Chapter 6: The Brawl

Love takes shape in many forms. Sometimes it starts small and forgettable, like holding the door open for a person who doesn’t have a free hand. Other times it’s big and memorable, like a social-media kiss after a deployment, getting attention for the world to see. But in the direst of times, love takes the form of rage. Blind, fist-swinging rage.

The next morning, the sun washes over Omar and Jasper, who are lying seats-back in a poor man’s camper: their rental car. The heat tickles Omar’s face, and he rolls over and moans because the morning did what the morning does, comes too early.

“Oh… ohh. I feel like shit,” Omar says while burying his head in his arms. He sucks in air and immediately coughs as he tastes the sour scent of stale beer and ripe BO. He hears Jasper rustling beside him, with too much energy for a man who slept in a car, and throws his hands over his ears. Jasper blows his nose then clears his throat like he’s trying to push something down, then all at once, an explosion of enthusiasm.

“Man, you were awesome last night!” booms Jasper.

Omar rolls over and turns his back towards his father and pulls his shirt over his head.

“Really, you were something!” Jasper continues as he adjusts the back of his seat up. He winces slightly when he moves, but buries it fast.

Omar groans.

“Dad, keep it down; my head hurts.”

Jasper laughs to himself and slaps his knee.

“I bet it does, after last night. Shit…my head would probably hurt too if I was you.”

Omar’s face twists and he scrunches his eyebrows, as he tries to follow the rope of his memories. Everything was so foggy, and he couldn’t quite remember what happened after he spoke about Monica. He bites his lip, then sneaks a look at Jasper, who’s grinning to himself like a baboon with a banana. Then, in an instant, he forces himself to sit up.

“Ugh… what?” Omar mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What are you on about?”

“You kicked that guy’s ass!” Jasper says. “Don’t you remember?”

The foggy confusion in Omar’s mind abruptly clears, replaced by a jolt of icy panic. His stomach swirls as his world tilts precariously for a moment. “What are you fuggin’ talking about?” Omar says, his voice still groggy.

Jasper’s eyes widen as he traces Omar’s face. He reaches out and grabs Omar by the ridge of his chin. “Oh man, wear your badge with pride, kid!” Jasper says while admiring Omar’s face as if it were the Mona Lisa. Omar lurches forward and snaps the sun visor down with a bang. His left eye is a whole color wheel—purples, blues, a sickly yellow-green around the edges. His face suddenly goes white, and he turns his head from side to side, trying to get a better angle of the view.

“What the hell?” Omar says as he studies the black cosmos of a shiner growing around his eye. Horror slowly spreads across his face. He feels a low, dull ache slowly growing from his knuckles, and upon closer inspection, the skin around his knuckles is red, raw, and split open like it went through an old window. He slowly opens and closes his hand, like he’s a tin man in need of oil.

“What happened last night?” Omar demands as shock spreads across his face. “I told you I didn’t want to drink!”

Jasper turns to Omar with a lazy grin. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

Omar raises his eyebrows as if to say, Duh. Jasper just smiles and strums the steering wheel.

“I guess you were feeling pretty good last night, huh.”

Jasper chuckles, then continues.

“Well, the craziest shit happened last night. Those Charmers got a funny way of being charming, you know.”

Omar shakes his head, impatience getting the better of him as he sneaks another look in the mirror towards his eye. “I’m sorry, what? What happened? Out with it!”

Jasper cracks his knuckles and leans forward, his eyes gleaming with the kind of excitement usually reserved for people who just witnessed a car crash. And with that, Omar and Jasper slowly drift down memory lane.

“Well man…”

---

Jasper and Omar were slumped up at the bar, admiring the minefield of shot glasses in front of them. Their arms draped around each other’s backs for the first time in five years, while their body weight propped each other up like support beams in a tent. Omar’s vision had gone soft around the edges, like someone smeared Vaseline on his eyes, and every time he blinked it took a little longer to open back up.

Behind them, the bar spread out, crusty, old, and drunk. The dim lighting did its best to hide the graffiti-covered walls, but it couldn’t quite cover up the artistic gems like “For a good time call…” and “Big Steve was here.”

In the front, near the stage, the bikers had only grown more comfortable. Some would say too comfortable for a public setting. They treated the table like a closet and spread all their gear across its mahogany top, daring the waitress to find a spot to serve their wings. One biker had his feet kicked up on stage like he was lounging on a Caribbean cruise and collectively, they gave the Charmers the hospitality of a cactus: nothing but prickles. Then somewhere along the night, for no particular reason, they decided they needed to create their own fun.

One biker, a big, burly bastard with a beard that could win the heart of a barber, looked at Gentry and hollered, “Hey, Charmin! Need me to pass a roll for that soft-ass rock you’re playing?”

Gentry winced and started hitting his drums harder as the vein in his forehead twitched.

Another biker, sporting a skullcap for a skull with no brain, grinned like an oaf. “Oi, leprechaun! Where’s ye pot of gold, mate?”

His buddies belly laughed, sending their fat rolls jiggling up and down like someone touched a bowl of jello. A few of The Charmers looked up from behind their instruments and frowned.

And then finally—the pièce de résistance that started it all. It came from the biker with long, greasy hair and a face torn to shreds from the wind and the road, and his voice was about as rough as he looked. “If I wanted to hear some shitty songs, I never would have left an elevator.”

His buddies roared and pounded the table with their fists. They turned to each other in self-congratulatory fashion, howling, arms slapping, too busy to see the fuse they lit.

And that’s when Gentry snapped.

He stood up from behind his drums—slowly, deliberately, like a man who was called to attention, while his eyes locked on the biker like a lion spotting prey. Then all at once, he yanked Paul’s guitar from his hand mid-strum and raised it over his head, teeth mashing, and ran towards them.

“Gentry, don’t—” cried Paul.

“You fucking—!!!” cried Gentry.

—but it was too late.

Gentry brought the guitar down towards the biker’s head, but the biker rolled away from the table at the last moment, hitting the floor hard. The guitar came crashing down on the table where he’d been sitting, sending the wings flying across the room.

CRACK.

Sauce splattered everywhere—the walls, the floor, Gentry’s face.

Gentry swung again, this time aiming at the biker on the ground. The biker scuffed away on the back of his palms, flicking his feet up, scrambling backward.

“YOU WANT SOME BETTER SONGS?! I’LL PLAY YA SOME BETTER SONGS. HOW DOES THIS SOUND?”

The amp groaned as the audience raised their hands to their ears and all the heads turned towards the stage. An old lady cupped her mouth and snatched her purse as she made her way to an exit, her heels suddenly remembering her youth. Guys of all ages had that spark of excitement flash in their eyes that only comes when a fight breaks out. Only the wise shook their heads and shuffled towards the exit.

The biker’s face was alive with fear. His eyes bulged and he gritted his teeth as he threw his hands up, trying to push away the guitar from his face. On the stage, Paul’s mouth was ajar as he looked on helplessly as a table of people crashed into the stage.

“Dude! My fuckin’ guitar!” Paul managed before a fist made light work of him.

But it fell on deaf ears. Gentry raised the guitar high above his head like he was trying to conduct lightning, as he rushed towards the biker who was now pressed up defenseless against the stage, his hand shielding his face. Gentry just smiled. “Here’s a song you might like.”

He took one more step forward, then his shoes left the ground as he was blindsided by one of the biker’s friends—a thick bastard with a neck like a Big Ten linebacker—and sent flying into the side of the stage where he splintered into the wood and ricocheted off, tumbling on the floor.

“WHAT THE FUCK, YOU LEPRECHAUN FUCK! I’ll kill you!”

The bar screamed, as now more and more people flipped chairs on their way to the exit. But the bikers didn’t notice. Their focus was on the stage. The thick-necked bastard grabbed a full glass of beer and shot-putted it at Adam like he was trying out for the Olympics.

The glass hung in the air, beer sloshing out in spirals, then—

WHAM.

It hit Adam square in the face with a wet, meaty thud. Beer shot all across his face, and the glass bounced off onto the floor where it shattered into a million pieces. He stumbled backward and hit the amp with a crash that sent feedback screaming through the speakers—a high, piercing shriek that made everyone’s teeth rattle.

Gentry sat up and hugged his ribs before placing his hand down on the table to steady himself. But his hand quickly retreated as blood started to trickle down his palm, and he picked the shards out. He scanned the room for immediate threats and looked over to see Adam curled up in a ball, then out to the crowd where the bikers were cheering like they just slayed Godzilla and not a skinny guy with a bad haircut. And with the last of his energy, his eyes found the closest thing he could control. A drumstick. He pulled it back to the side of his face and eyed down his target. Then all at once, he flung it at the beer-throwing biker, watching it spin in slow motion, each rotation carrying it closer to its target.

But at the last moment, the biker ducked—

—and the drumstick sailed past him in a perfect arc and hit Jasper square in the shoulder.

“OW! What the—” Jasper jerked back, rubbing his shoulder, his Coke spilling on the bar. The Coke rolled over and fell onto Omar’s khakis, making it look like he wet himself.

“Ahhh damnit!” Omar said, who looked up and over from his father rubbing his shoulder to the biker who had a grin somewhere between a cry and yell. His eyes were firmly on the drumstick. Then as the world settled into focus, Omar felt something click in his chest. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins or maybe it was seeing his father get hit, but that protective instinct kicked like a percussion hammer to the knee. Dad got hit. That bastard hit Dad. And suddenly Omar was standing.

“Omar, sit down,” Jasper said, grabbing his arm.

But Omar wasn’t listening. He looked at the big biker with the bushy beard and something in Omar’s brain went attack.

He started walking. Then running, his legs working on their own, as his mind only had one thought: Kill.

“Omar, don’t—” Jasper started, but Omar was already across the bar.

“You… fucking… asshole…!” Omar screamed.

The big biker turned just in time to see Omar picking up steam, cutting through the tables like a running back. Then when he was a hair outside of striking distance, he leaped into the air, cocked his fist back and BAM.

His fist connected. And he punched through, only finishing when he felt air. The sound sharp and quick. Then the biker fell back, wide-armed, knocking down the backs of chairs as he fell firmly on his butt.

A smile spread across Omar’s face, as he jumped up and down in glee. The world champion, delivered a knockout. Then down by the bar, Jasper smiled too, with the quiet proudness only a dad can have.

In the celebration, Omar’s jumps gained less height as the pain rang out, racing up his knuckles, up his arm, then back down to his knuckles like a wave on a springboard. And then Omar bent over and placed his fist between his thighs and clamped shut.

“Awww shit!” Omar said, as he fell to his side.

Jasper sucked in air.

Behind Omar, a lady’s nostrils flared as she shrieked, “Denny, Denny!” as she ran towards the man Omar laid out. She was on her knees, her tears falling on his cheeks. Then in an instant, her head whipped, her eyebrows lowered, and her eyes widened as they fell on Omar.

And that’s when she exploded. Like a sprinter, she jolted forward and knocked a table 45 degrees as she grabbed her purse, lunging towards Omar, each step quicker than the last. The purse was beige leather, big as a duffel bag, and when she whipped it back like a flail, it whistled. And just as she was arm’s length away, she reached forward and snatched down, sending the purse screaming into Omar.

In the distance, Jasper saw Omar standing there, too focused on his hand.

“Hey—OMAR, look!” he yelled.

But when Omar turned, in slow motion he could see the word “Coach” spinning moments before it hit squarely in his head.

POP.

Omar’s head turned 45 degrees as the bar floor rushed up to meet him. Blood started to trickle down his nose.

“Ughhh, shit,” said Omar, gingerly touching the blood dripping from his head.

Meanwhile, the lady gritted her teeth and looked around wildly for someone else to hit. But not seeing any immediate threats, her attention fell on Omar and she lowered her purse and started swinging more.

---

“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Omar says, suddenly rearing out of memory lane.

“This is from a purse? What the fuck? What did she have in there?” Omar says as he starts to rub his face.

Jasper frowns.

“Makeup, cigarettes, fireworks… maybe a gun,” Jasper offers.

“How do you know it’s fireworks?” Omar demands.

“It’s Indiana. They like watching things go boom.”

Omar raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t you remember all those firework roadside stands we drove past? The ones next to the porn stands and the ninja shit?”

Mutedly, Omar nods. He flips down the sun visor mirror and focuses on his black eye.

“What the fuck.”

Jasper shakes his head and smiles as he grips the steering wheel.

“Anyways, the way you went after them to defend me, that was brave. Albeit misguided.” His laugh turns into a cough—a wet, rattling cough that brings up mucus. He turns away, pressing his fist against his mouth. It lasts longer than it should, and when he finally catches his breath, his voice comes out hoarse.

“…I’m proud of you.”

Omar watches. His father looks smaller somehow, thinner in the morning light. Then in the rearview, Omar sneaks a look at the briefcase in the rear.

“I don’t feel very brave,” Omar says, now rubbing his eye.

“That’s because you’re human. Sometimes bravery feels like regret,” Jasper says. His voice sounds tired now.

Omar sighs.

“Well, what happened? Where’s Gentry now?”

“I’m gettin’ there, don’t want to spoil a story,” Jasper assures and continues. He takes a breath, deeper than usual, like he’s gathering strength, and then returns to memory lane.

“Welp, I went to get you—you were coiled on the ground, moaning, ‘My face, my face!’ gaggin’ and coughin’ and shit.

“I tried to smooth it over but as fate would have it, I noticed another Coke on the ground. And of course, I wanted a sip. Figured it’ll help me lift you up.”

“What are you, fuckin’ Popeye? That doesn’t even make sense,” Omar says.

“Don’t interrupt the story. But then I saw that guy you punched and boy was he mad. He had blood and snot running down his face like he was a bull, and you were the fighter in red and he raced over and picked you up by the shirt. I rushed over while opening up the Coke, but the damn thing was all shaken up. It exploded! I didn’t even get a chance to drink it. But the silver lining is… it went right into him and his wife’s eyes and temporarily blinded them. And then, while they were rubbing the shit out of their eyes, ol’ Gentry put the drum right over his head. It was like a fuckin’ cartoon.”

Jasper slaps his leg and starts to laugh uncontrollably while Omar’s mouth hangs ajar. He’s somewhere between disbelief and disgusted. Jasper continues.

“I just grabbed you, and we got out of there right before the cops arrived, just as the red and blue lights started to paint the buildings purple. I shouldn’t have done this, but I did drive the car down a few miles to get the hell out of dodge.”

“The hell out of dodge?” Omar says.

“It’s the road code,” Jasper says confidently.

“Oh please.”

Now fully pulled off memory lane, Jasper sat with a boyish grin spread across his face, while Omar’s face melts in horror as he checks the rearview mirror once more.

“Well, what in the hell happened to the Charmers?” says Omar.

“Beats me—I told you, we didn’t stick around to find out.”

Omar’s stomach flutters.

“But I’m telling you, you really laid into that bastard! He was big too,” said Jasper, his voice rising with each syllable.

Omar massages his temples.

“And to confirm, this is from a purse? And not a brick?” Omar asks.

Jasper nods.

“Yep, the silver lining is, on the way out someone said you had a future as a crash test dummy.”

“That’s comforting,” Omar says mutely.

But then Jasper puts his arm on Omar’s shoulder and leans forward. His hand feels lighter than it should, like there’s less of him than there used to be. “I’m proud of you for standing up for me. Even if you got hit by a big ol’ purse.”

Omar’s face relaxes into a smile as he feels the flicker of confidence for the first time in a long time. He looks into the mirror one last time and rubs his face.

“Thanks.”

Jasper shoots up in his seat and taps the steering wheel. He ignores whatever pain that movement causes him. “Alright, let’s get going. We gotta get you out west before time runs out.” His smile begins to fade.

“What?” says Omar.

“Your job… your job,” lies Jasper as his eyes find his suitcase in the rearview.

Omar looks out the window and sees the sun slowly overtaken by clouds.