Tales from the Bottle: Bar Fight
Tales from the Bottle is a collection of stories with the protagonists of those stories growing in age in the collection. Each has something to do with alcohol. The collection is not complete yet. Here are a few individual stories. All of the stories are copyrighted to Jeremy Lum.
Barfight
By
Jeremy Lum
No light crept through the windows of the lower east side apartment even though the sun shown brightly outside casting its light down upon another beautiful day. But not in this apartment. Almost a year ago to the day, the blinds had been closed to seal off the sun’s radiance but even that was not enough to deny the light entrance into the dark halls. So, black sheets had been purchased and stapled to the wall. Since they were put up, they had not been moved. It had been almost a year since natural light had found its way into these filth infested rooms.
Dishes remained undone in the sink with insects attracted to them because of their stench. Garbage strewn the floor, although, it was contained within bags and not allowed to further attract roaches. The furniture appeared black although it was once cheap fake wood before the dust coated it to such an extent that one could no longer tell the difference.
The only light came from the TV, playing old films on DVDs. The place was silent given that it was 6:00 AM in the morning, save for the sounds echoing from the second hand speakers that were attached to the TV in a makeshift surround sound set up. Whoever designed the setup obviously had no idea what they were doing. Since there was only one person who had set foot in this apartment in the span of a year, he was the culprit responsible.
In the middle of the trash, black furniture, and darkness, sat Alan with his “Mum-Ra” t-shirt plastered to his body by slight amounts of blood and spit, and a lot of spilled Jungle Juice. You would be able to smell him coming a mile away, if the room he sat in didn’t already have such a stench as to drown out its occupant. He wasn’t here three hours ago; he was out doing what he always did: living in a bar. But as usual, while drunk out of his mind, he had said something offensive to some woman and been taken out back by her boyfriend. Alan wasn’t a bad fighter, in fact, he was probably more experienced than anyone else in the city. Not that he was ever trained. But, when one has been in a bar-fight at least once a week every week for a year of one’s life, one tends to learn. He had that and a lifetime of losing fights to fall back on. Last night though, something was off. Maybe he wanted to get beaten or maybe he had simply had too much to drink as had been known to happen in the past. Sometimes the alcohol was an advantage in numbing the pain. But last night, as he drunkenly swung in the alley stained with his blood, he had the shit pummeled out of him. He was lucky to make it home at all let alone with both his wallet and face intact.
Alan ran out of the house. He couldn’t stand it anymore. None of it. He just wanted to get away. He ran as fast as he could. His lungs hurt from the air being squeezed out of them. And his face still stung from the slap of leather.
He ran until he couldn’t run anymore. Falling into the hay by the barn, Alan stopped and tried to steady himself. He just couldn’t do it anymore.
Standing, but nearly falling from lack of oxygen, Alan couldn’t sit still even though he was stumbling. He noticed a tower of boxes that he kicked causing them to topple down. One of them hit him, and he fell to the floor. While on the floor, staring at his new discovery, he found a spider’s sack. He had never seen one but had heard of them. Not the webbed remains of some poor victim waiting to have its blood drained from its corpse but a sack, containing the spider’s young waiting to be hatched. It’s funny cause they looked similar. But no mistake, this was full of children. Alan removed the matchbook from his pocket. At first he couldn’t do it, but he still had a child’s curiosity to see what might happen. He struck the match and the bright heat lept out of its shell. He lit the nest on fire and watched it burn. As it did, baby spiders tried to climb out but couldn’t. They withered in pain as the flames subsided leaving only ash. Alan felt better.
When Alan was young, the worst day of the year was always the first day of school. Now, Alan, although young, understood that taunting and teasing were unfortunately normal parts of childhood. What he did understand was that children tend to act out against those they can control as a means of exerting their own power because they are powerless in the face of adults. There were always two easy targets on the school playground: the socially outcast because of weight, appearance, or lack of interactive skills and the new kids. Alan was always a new kid.
On the first day of school, Alan always found himself “the new kid in the class.” Everything always seemed so intimidating and the teachers always so cruel. Every year, it was the same ordeal. The teacher would call Alan’s name and he would have to walk to the front of the classroom to be introduced to the class who would say “hello Alan” only because the teacher stood behind him. But it wasn’t the “hello Alan” that bothered him. It was the walk to the front of the classroom. Everyone eyeing you and singling you out when all you want to do is blend in. No one knew you, and yet, everyone was judging you.
Alan’s father was constantly being moved around in his company, trying desperately to earn a promotion. He often felt useless and powerless compared to younger more innovative employees who rose quickly through the company while he remained stagnant. He took every opportunity he could to get a higher position, often transferring from site to site only to find himself in the same position as the last time.
Alan’s mother didn’t respond well to moving either but she knew she had little choice. Alan’s dad wanted a traditional home, one where the woman was in the kitchen while her husband worked. He got what he wanted. He always got what he wanted at home.
In the summer of Alan’s fifth grade, he and his family moved to the remote suburbs of Phoenix, Arizona in the dry heat. Alan loved the desert. He felt at home with the open spaces and emptiness that stretched for miles. He had no friends to speak of and often spent his time alone, walking through neighborhoods watching other kids play.
His new home was much like the old ones except this one had a staircase and a pool. Alan’s father justified the pool by saying that when Alan or his mother felt hot, and they would be hot during the scorching dry Phoenix summer, they could take a dip in their pool. But, the pool was never filled. It remained empty because they could not afford the upkeep. The house was too much; his father always bought everything they couldn’t afford.
Alan was unpacking in his room when his mother walked in. Even though he was approaching teens, Alan still thought that his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world with her rosy cheeks and angular face. She reminded him of those old movie actresses he loved from the Golden Age of Cinema. Women like Katherine Hepburn, Bettie Davis, and Barbara Stanwyck, women with power and elegance. “Hey, how ya doing kido?” She sat down on Alan’s bed next to him and put her white silky hand on Alan’s knee rubbing it trying to comfort her son whom she wanted to console but knew that she couldn’t. These days she could barely keep herself together.
Alan responded:
Ok… you know… same old
Same old.
His mother had finished his sentence and both looked at each other with understanding eyes. She kissed her son on the cheek before leaving him to finish unpacking.
Then, the day Alan hated arrived: the first day of school. It wasn’t as bad as he expected. At least, he didn’t fall when walking to the front of the classroom like last time. At recess, he was happy to get out of the cinderblock classroom that felt dark even though it had large windows. He watched as the other boys played football, scurrying around the dry yellow grass, screaming as the quarterback, of course the most popular kid, threw the ball into the air. No one caught it, but of course, it wasn’t the quarterback’s fault. It had to be the receivers who were somehow inferior in their athletic ability simply because they were less popular. Alan wanted to join. But he was he wasn’t invited, he was the new kid.
Time went on and Alan found himself sitting alone during lunch. His mother would always pack him the same thing. Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches. That and a fruit punch Capri-Sun. He hated it. The dry almost crumbling texture of the sandwich didn’t mix well with the heat from the blazing Phoenix sun. Plus, it smelled like peanuts. Not in that good refreshing way, like when they come fresh out of the bag, but in the stale way as if the peanut butter had been sitting in the heat for far too long. The worst part was he ate it alone.
There was another kid who ate alone. He wasn’t a new kid. He sat by himself with his lunch box. All Alan had was a brown bag. Patrick was his name. Alan only knew it because he had watched the other kids taunt him after school, pushing him into the mud before speeding off on their bikes while he collected the spilt contents of his backpack. One day, Alan for some unknown reason sat next to Patrick. The two didn’t speak. Patrick’s flab overflowed his pants and obviously showing through his white cotton school uniform shirt. They sat next to each other. Perhaps it was fate or perhaps it was that Alan didn’t make fun of Patrick. Either way Patrick offered Alan some of his potato chips that day. Golden brown but not greasy to the touch. They smelled of salt. The perfect accompaniment to Alan’s Capri-Sun. Alan loved those lunches. They became the highlight of his day. Lunchtime. He couldn’t wait to get out into the baking sun and sit next to his only friend and share his potato chips. Sometimes Patrick would spare half a pickle or some of his roast beef but all Alan really wanted was the potato chips.
Alan didn’t know this but often when Patrick walked home, he would be ambushed by ridiculous boys exerting their power over the helpless. Patrick used to fight back, getting in a shove or a fist into a stomach, but that just made the other boys beat him harder and he would come home with a swollen purple lip instead of bruises that could easily be hidden under his shirt. He would come home to his screaming mother whose cries would be drowned out by his father’s anger.
Why does my son have to be a fucking coward? That’s it, we’re getting you defense lessons. You’re going to stand up to those creeps. No son of mine is going to wimp out in a fight!
One day, a random day just like the day when Alan happened to sit next to Patrick at lunch, Alan decided to walk Patrick home. At first, Patrick refused. He didn’t want Alan tagging along. But Alan wouldn’t take no for an answer. All day, Patrick worried about what might happen.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud in an almost clear sky casting darkness upon the ground but leaving the sky blue to the eye. Patrick and Alan were walking. They didn’t speak. Neither of them spoke much. They didn’t have to. Alan didn’t need Patrick telling him that he was nervous. Nor did he need Patrick to explain the bruises to understand what happened. They continued lazily walking down the middle of the street oblivious to cars or anything else until Alan noticed a bicycle out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t alone.
Five bikes came out from behind a ledge.
Hey look, fatty’s got a friend!
Hey, you two going to marry each other?
That was all it took. Alan lept off the ground, hovering in the air before all of his weight landed on the leader, pulling him and his bike to the ground. The leader screamed like only a kid can scream when the bike trapped his leg to the ground and Alan began to hit him in the face. Patrick was too shocked to move but just stood there with wide eyes.
Before Alan could land a second blow, another of the kids had pulled him off their leader and kicked him in the side. With Alan immobilized on the ground, the remaining four kids went to work on Patrick. If they had hit him before for resisting, they were going to do worse for bringing someone else along. Alan lay on the gravel, hurt, as he watched the four kids push Patrick around calling him “Fatty” at every turn. His lunch box fell from his hands, scattering its remains on the sidewalk.
They were gone. The only thing that proved they were ever there was the smattering of blood on the asphalt and the spilled contents of a lunch box. Patrick got up. Without saying a word. This was normal for him. He began to repack his lunch when Alan’s hand met his. Alan picked up the rest of the sandwich Tupperware and thermos placing them carefully into the lunch pail. Patrick didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even look at his friend, his face wet with tears. The tears weren’t from the pain and they weren’t from the attack.
They walked home together. No one said a word. Patrick’s house was huge, like the one Alan’s dad someday wanted to buy. A butler opened the door for Patrick who took a step in. Alan hadn’t notice but he was still carrying Patrick’s blood red lunch box. He handed it to Patrick who took it with a shaking hand. The door shut and he was gone.
Alan’s father hadn’t moved yet. They actually stayed in one place. His mother told Alan that his father had it under control this time and that things were different. What she meant was no one was suspicious yet.
The Gang as Alan and Patrick began to call them, started to leave Patrick alone. You could tell because Patrick wasn’t sensitive to the touch like he used to be. One day, after Alan had dropped Patrick off safely at his door, he was going back to his own home when he heard the sound of muscles pressing against gears driving five bikes rapidly toward him.
Alan’s chest burned but unlike in P.E., this feeling when mixed with the fear wasn’t a healthy feeling at all. His throat burned for air as his feet continued hitting the hard ground. He was almost home. But the sound of the bikes continued to get louder and louder. Alan took the short cut through a baked Arizona field to get to his house, he was almost across it when the leader of the Gang, pulled in front of him cutting him off. Alan thought about those movies he had seen, old films like the one “Angels with Dirty Faces” where one kid had leaped over a fence while the other was stuck behind. He thought of leaping over the leader and he would have tried, had he not tripped and fallen into a ball. By the time he was on his feet, he was surrounded.
They circled him, like animals closing in on prey. Alan was scared but adrenaline was pulsing through his veins. He was ready.
Which would you rather eat?
It was the leader speaking.
A bucket of shit or a bucket of piss?
Alan gave him a smile. That is easy:
How about I make you eat both!
With that, it was on. Alan didn’t even wait for them to start. He threw the first punch. His hand went back farther than he had ever reached before. He thought that if he threw it back father it would come forward with more power. He slammed his knuckles into the face of the leader.
They were all on top of each other. Alan may have been only a single child, not that strong nor trained at all, but he was determined. The other kids got in each others way. It was a mess, a ball of arms and legs sticking out with screaming and grunting coming from ever direction.
Finally Alan realized that there were simply too many of them. He broke free from the ball and started running. It would take them a few minutes to get on their bikes and by then he would be home.
As he ran he heard them yell.
Sissy!
Alan’s a sissy!
Mama’s boy!
Run home to mama, you coward!
The sun was setting early as it does in the winter. It was winter and yet still hot. Alan ran as fast as he could from the fight. He ran up his street, through the front lawn, and onto his porch without looking back. The door was locked and he was too busy to notice the noise coming from inside. He quickly fondled the keys in his pants pocket, trying to get the out and fitted into the door. It was then that he saw the bikes approaching. Nerves mixed with sweat got in the way as the bikes approached. But, he got in.
He was inside now. The door locked behind him. He had escaped it for another day.
Alan tried to relax but then he heard the noise his ears had been avoiding: a high pitched scream that pierced the outer casing of his heart. It was a sound all too familiar. Things that his parents had valued lied on the floor in the chaos that followed the noise. And that smell, the smell that Alan had grown to hate.
In the kitchen of their large home, Alan’s father was beating his mother. Alan walked in as his father struck her on the back with his long leather belt. His father was being generous this time. The large metal buckle remained in his hand rather than at the end he whipped her with. She screamed in pain. This had happened so often that his father tried to hit her where it wouldn’t show. The back was a perfect choice. Although, sometimes he would have too much to drink and then he would forget such important details in his rage.
Alan was also lost in rage. All the anger he had shown towards others finally built up and broke out of its holdings at the man who had complete power over him. Alan ran towards him and began beating him as hard as he could. But poor Alan, he was so young and so short. His blows hit only his father’s legs. And before he knew what happened there was a flash of colors: blue, green, purple, and finally red and with it pain. Alan opened his eyes and he was on the floor.
You fucking bastard! Stay out of this!
That just sent Alan at him again.
Don’t hurt our son!
It was the plea that could only come from a mother as his father hit Alan again with the belt across the face.
Alan had crumbled on the floor. He wanted to think that at least he wasn’t beating his mother but he knew he would. He knew that it would come again. He was tired. Alan was too tired to move. Only in the sixth grade and already tired of life.
His father sat down in a chair. No one could move at what had just transpired. His father began to cry. He was always sorry after, not that it made much difference to Alan. He would still do it again. Alan’s mother came to him and held him in her arms for a second before telling him.
Alan go to your room. Your father and I have to talk.
Alan sat in his darkened room, his shirt beginning to peel off of his chest since the spit, blood, and alcohol had dried. He still smelled like hell had brushed over him. It was now night outside. He had spent the entire day sleeping away his pain and liquor in his black chair amidst the insects. He didn’t have a watch but he knew what time it was. He knew that it was dark and that the bars were calling him again.
Memory is a funny thing. Most people remember best when it comes to smell, although there are certain exceptions with sound. Alan remembered his friend Emma who had been in a car crash that robbed her of the ability to walk. Every time a car honked, you could see it in her eyes. The headlights reflected from the approaching car that took away her natural gift. It wasn’t that she was depressing but that she was depressing to be around. Simply being near her, Alan felt guilty. Here she was, without the use of her legs, and yet she was happy. Here he was sitting in his own mess.
Smell works just as well as well as sound though. For most people that’s what triggers the memory. A smell. Sometimes you can’t even describe it. Alan knew one person who French bread smelt like home because his mother always used to bake the weeks bread on Fridays.
Alan had finally pried himself out of the dust and made his way to the kitchen sink. He took a dirty glass that had alcohol caked into the bottom and poured what remained of a bottle of Vodka into the cup, downing it in a single gulp. He had another unopened bottle of So-Co but he wanted to get out of the house. He would most likely drink when he came back and now that he had a little in him, he was ready to face the night.
Memory is a funny thing. Smells can trigger a memory. Maybe that’s why he liked alcohol so much. It always reminded him of home.
The bar’s aroma was like all bars: a mixture of an unmistakable but indefinable musky smell combined with spilled liquor and smoke. The lighting was low, just the way Alan liked it, although, it was a little too red. Alan preferred yellow ambiance although he was too cheap to pay for it in his apartment. He preferred alcohol to ambiance.
The Red Room, his favorite bar, still let him in despite the facts. In fact, because of the fights. Even though just last night he had been shitkicked in the back alley, Charlie, the bartender, always let Alan in. You see, Alan was a money making machine for Charlie. People love to bet on fights.
Alan stumbled over to his favorite cracked leather stool at the bar and sat down.
Yo, Al. What’ll you begin with tonight?
Heeeeey Charlie! Charlie Charlie Charlie. You know, you’re like a father to me.
What ya want Al?
A glass with some ice and bourbon should do me fine.
Alan listened as the ice cubes hit the glass from just the right height giving off the sound of a church bell. The bottle reflected the red light and fractured through the brown nectar inside. The smell hit you immediately as Charlie began to pour. He did it with all the theatrics. From a height so that the bourbon bounced around the glass in a ritual dance.
That good?
Charrliiiie, it’s me. How about a little more.
Alan watched as Charlie gave him a little extra.
Could I have a bud to chase?
You got it.
Alan felt the chill of the glass and closed his eyes bringing the rim to his lips without looking. He inhaled the beautifully horrible smell and downed it in one gulp. Without opening his eyes, he grabbed the beer from the counter. He placed it high in the air and tipped it into his mouth guzzling the beer as it drained into his throat.
He knew he should pace himself but he didn’t care. The wounds were still on his face from fights last week but last nights still hurt, requiring liquor to dose the inflammations.
A college age kid sat down with his lady. Not a regular. They curled up practically sitting in one seat at the counter. Each ordered a Guinness. You could tell they were in college. Just like Alan should be if his parents knew what he did with the money they sent him out of guilt.
Alan eyed the girl and liked what he saw, too bad she was with a boy. Well, in a little bit, after more alcohol, it wouldn’t matter and he would make his move despite the chump. He listened to them for a little bit. It wasn’t going to take more liquor for him to act, his chance had arrived. Mr. Good Looking left his girl at the bar while he retired to the bathroom. She said
Sure Patrick
As he left Alan pulled his chair up to Mrs. Good Looking.
Hey Sugar, how yooou doing?
Alright, thanks.
What ya doing in this part of town?
Just hanging out. We heard this place can get a little nuts and we were hoping to see a little action.
Wait and see.
Alan smiled.
Charlie! Another round for me and my Mrs.
I’m sorry but I don’t except drinks from strange men.
My name is Alan. There, I’m not a stranger no more.
Charlie set a new round before each of them. Alan grabbed his new glass and toasted before downing it.
To you beautiful.
Please stop.
Okay… so what’s your hubby like? Patrick if that was his name.
Oh, he’s not my husband.
Really? You sure act like he is
The poor young lady didn’t know what to do, when her knight in shining armor arrived.
What’s going on here?
What’s it look like? I’m buying your lady friend here a drink
She whispered in his ear that she wanted to leave but you could see that Patrick was getting defensive. He took a step towards Alan.
Look here, why don’t you just leave us alone?
I didn’t know I was causing any harm
Alan took Patrick’s confrontational stance as a sign to stand up. The two were now standing dangerously close. Alan breathed heavily; his alcohol infested breath pushing into Patrick’s nostrils. As he did, Alan studied Patrick’s likeness, trying to figure out a complicated puzzle.
Didn’t you used to be fat?
Excuse me?!
You did, didn’t you!
Now look here, I don’t know who the hell you are
And old acquaintance.
Don’t give me that
What is it? The bruises? Hard to recognize me, huh?
I don’t know what you’re talking about but leave us alone.
Okay, Okay, I’ll “leave you two babies alone”. Besides your girl ain’t worth this bullshit anyway.
With that, Patrick threw a punch at Alan who took it like a man. He was about to hit Patrick back when Charlie brought a baseball bat down between them.
I know you know the rules, Al. You, you’re new here. All fights, take’em out back.
His girl pleaded with Patrick to leave and he agreed. They were leaving as Alan said:
Sissy, go run home to Mama.
That brought him back. Patrick was ready to fight. Alan gestured to the back alley where Patrick went. His girl following at his heels.
Hey Charlie, one more before I go beat his ass.
Charlie obliged him, pouring him another drink. Alan was good for business.
Alan stared at the brown nectar in his glass which felt cold to the touch. He wasn’t sure anymore what he loved or hated about alcohol except that he loved or hated it all. He took a whiff of it. Home. He hated home.
Alan downed the glass and headed out back to fight yet another fight in his life that he couldn’t win because no fight is ever won even if you’re the winner.
