by LEE OLDS
“So,” said Hammond, “the band ended the piece, took a break and everyone went happily back to their seats.”
“No quite,” I said.
The band would have to begin a tango, easily the most suggestive dance of them all. That’s where you whirl your partner by the waist; suddenly dip her to the floor, which her hair, if long, actually touches. Then you lift her up and rub crotches like you’re engaged in coitus. There’s something nowadays like it called the bump, another unintelligent name for a crude expression. The tango, however, is merely an art form but try to tell a jealous boyfriend that. Good luck if you can get him to understand you. It’s like ‘doing it’, mind you, ‘doing it’.
On the third dip or so Barney was up out of his seat like a shot’d been fired. He’d become so furious merely watching the spectacle the forced adrenalin that surged through his system had brought him back to relative sobriety. He knocked over a chair and leapt onto the dance floor like a cat alighting from a tree; crept up behind the couple as they’d just risen from what … from another dip, of course, what else.
Hartwig felt a poke in the back. It almost knocked him off balance. It felt like he’d been jabbed with an iron bar, but as he released his grip on his partner, turned around and faced the giant he saw it was only the carpenter’s bony forefinger, not a lethal weapon. The angry carpenter spoke the first words.
“Time to cut in, this’ my dance,” he moved aside to grab his girlfriend, she fell back and the gallant Hartwig said,
“Oh, it’s you. Here’s your answer,” and gave him a mighty shove. Barney, with rigid joints, sailed across the slick floor like an iceboat on a frozen pond.
“That must’ve been some shove,” said Hammond.
“It was I’m sure,” I said, “just like the poke, and one Hartwig’d been waiting for. Too bad it couldn’t’ve ended there. The dancers liked it so much they began to clap in all likelihood thinking it was a skit of some sort. It wasn’t, of course, as subsequent events proved.”
Monahan, the large freckle-faced bartender, who in his plaid vest was also part owner had a bird’s eye view of the fracas and jumped over the counter in seconds with a shillelagh in his hand. He stepped between the two men just as Barney recovered himself and Hartwig’d faced him.
“Now, listen you two.” Monahan having tucked the club into his belt, held a hand to either of their chests, and wedged them apart, “If you’re going to insist on this ‘sort’ (he spat out) of behavior you’ll have to take it outside. We can’t have that in here. This’ a peaceful place of business.” His eyes rolled back in his head.
The two looked at him, not very confidently and without another thought as though they’d understood one another sympathetically they crossed the dance floor and walked out the front door to the dimly lit parking lot. No ice rink now but hard packed sand, the perfect media for that sort of thing. Fall down and you get hurt a little but you don’t get killed. Can you imagine if the two’d gone at it in there? Everything’d been broken up as they’d slid from side to side in an attempt to keep their balances while they pummeled one another?
Once Monahan saw the two leave, of course, he immediately called the sheriff knowing promptness of arrival would depend upon whether one was patrolling nearby or not and though the band struck up a florid tempo to keep the dancers on track many of them followed the two out so by the time they came together a circle of customers had surrounded them.
Sandy, the artist and his wife, Mort and the heavy lady were together as were Sarah and the two sloths with their women. Believe me too, both of them itching to get a piece of Hartwig themselves. For as followers generally agree with their leader, these two also believed Hartwig was a no good hustling son of a bitch.
Hartwig standing defiantly in his beach shorts knew this. To him they were nothing but bums, an opinion most of the residents out there would’ve shared with him. He only wished he had some of his rugby companions along to help him take them all on.
A pungent smell of the ocean hung in the air, the distant shoring of waves, a sliver of a moon a jewel in its setting snug between myriads of stars, a dim electric light on a pole surrounded by a cluster of zooming bugs like electrons in orbit, the din of a pleasant trumpet from inside, completed the setting. One man tall and thin, the other a head shorter but stocky. No David and Goliath, just modern day fodder. Both attractive for what the species added to anything which I take to be us … I paused.
“Come on,” said Hammond evidently anxious to discover the outcome every contest implies.
God knows we have enough of them. Every weekend on every program, one sort or the other depending upon what’s in season. He insists upon keeping our thoughts concentrated on mindless activities. ‘Who won that game? Do you remember the score? Guess what?’ It goes on ad infinitum and also ad nauseam as though that’s all anyone can find to talk about. The mark of a truly decadent society. Oh, well…
“You know I never liked you,” the tall man called down to the shorter. I’m gonna bust your ass.”
“You’re nothing but a loser, a God damned fucking loser and a kid beater,” the shorter looked up; and with that brilliant exchange, talk like you might hear on a football field, the two came to blows.
A street fight’s never the same as a boxing match. The two’re different birds. One orderly, confined and counted off in rounds, the other, any weapon goes, any part of the body’s fair game and it ends when it ends or most likely is broken up. If you want to jump on your opponent from the top of a car, you can. If no one else is around you can kill him. It’s your discretion.
With his first punch Barney broke Hartwig’s nose. He felt it scrunch.
“Oww,” said Hammond holding his own. “That must’ve been painful.”
“It certainly wasn’t pleasant,” I said, “but it doesn’t mean giving up, if anything it makes you want to get the guy even more. Pay him back in kind.”
Of course when someone pokes his arms at you like they’re two lances, no matter how long they are, the shorter man simply goes between them or grabs them to tie them up. Who was it that disabled ten spears at once in such a fashion, a Spartan defending a bridge wasn’t it, though he also lost his own life in the process. An uncommon act, which we nonetheless adopt as a standard and call sacrifice. There was none of that here. Just two blokes trying to beat one another up. Maybe that’s all any battle is.
“Come on Heartless (her nickname for her boyfriend),” Sandy emitted the old cheerleader yell, “beat the bully to a pulp.” Then she whispered to Mort. “Oh, how I wish Marcus was here to see this.”
“Not yet you don’t,” the realistic writer cautioned her. “Not until we see how it turns out. Of course just the commitment alone …”
“You can keep your ideas to yourself.” Sandy moved on the other side of him. She was out there cheering whereas a few minutes before she’d been cursing her escort and about to leave.
Sarah, the cause of it all didn’t know what to think. She was upset. She wanted her boyfriend to win, beat the hustler silly. On the other hand she hadn’t had so much craved attention since she’d moved out there. And all because of another’s asking her to dance. She still felt the firmness of his arms. Well, she had, and what’d she get for it…? This? As all women, she wondered why men couldn’t just be at peace, why they had to fight.
Meanwhile, the two grunts danced around one another jockeying for position. They threw punches, clashed, separated and clashed again. Thwacks on flesh, thuds on bone could be detected. Unusual sounds when you think about it. Not your everyday noises, but noises nonetheless. After receiving a particularly hard punch to his kidney, Barney groaned, staggered momentarily, dropped his guard and backed off to recover himself. That, of course, was when Hartwig dove instinctively as he would into a scrum, drove his shoulder into the tall man’s waist tackling and taking him down. The two rolled over furiously like two cocks fluttering on the ground, nipping and clawing one another. Presently (when the dust had cle
ared), one came out on top. It was the stronger, stockier man, of course, as one might’ve expected. Hartwig had that giant of a string bean down and sat on top of him. He must’ve felt it too. I looked over at Hammond whose eyes were shining.
All Hartwig did then was call for the man to …
“Give up now, Barney, or you’ll really get hurt. I gotcha…” A generous offer I’d say considering he’d already received a broken nose.
“Never. I’ll kill yuh.”
And yet keeping his balance so as to remain on top, Hartwig managed to pound the man’s face like it was a speed bag in midair. He knocked it this way and that and in the course of the punishment broke the man’s jaw. He didn’t know it but the giant felt it give just as Hartwig’d felt his own nose break but the giant didn’t know that either.
And, in fact, the man never did cry uncle though the fight soon ended. The owner and his assistant jumped in and pulled Hartwig off. It’d lasted four or five minutes at most. Nothing, really, but like a collegiate wrestling match it demonstrated a lot of action in a little time. And the worst wasn’t over.
“Worst not over? I thought you said the fight ended. What do you mean not over?”
Not so fast… Though the two men were pulled apart and separated the interveners grabbed Hartwig first for he was the aggressor who was doing the damage. Monahan, the bar owner, and his helper held him fast each taking an arm. The stunned giant who by then was bleeding profusely and wobbling from side to side was nonetheless alert. His pickup, a job box in its bed, an old Chevy, which his girlfriend then sat against was several steps away. When he went to get into it no one gave particular notice. He’d been soundly thrashed and was humanely beating a retreat before the sheriffs arrived to arrest him. One more offense, remember, and he was back in the slammer.
Imagine when someone let out a cry.
“Watch it, he has a gun.” And the man did. He held a pistol he’d fetched from the glove compartment of his pickup and standing before the crowd he waved it over his head.
“God damned sons of bitches, I ottah get yuh all.” His general anger towards the community surfaced, (it’s hard for an ex con not to despise society in general) “but it’s you who I want.” He steadied himself and pointed the pistol at Hartwig whose captors’d immediately released him and to their devotion to justice stepped in front vis-à-vis a shield.
“Now, Barney,” said Monahan who must’ve been shaking a bit himself by this time, “What’re you doin with that toy? Fight’s over. You don’t want to make things worse than they already are.”
“Toy eh? We’ll see about a toy. I don’t, don’t I? Who asked you?” His girlfriend, the beauty, stood silent. She was impressed.
The three men whispered between themselves, an ‘awww’ arose from the crowd, which had begun to scatter helter-skelter. Hartwig found himself pushed to the rear and was told to leave. The owner and assistant stood fast to hold the fort. Grabbing Sandy, and followed by Mort and the fat lady, who’d somehow fallen and had to be helped to her feet, along with the two artists, the six were let back into the building by the cook who slammed and locked the door behind them.
“He (Monahan) can handle that sort of situation if anyone can,” the cook informed the fugitives… The band had gathered their instruments and grouped together behind the bar, which for some reason felt safe to them. Realizing there might be an even greater danger out there with a madman on the loose with a gun, the cook then called Hartwig aside.
“You guys’d be better off leaving now. You’re the one he’s after. Here, I’ll let you out the back way.” And he handed over a flashlight. Hartwig who realized a fight was one thing, a loaded gun another, gathered his little group and in torn and bloodstained shirt, ushered them along. Shouting could still be heard out front.
“Come on,” he said, “the trail goes down by the creek. It’s only a short way.” He obviously meant to Sandy’s house. “We’ll be safe there.” The group led by Hartwig stumbled along in the dark.
“Are you sure,” said Vera, “I just want to go home.” She, quite frankly, didn’t trust Sandy in a million years. A strap of her dress slipped from one shoulder and she fixed it.
“No, you come with us,” said Mort. “Better safety in numbers. You can go home later.” He took her hand.
Just then two shots rang out, the group stopped, looked up at the starry blanket above and Hartwig reacted.
“God damn it, he’s shot em. Killed the owner. I’m going back.”
“No, you’re not.” Sandy clung to him in desperation. Then in a soft almost plaintive voice, “you’re coming with us, please?” The siren that had been heard in the distance suddenly ground to a halt, so realizing he could be no help and with a sigh of relief he led the group on hoping no one’d been killed.
It wasn’t until the next day Hartwig found the bartenders unhurt. The shots he’d heard had been those fired into the air by the angry giant after Monahan’d informed him,
“Your man’s gone, Barney. Why don’t you just put the gun down.”
“Want some of this?”
But his anger’d run its course. He became suddenly morose, threw the gun down, dropped to his knees and put his hands to his face, sobbing, as if to say, ‘come take me’. He knew the recourse now; he’d seen it before. And the fact that Sarah’d come over to stand by him and put a hand on his head, didn’t change it. It was called ‘looking out at the world from behind bars’. The name of a new theme song, perhaps, but indicative too of just how much man reveres his so-called freedom.
The sheriffs arrived and Barney surrendered peacefully. All he had to do was put his hands behind his back. Someone drove his girlfriend home. He watched on helplessly from the back of the sheriff’s car where he sat in shackles, a stupid look on his face, guiltily moping, more jealous and flustered than ever. There really is that sort of anxiety, as if one could die of depression, one most of us’ll never experience.
“And we shouldn’t,” said Hammond. “Should we? We’ve led lives that don’t deserve it. And even then we have our own brand of woe. So that was Hartwig’s big victory.”
“Sort of again,” I volunteered. At least it established his reputation firmly out there. Whether it was for good or for bad, I’ll leave to you. It certainly made the boy (Marcus) happy whether it relieved any of his mother’s anxiety or not. And it made Sandy respect if not fall in love with Hartwig right there. At least for a little while they stopped bickering over nonsensical matters that arose for no apparent reason whatsoever.
Chapter Six
Hartwig refused to go to the hospital. He set his own fracture by squeezing the nasal bones together where they were held in place by several strips of adhesive tape. It was called the rugby player’s fix. He’d used it once before.
“Hmm,” Hammond uttered. “It certainly must’ve hurt but it was definitely his badge of distinction. The beach residents must’ve loved it.”
“They did. They did. Many of them, even several who’d first doubted his intentions came right up to congratulate him.”
“You did it old sport. You put that creep in his place. Now we can all breathe freely. Let’s just hope he never gets out.”
With old Barney in his cell, his jaw wired shut, and barely able to eat, of course, with each bite or swallow causing him to remember who put him in there it’d certainly be better if he wasn’t released. Especially now since he had nothing to lose for, with the new charges, assault, felon in possession of a gun, violation of probation, he was facing a long stretch. But his greatest fear, and source of envy now was Hartwig who being ‘out there’ could get to his mistress. She’d fall in love with him and her attraction for her rascal’d pale in comparison. The very thought of them dancing so well together pierced him like so many needles. That wasn’t worse than death itself. It was death, especially when one spent all day in confinement with nothing else to think of.
Hartwig, of course, wasn’t even charged in the matter. The sheriffs came down to the
beach house to interview him and took his story.
“Very obliged Mr.Hartwig,” Imagine, they called him Mr. Hartwig. They tipped their hats, “Nice to have you in the community.” Then they left. The arrest had also lifted a weight from their own shoulders for the man they’d taken in was a perennial troublemaker.
That time, I believe, Hartwig spent three or four days at the beach before returning. When he did arrive back he still had the tape over his nose but he claimed the bones’d already begun to set. They no longer wiggled. His eyes were a bit yellow but for the most part had returned to their regular color. He was as handsome as ever. More rugged looking if anything.
“And Gloria, what’d happened to her?” Hammond said.
“You would remember that.” It wasn’t such a fairy tale ending though she swore off him for a while before she was back in as destructive a relation as ever.”
If only she’d parted with him permanently she’d’ve been better off, home free. But if any of us knew our fates beforehand we could make great changes in our lives. Unfortunately that’s not to be. Future events like death have been sealed off from our everyday knowledge until, of course, we experience them; then any advantage of their helping us beforehand comes too late.
No, Gloria grew to hate Hartwig quite severely but that was only because she loved him. It was almost as though the two notions, though opposed, are mutually dependent when we take them to be far different states. Examine the three days he’d spent at the beach, for instance. The morning she’d left him after cooking his breakfast and stacking it in the refrigerator to eat upon his awakening, remember what she’d said to the drowsy bum as she’d placed a kiss upon his lips.
“See you tonight. Remember, I love you,” or something to that effect.
Of course, she’d gotten no response from the lout. It was doubtful that he’d even heard her but if he had, he’d made no mental note to honor that engagement. Gloria’d been counting on things going the way they used to when he’d been seeing her every night. But things weren’t the way they used to be. She didn’t realize that. Or couldn’t anyhow.
