"The Barfight"

It was another Wednesday at the Blue, myself and Tony and Kelly all elbows across the bar with our drinks in hand.  Talking about movies, making Simpsons references, complaining about our Cubs and Twins and Tigers, half-heartedly ogling the gals strewn about; a lot of small talk, a thing to do to help the beers go down sort of like.

            So the way we were arranged was this:  there were two scurvy fat looking fellers nestled in nearest the bathrooms, followed by Kelly, then Tony, then myself.  There was nobody to my left for much of the night, until these two collar popping young sugarwaifs strut on up and take stools nearest the door.  “What have you got in a Belgian wheat?” one’s asking bartender Kenny, while the other orders up a Mike’s Hard.  Belgian Wheat leans stiffly on his elbow, trying to lock cocksure and not at all ridiculous.  Meanwhile Mike’s Hard is cocksure and keeps bobbing his head suggestively as he sips, akin to a walking chicken or a turkey or something.

            It’s fairly ludicrous to watch these college boys doing their thing and I’m thinking back to my own college days, wondering if I was ever so daft.  Not like them, certainly, but each in his own way like.  They start commenting to each other about their drinks in overloud nasal voices, about clarity and hoppiness and so forth.  I’m having to bite my lip and suppress a laugh by then, but as I always say, far be it from me to be the rude one, eh?  Sage advice perhaps, but once their convo started drifting into the murky waters of politics one of the hefts at the other end of the bar was not above so being.

            Belgian was just remarking to Mike’s about those ‘idiot Tea Partiers’ and the current budget crisis and all, and daft though they are I’m nodding along so to speak.  Then an empty bottle gets set heavily down onto the counter nearest the john.  “Idiot Tea Partiers, you say?”  We’re all craning our heads down the bar to see him, this plump leather-clad thing from out of the Thunderdome - Bill, I think his friends generally call him.  He’s twisting the top off another Bud Light and smiling all big and menacing like.  “What about those idiot Dumb-o-craps who can’t even balance a budget properly!?”  And his buddy - fat man in greasy overalls I think’s called Gary - is laughing it up and flashing a few broken teeth.  He’s a real character even if he doesn’t talk much, and I’m thinking to myself how perfect he’d be in a novel or story someday.

            “Right now the President is trying to get a balanced budget passed,” Belgian whinges in response.  “The Repelicans in Congress are just blocking it for their stupid political reasons.”

“Your President is being a dictator. Congress - which represents the people of America - has spoken! Yet Obama will not let go of his ideas and let democracy prevail.”

“Look, man, there’re two halves to Congress.  The Republicans only have the lower half.  It’s a split legislature at most.”

“The House majority has spoken and they represent the people of America!” and I dare say Bill was standing upright and thundering his fist against the bar.  “Most Americans don't want to raise the debt ceiling - fact! However, do you find it responsible to increase the borrowing level without having a balanced budget? If the Democrats came up with a balanced budget, perhaps raising the debt ceiling would be warranted!”

But Belgian won’t be stifled, climbing to his own feet in less than intimidating fashion.  “The Democrats are trying to balance the budget, you hayseed yomp!  It's just their approach is a combination of increasing revenues and cutting spending. And as to the wisdom of raising the debt ceiling, I've heard sensible arguments to either side. But – hell!!  - if it's a question of hard politics, storming out of a directionless meeting is a fair response to unbending ideological rigmarole.”

Point though he was trying to make, Belgian was well out of order with his ‘hayseed yomp’ remark.  Bill was already walking around Tony and Kelly and coming our way, and I can feel his presence pass by me like an angel of death.  But then he’s past and that presence is lifted from my shoulders and I feel at ease again.  More’n could be said for Belgian, though I have to give him some sort of praise for standing his ground.  Bill comes right up to him, face in face like.  “The Republicans have offered to raise the debt ceiling if he cuts spending.  Fair?”

And there is a moment of silence, save for the terse seething of two very close faces.  “No, it’s not fair,” Belgian snaps.  “They’re just offering to raise the debt, not find an equilibrium.”

“I’ll give you equilibrium!!” Bill roars as he grabs Belgian by the easily accessible popped collars.  By this time we’d backed right on off next to the bathrooms.  I’ve never seen an actual bar fight before, but I’m expecting bottles and glass and the like to start flying any minute.  Gary hasn’t even moved from his seat, still watching and chuckling from the far end of the bar.  But Mike’s Hard pulls Bill around roughly by his shoulder and the two seem squared off in the bar’s center floor.  Mind that Mike’s isn’t a big guy either, and Bill’s looking slightly confused as the kid crouches down for a judo attack stance or some such thing.  And then-

It was a beautiful thing to see, a legitimately movie-perfect kick.  I mean, Mike’s really launched himself at Bill, bringing his whole person into the single point of his foot right into the fat man’s solar plexus.  Bill was thrown backwards and Mike’s does the Bruce Lee quiver as he bounces himself around to perfect stillness.  Then fast as lightning Gary pushes past us and brings a bottle down right over the top of his head.  And Bill was back up in a jiff and throwing down at the fallen, bleeding persona of the Mike’s. 
What happened after, I couldn’t well say.  The three of us were already headed out via the service entrance into the crisp blackness of the night, the muffled shouts and cries of anguish and the crackle of furniture fading fast as somewhere sirens perked up in the distance.