There is no thought to my actions. I ball my hand into a fist and swing. He’s expecting the blow and doesn’t go down. He manages to hit me in the face before I jump forward and slam my forehead into his.
He’s not expecting that.
He goes down, and I’m on top of him. Left, right, left, right. I pound his face as he tries to kick at my sides and shove me off of him. He’s got more weight on him than I do and eventually dislodges me. As he stands, he connects with my mouth, and I taste blood. I regain my footing quickly and take another swing, connecting with his gut and doubling him over.
I can hear Jonathan laughing and cheering behind me.
One of the guy’s friends grabs his arm and pulls him back. He’s bleeding all over his shirt from a broken nose and busted lip. His hands are shaking, and his eyes are wide. I debate continuing the fight but decide he’s had enough of a lesson for one night.
I feel perfectly calm.
“Next time, use some manners,” I tell him.
From the corner of my eye, I see the bar’s bouncers heading in our direction and figure it’s time to slip out the back door. Jonathan is still laughing as we quickly exit.
“You rock,” he says as we step out onto the sidewalk. He grabs a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lights up. “I love hanging with you, bro.”
“Always a barrel of laughs.” I reach over and snag one of the smokes for myself.
Jonathan holds the lighter out for me as we walk to the corner of the street and wait for the light to change.
“You needed that, ya know,” Jonathan says.
“Did I?” I rub some blood off my lower lip. There isn’t much, and I barely feel any pain.
“Yep.”
I think about it for a minute. I do feel a lot less tense than I had before I walked into Sweetwater. I replay the encounter in my head.
“You know, it’s actually funny when a Marine lieutenant with a dozen medals is called a coward by a nebbishy tough guy in a sports bar.”
“Nebbishy?” Jonathan raises an eyebrow at me. “Isn’t that Yiddish?”
I shrug.
“I used nebbishy because ‘pussy-waste-of-rations-mattress-stain’ is no longer acceptable.” I grin up at him. “Standards must be maintained.”
Jonathan laughs and we both head down Lake Street. Maybe he’s right. A bar fight was just what I needed. I feel a little lightheaded with elation.
Up ahead of us is a homeless guy reclining against one of those walls put up to block the public from construction areas. I recognize him from the gas station a few weeks back. He’s still wearing the same worn coat and threadbare gloves. The coat isn’t even buttoned up to ward off the cold, and part of his chest is exposed. I see a tattoo on the left side of his chest, up near his shoulder, depicting an American flag and what might be eagle’s wings around it. I can’t see it all, but there’s a bit of green and yellow in the design as well. Taking a closer look at his face, I notice he’s the right age to have been in Vietnam.
“Hey, dude!” I say as I reach down and shake his arm a bit.
He looks up at me with glassy eyes and blinks a few times.
“I ain’t bothering nobody!” he exclaims. “You can’t arrest me!”
“Do I look like a cop?” I ask. I point to my busted lip. “Come on, let’s warm you up.”
“What the fuck are you doin’, Arden?”
I ignore Jonathan and haul the vet up to his feet. He’s got a collection of plastic bags filled with God-knows-what, and he gets them all arranged over his arms before reluctantly coming along with me. There’s a hotel in the next block, and I bring him up to the door.
“He can’t come in here,” the late-night doorman tells me.
“He can if he has a room here,” I say, arguing.
“Well, he doesn’t.”