“No, John, I’m not. Not if I can help it. I love her, man.”
“Well this is a hell of a way to fucking show it, Tommy.”
Saying nothing, Sherm shook out another cigarette from his pack and watched us quietly.
“What?” I snarled. “You got a fucking problem with me, John?”
John held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, bro. I just can’t believe this shit. You with cancer. It’s just so fucked up.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my temples. “Yeah, it is. I’m sorry too. The truth is, I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. I’m really scared.”
Sherm lit the cigarette and started spinning his lighter on the table.
“Life sucks, then you die.”
I laughed bitterly. “You know, I was just thinking that same thing the other day.”
He looked me in the eyes. “Well then live your life so that it doesn’t suck, man. Shit, Tommy, you know that it’s coming, right? The doctor said it was terminal. You’re gonna fucking die, dog! So I say live your life to the fucking fullest. You should be home right now, with Michelle and T.J., or on a trip together or some shit. Why waste it in this shit hole of a bar?”
Choosing my words carefully, it was a moment before I spoke.
“Because you guys are my friends. And who knows—this could be our last time together in this place.”
John turned pale. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
He started to reply, then suddenly burst into tears. It startled me, scared me in fact. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen John cry. Not once, not even in fifth grade when Seymour Peters beat him up for making fun of his name. But he was doing it now. Big, goofy, good-natured, dumb as a stump John sat there bawling like a baby.
“Hey—” I reached for him. “Come on.”
“It ain’t fucking fair, Tommy! Why’s it got to be you? Why? It ain’t fair!”
He jerked to his feet, shoving his chair away from him. It slammed into the table next to us, sending beer bottles crashing to the floor and spilling into their owners’ laps.
“Hey, you stupid motherfucker! Look what you just did!”
The guy nearest to John jumped up. He was huge, and it seemed to take him forever to rise to his full height. He jabbed a large finger into John’s chest and glowered down at him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch? What’s your problem?”
Stammering and blinded by tears, John started to apologize and offer to buy the next round. But before he could complete his sentence, the other guy’s friends were jumping to their feet as well. They were spoiling for a fight, plain and simple, and I knew that even if we bought them another round, there’d still be hell to pay. There were seven of them and three of us. Not good odds. Sherm glanced over at me.
“I’ll tell you one thing. You’re right about this being our last night together in Murphy’s Place.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, because we’re about to be barred from coming back.”
“Sherm, I don’t—”
He sprang up, lightning quick, and his hand darted out, snatching an empty beer bottle and smashing it on the edge of the table. My reluctance to fight instantly vanished. The grin on his face was contagious, and I matched it. A surge of adrenaline and nicotine and alcohol-fueled bravery rushed through my body, and it was the greatest feeling in the world. There is no such thing as a fair fight. If you grow up like I did, that’s the first thing you learn, long before you know your ABCs or multiplication tables. You don’t learn it from watching some purple dinosaur or a bunch of puppets. You learn it from your surroundings. If you’re going to fight, fight to win. And if you’re going to win, win by any means possible. Kick. Claw. Gouge. Bite. Punch. Repeat as necessary. Win. And that was exactly what I intended to do. Win. Unfortunately, Angie stopped us before it went any further.
“Take it outside, guys. Now! Murphy’s gonna call the cops!”
“They started it,” Sherm said, not taking his eyes off his target.
“Bullshit, you sons of bitches are the one’s that started it, knocking our beers over and shit. Bunch of pussies!”
Murphy swung around from behind the bar, three-hundred-plus pounds of wiry black hair and hard fat, an aluminum baseball bat clutched in both meaty hands.
“I don’t give a fuck who started it. You continue it in here, or in my parking lot, and I’ll have the police down here so fast your goddamn heads will spin. That includes all of you. Tommy, John—Sherm—you guys go first. Get in your car and leave. I see you out there waiting for these guys, and I’m calling the cops. Am I making myself perfectly fucking clear?”
“But Murph,” Sherm protested, “we’re regulars.”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re regulars or not. I won’t have this in my place. Out!”
“This sucks, yo.”
Murphy nodded at the others. “The same goes for you guys. You try to follow them outside and start some shit, and you’ll spend the night in jail. I can goddamned guarantee you that.”
Now that I’d pretty much decided what I was going to do with my last days and how I was going to make sure my family was taken care of, the last thing I wanted was police involvement. I wanted to stay below the radar. I caught Sherm’s eye, nodded toward the door, and smiled at Angie. She squeezed my shoulder, saying nothing.
“Thanks, Angie.” I handed her my last ten-dollar bill, wondering what the hell I’d do for gas money. “Thanks for everything.”
She softened. “It’s cool, Tommy. Don’t sweat it. Now get going before the cops get here. Murphy’s plenty pissed off right now, but he won’t rat you guys out. Just in case though, I wouldn’t come back for a while.”
I nodded. “Trust me, Angie. You won’t be seeing me again.”
“Stop that. It’s just for a few weeks, Tommy. It’s not like you’ll never be back.”
Instead of replying, I just gave her a sad smile.
The other guys stepped away, and Murphy recruited several patrons to act as bouncers. Without giving anybody an excuse to start swinging, we walked to the door. The last thing I heard as we left the bar was the jukebox playing Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper.”
But I did fear him. I was scared of the son of a bitch, and I knew that I’d be meeting him soon.
My nose started leaking blood again in the parking lot, and I daubed at it as we walked to John’s car.
“That was fun,” I snickered. “Good way to spend a Friday night.”
“Thanks for taking my back, guys,” John mumbled apologetically. “I wasn’t sure what I’d do if all seven of them jumped me.”
“Should have thought of that before you started bawling like a baby.”
“Fuck you, Sherm.”
“Fuck you, Carpet Dick.”
All three of us started laughing then, great bellyaching laughs that left us breathless after they’d passed. We climbed in the car, John behind the wheel, Sherm stretched out in the back, and me riding shotgun.
“Yo, let’s hit the diner,” John suggested. “I’m hungry.”
“That’s cool with me,” Sherm shrugged. “I could use some coffee.”
They looked at me for approval.
“Sure. Sounds good. We need to finish talking anyway.”
“Christ,” Sherm adjusted his Ford cap. “There’s more bad news?”
I shook my head. “No. But you guys asked me what I was going to do. I figured I’d tell you. I owe you that much.”
They were my best friends, and I loved them. I really did. But I didn’t trust them for this. I didn’t trust John because he was stupid and I didn’t trust Sherm because he was crazy. But I was going to tell them anyway. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or the fact that we’d just thrown down together, but right then, I decided to tell them everything.