandishing the bottle like a club, but his movements were really impaired. I sort of ducked under his arms and got him in a bear hug. He tried to beat on my back with the bottle, but his movements were restricted with me holding him like that, and he seemed to go limp. “What should I do with this guy?” I asked Abe. “Take him outside?”

“He attacked you, unprovoked,” said Abe. “Feel free to beat the living shit out of him.”

I had never hit anyone in my life. At least, not since getting big. I suddenly felt that everyone was watching me, expecting me to know just what to do to take charge. Meanwhile, embracing this guy had begun to feel borderline ridiculous, not to mention disgusting; he reeked, and the beer all over his shirt was now all over mine. “Is Tim okay?” I asked Abe.

The bartender said, “He’s gonna be fine.” Abe was just looking on with everyone else; the whole front of the bar had gone quiet. Here was my plan: I would toss the guy into the sand pit next to the mechanical bull. If he got up and came at me, I would go lower, for his legs, take him down, get the bottle away from him, rough him up just enough to subdue him, and take him to the police. If he didn’t resist after landing in the sand pit, I’d just take him outside and let him leave.

The sand pit was behind me, in his line of vision — if he could see past me. I thought, “This is it,” and felt my throat tighten and my heart pound. Trying for the smoothest motion possible — a sort of rotary clean and jerk was what I was envisioning — I moved my right hand to his belt and my left hand to his armpit. Two steps to turn around as I hoisted him up, mostly with my right arm — a big guy, but in the moment I wasn’t much aware of the weight. And then he was up with my arms properly bent, and quickly, before I lost purchase on his clothing, I pitched him like a two-handed shot put, and into the sand pit he sailed, giving out with a kind of shrieking bellow as he landed, what king walruses must sound like. The bar patrons were making oddly similar noises, shrieking and laughing and applauding, but I was intent on seeing what the fat guy would do, and for about five seconds he didn’t move. Then, having landed on his side, he gathered himself and sat on his fat ass.

“This isn’t over, asshole,” he said, and started to get up. But he hadn’t gotten very far before he sort of collapsed back down again into the sand. Laughter.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Chris Muller!” shouted the bartender with a sweeping gesture in my direction, and there were applause and whistling, but I wanted him to calm everyone down. I was really pissed at the fat guy and I had a feeling he had abused the girl with dark hair, but I also knew it was up to me to see about everyone’s safety — including his. Both he and Tim might be concussed. And the girl might have to press charges even if she didn’t want to, and that could endanger her safety. Was this what being a bouncer was about? And where was Abe in all this?

“Okay, show’s over,” I said to the crowd. Then I went over to the sand pit and stooped over the guy, putting my hands on my knees. “I think you and I need to walk outside now, Buddy.” He was looking at me, but either not registering or ignoring the words. “What do you say?"

“Hey, Chris,” the bartender called out. “Don’t look now.” He was smiling like he wanted to clown around, to continue the floorshow, and I wasn’t even on duty. How had this evening gotten so out of hand? I thought of the quiz coming up tomorrow on simple topographical structures. I kept my eyes on the fat guy as I continued to stoop over him. And then I felt something hit me from behind, something big or maybe two smaller things, on my back. I stood up and turned around, and there was another big guy holding a chair by the back. What had happened was so clear from his two-handed grip that I could picture it: he had tried to break the chair over me in classic barroom brawl fashion. But Abe’s chairs were a little too sturdy and he was a little too weak, and nothing happened.

I hadn’t shut things down with the sand pit tactic, apparently, and a second guy was involved. I thought of Abe’s words: “As long as they know who’s boss, you won’t have to worry about enforcing. Show ‘em some muscle, that’s what it’s for, right?”

I didn’t need to pretend I was angry — I was. “Are you kidding me?” I said. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I grabbed the chair from him, held it up in my right hand, and punched out the seat with my left. Cheap plywood covered with batting and plastic. Splinters. White linty stuffing. I brought the whole chair down on the floor one-handed and it broke apart like a model airplane. “That what you had in mind? Only on me, from behind?”

“She’s a bitch,” he said, nodding at that same dark-haired girl, now sitting in front of the bar. She was watching it all with a smile on her face. “Bitch!”

“Tell you what,” I said, and ripped off my shirt, one of my new button-downs, now wet with beer and with two buttons missing. “It’s my fault, right, sport?” I felt my chest and arms burst out like cannons. “Come on. Come and get me.” I spread my arms, then beckoned. “Take your best shot. I won’t move.” Then I just stood there with my hands on my hips, waiting, really hoping that he would come at me. So I could just stand there and laugh at whatever he tried. I was invincible.

Everyone up front was quiet, and then a chant started up: “Chris! Chris! Chris!” The feeling of anger was thrilling me. It was animalistic. I felt every muscle on fire, roaring. Then came anticlimax: The guy just walked out the door. He called out “bitch” as he left. It seemed over too soon, and again, I was standing there, with my hands still on my hips, not knowing what to do. But the chant started up again, “Chris! Chris! Chris!” and then it became “Flex! Flex! Flex!”. I wasn’t sure I was hearing right, but the bartender came over to me and said “Chris, you’ve got to flex for the people.”

Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I’m even a little reluctant about going to the beach. But this felt so great, and so confusing…I hit a double-bi and there was wild cheering. I pumped a few times, turned around once, then kept my arms up and waved with both hands. “Thanks, everybody,” I said. “Let’s all have a nice, peaceful evening, okay?” There was whistling and hollering. I wanted to find Abe, I wanted my new shirts, and I wanted to head back to the dorm to shower off the beer and study.

But Abe found me first. “Kid, you were beautiful tonight.”

“You owe me big time,” I said. “It’s ten-thirty, almost. And my shirt is ruined.”

“Listen, I have to take Tim home and keep him awake, or maybe take him to the e-room, and I’m counting on you to stick around until closing.”

“But Abe, I wanted to study for a quiz tonight.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. It’s a lot to ask, but I’m in a jam. Listen, there’s a thou in it for you, and a designer shirt. Two designer shirts. And a raise. And I think I’d like to change your hours. For the better, of course. We’ll talk about it.” He left too quickly for me to answer.

Even so I would have left if I wanted to, but I felt confident now about the quiz. And I wanted to stay in the bar for a while longer. There’s a shower for staff in the back, and I was wired. I felt I had learned something important, and I needed to stick around a little bit to let it take hold. If I had gone back to cram topography, how many different kinds of things could I really have gotten my head around in the one night?