True Story©… Drinkin’ Buddies

 

     My life is largely not what it has been for the most of my adult life.  Most people I know know me well enough to text me instead of calling.  I prefer things that way, as it forces people to the point and elicits a better response from me, what with knowing that a text is committing to a repeatable (or screen-shottable, to make up a word) medium.
Sometimes, however, things cannot be left to the chance of a text.  What if my phone is powered off?  What if Wife Person™ has murdered me and buried my body under a single-wide trailer?  What if I dropped my phone when Marcus and I were saving those kids from the burning orphanage Sunday before last?  Sometimes the only way to be sure contact has been made is to have heard my voice and I know this.

     I say all that to say that Thursday before last, I got a phone call…

Me: “Yo”

Homie: “What’s good?”

[Phlip note: I won’t be using any names because I don’t know that his wife is up for me and my shenanigans]

Me: “Ain’t shit, sitting here with the Wife Person™ and the puppies.”

Homie: “’puppy’?  You got another one?”

Me: “They’re ALL puppies, even the 14 year-old.”

Homie: “Haha, okay.”

Me: “What’s up?”

Homie: “Ain’t nothing much.  [name]’s birthday is Saturday and we hitting up the biker bar to have a few drinks and shoot the shit.”

Me: “The wings any good there?”

Homie: “I think they are personally, why?”

Me: “Because I’ve lost my taste for alcohol over the last year and a half, but I am more than willing to come.”

Homie: “Ahh…”

Me: “Matter fact, I will pick y’all up and DD for the evening.”

Homie: “Word!”

Me: “Just don’t throw up in my fuckin’ Subaru.”

Homie: “Aight, bet.”

Me: “What time should I come and scoop?”

Homie: “Seven sounds good.”

Me: “Say less, see y’all Saturday”

     Part of me wanted to be worried about being at a bar where bikers would be drinking at the end of the “biking” season, but that was overridden by the part of me whose Wife Person™ has been on him to spend more time with his friends.  We can call my desire to get out the house a net positive, so with her being informed we rolled out.

     When we – the homie, his old roommate and the roommate’s cousin – arrived to the bar, there were already like 20 motorcycles out front.  This could either be an AMAZING time or quite awkward when we get inside.  Once in, we stood out like four Cocoa Puffs in a bowl of Kix cereal.  Luckily, there was no record scratch/music stop moment when we walked in, but there were plenty of eyes on us as we parked ourselves at one of the high top tables and the waitress came over to take our orders.
Service was good, the guys had their drinks and I had my wings for the table and water in a not-unreasonable amount of time.  She came back frequently enough to earn her proper tip without being annoying as fuck.  We had some chuckles on tales of events past and spent roughly two hours when--…

… shit…

     Parked at the table to our left, there were five tattooed skinhead-looking guys just kind of sitting and staring at us.  We continued in an earnest attempt to ignore the fact that they were mocking us at everything we said or laughed at, clearly trying to get a rise out of us to start some shit to either justify violence or Karen this situation calling the cops.
As if that ain’t enough, ANOTHER group of skinhead parks themselves at the table to our right and is just kinda staring, like they were trying to look through us or something.

Fuck my life…  I could have stayed home and cooked some chicken wings for this shit.

     Whatever… 
“CHECK PLEASE”
We’ve been here long enough, all of us are in our 40s and have shit to lose.  We’ll get the fuck outta here and link up at someone’s house or something if we decide on the way that the night doesn’t yet need to be over.

     …  except skinhead group #1 apparently wasn’t done in their attempt to make problems on this evening.

Me: “Aww fuck…”

Homie: “Nah, ain’t no ‘aww fuck’, I got the bitch in my backpack on your back seat.”

Me: “As much as I appreciate the sentiment in THIS particular moment, could you please inform me that you left the house prepared to play ‘Glock/Paper/Scissors’ next time?”

Homie: “Glock/Paper/Scissors?  HA!”

Me: “Thank you.  But I'll explain it later.”

Homie: “Man, you are insane.”

Me: “Fuck that, let’s deal with this situation we’re now in for no apparent good reason other than--…  well…  ‘Merica.”

     We paid the check and headed to the door with skinhead group #1 not far behind.  Opening the door to exit, I noticed that group #2 had decided that they wanted to come and play in the parking lot too.

[Phlip Note: FUCK!!!]

As four black men who have all been in at least one fistfight each before, we didn’t try to run or flee, or even try to get to the pistol that has apparently been in my backseat for the last three and a half hours.  We just casually strolled out the door and to the white Subaru Outback in the corner of the lot.
There were two of group #1 standing there next to my wagon…

Skinhead: “Leaving already?  We hadn’t even had a chance to share a pitcher.”

Me: “I don’t drink, buddy…  I’m DD’ing.”

Skinhead: “Too bad, really.  Now I am hurt that your buddies here are less than accepting of our hospitality, seeing as how this is our normal watering hole.”

Me: “Sorry”

Skinhead: “Actually, you’re about to be--…”

     The interruption came in from who I can only assume is the leader – or at least spokesperson of group #2…

Group 2 Skinhead: “S’cuse me, gentlefolk…  What seems to be the issue here?”

Group 1 Skinhead: “Well, it seems that these fellas here are resistant to acceptance of the hospitality of folks like us.”

Me: “But, umm…  No one offered us anything.”

Group 1 Skinhead: “You wouldn’t even acknowledge our presence.”

Me: “You mean when the part where you were mocking us for no apparent reason?  Wasn’t worth the conflict, we chose to leave the establishment instead.”

Group 1 Skinhead: “Well now our feelings are hurt and we--…”

     Before he could finish whatever he was GOING to say, the whole of the second group had quietly come from behind him and one of them punched him SQUARELY in the forehead.  He went to the ground almost faster than immediately.  When his now-off-guard gang mates realized what had happened, it was too late and they were outnumbered.
Bear in mind, that my friends and I want NO part of this white-on-white crime happening in this here parking lot, but the homie made a point of getting his gun out of my car and on his person where he was legally licensed for it to be in case the police DO so happen to get involved.  I don't think he even considered the ramifications of the three drinks in his system, he was just keeping ME out of trouble.

    In the maelstrom, I forgot that I walk the world with a 4K video recording device clipped to my belt.

     With the first group of skinhead thoroughly trounced before jumping on their bikes and getting the fuck out of dodge, group 2 comes back over to us.

Me: “Umm… Thanks, I think?”

Skinhead: “No problem…  I fuckin HATE those Nazi motherfuckers.  Name’s Derrick…”

Me: “Phillip”

Derrick: “The worst part is when people see us and think we’re just like those cocksuckers.”

Me: “I bet”

Derrick: “Yeah, so we clocked how they were being dicks inside the bar and came out to clear up any problems they might cause.”

Me: “And again, we thank y’all for that.”

Derrick: “Any time, bro.  You fellas coming back in?  Next round on us.”

Me: “Nah…  we’re old and washed, we’re gonna get on home to the families.”

Derrick: “Well look, you guys seemed to be having a good ol’ time.  Take my info and we can catch up and have a couple sometime.  Maybe me and the boys will get to beat the fuck out of some skinheads again.”

Me: “Y’know what?  That sounds like an absolutely GREAT idea.”

 

…  so yeah…  Now me and the boys have some anti-racist skinheads as drinking buddies.
Damn, I had them read COMPLETELY wrong.