Chapter 6

 Chapter 6

            Ever watch zombie movies? I know what you’re thinking: what the hell does this have to do with anything? Get on with the story, buddy. Well, this is part of the story. Stick with me.

            Anyway, I was talking about zombie movies. Whenever I watch those I start to think that the humans aren’t the heroes of the story. I always start to empathize with the undead flesh eaters. Everything they do is just instinct, and I feel the same. I wish someone could tell me why I do the things that I do. No one can though. Least of all me.

            Pinky and I are coming out of the theatre and getting in her car. I’m not sure about this, I say.

            About what?

            This. Us. Whatever. I think we should split up.

            Okay, She says.

            Except I don’t. I don’t say that, but I visualize the conversation. I don’t think that she’d be so conciliatory about it, really. I’m suddenly trying to see a way out of the happiest situation I’ve ever been in. If this was anyone but Pinky I’d just let her catch me in bed with someone else, but that won't work with her.

            Maybe I should hit her. 

            But I don’t want to do that either.

            You want to get a drink somewhere?  she asks.

            Okay. How about The Pig? The Pig is a pub I like. She hates it. It’s one of those old fashioned bars where milky eyed sad old bastards are drinking alone all day long.

            Okay. That sounds good.

            And away we go.

            There, at the bar and having quite a number of drinks surrounded by people and their smells and wondering why I'm not enjoying the look of Pinky across the table from me. I should be, you know.

            There's a table of sorority girls slumming on the other side of the room. Ya know, if all the sorority girls in the world were laid end to end, I wouldn't be surprised (all apologies to Ms. Dorothy Parker for that). In the movies sorority girls are always these Uber-sexy hard bodied super stars. In reality they're tubby with bad skin and voices chewed to dust from smoking too much and puking every night. They're the girls that have to pay dues to have friends and have to be easy at parties because no one wants to date them. Still, I'm thinking about sidling over there and seeing how many of them I can bag in the alley or the bathroom. That's probably not the best idea though. I've got another, better one.

            I spotted the guy a while ago. He's got a face lined with scars like a road map of hell. His shoulders are so wide that they seem to span an extra dimension. There isn't even a hint of a neck on this guy and his meaty hands lead into crooked, almost jagged fingers that have been broken in more bar fights than he is likely to remember. This guy is trouble and I have something to say to him.

            Pinky is in the middle of some cute story that I haven't been paying attention to.

            Be right back, I say without looking at her as I stand from the table.

            He isn’t looking up as I step up behind him. Hey! Fucko! He still doesn’t turn to me so I give him a tap on the shoulder. I can’t help thinking of it as a courtesy tap, which almost makes me giggle. He turns and looks me even in the eyes without standing.

            What? The tone is cold and he has a voice like Tom Waits after a night of chugging whiskey and chain smoking unfiltered Camels.

            You make me want to puke. I try to put real derision in my voice.

            Fuck off. He’s dismissive.

            Fuck your mother, ass-hat.

            Now he stands.You should watch that before someone takes offense.

            You fuck your mother. With that I give him a little shove with the flat of my hand. It doesn't move him.

            Buddy, he says and I swing. My fist goes wide but connects with his jaw hard. My fingers go snapcrack and fire shoots all the way up my arm like a heart attack. His head does not rock back.

            His eyes move a deeper shade of iron and a big fist comes rushing toward me like a singularity threatening to collapse all matter into a single point. He’s faster than I’d expect, but I still manage to duck the blow. Barely. Missing throws him a little off balance and I crouch low and shoot a fist up toward his kidney. It lands. Square. He makes a oof sound, but just pops me with a left that comes in so hard that it almost changes my name. Christ this feels good. I feel even.

            There’s blood coming from somewhere, but I’m not finished. I throw my own left, which misses completely. The blood must be coming from my head because it’s in my eyes now. I don’t even see where the next punch comes from, but I sure as shit see the floor coming up toward me. The floor hits me straight on. I look up and see that he’s turned his back and is walking away.

            I pick myself up and say Fuck face as loudly as I can through the pain.

            First time I ever got in a fight the other kid broke my nose. I was ten. I don’t remember what we were fighting about. His name is another thing I don’t remember. I do remember that I enjoyed it. A lot. I’ve been in a few since, but none have been as good as this one.

            Stay down, buddy.

            Get over here.

            Seriously buddy, stay down.

            I charge him, head down at ramming speed. My face runs directly into another big, wide punch which makes the world fade in and out rapidly.

            Fight me or fuck me. That’s all I ask.

            Pinky is standing over me wiping the blood from my eyes with a napkin. She has a look of worry in her wide eyes.

            What was that about?

            I needed it.

            Let’s go home.

            Okay. Saying this feels like death.

            But we go.

            ***

            After Pinky is asleep I make small cuts on the back of my thigh and stop the blood by rubbing handfuls of salt into the wound. Then I go to bed.

            I dream that I'm being chased by a bobcat intent on disemboweling me with its razor claws. I've never actually seen a bobcat, but my psyche imagines that they must be ten feet long and adorned with prehistoric saber teeth. 

            There is something Devonian about my mood when I wake. Pinky wants to make me breakfast, but I can’t stand the thought of food. I have three shots of bourbon instead.

            I go to work. My day isn’t worth describing.