Monday morning heroics is a standard trait of losers of all shapes and sizes, but deflecting an armed robber from yourself to a kid behind a fast food counter is uniquely cowardly.
Which brings me to yet another true story.
Back in my twenties I asked my friend Nelson – who had a van and was a tough but hilarious Vietnam vet to help me move. When we were done we stopped at a popular neighborhood bar on the East Side of Milwaukee. Wolskis [which we closed.]
Hemingway, after parking the van a block away we stopped on the lower step of someone’s front porch a few doors up from the bar to finish a doobie we were working on. Down the quiet empty side street came a dude dancing while singing YMCA, dressed gay as possible. As he passed Nelson yelled “fag” – which with no reaction was hard to discern whether the guy heard it of not. I was embarrassed and scolded Nelson leaving him on the porch alone as I left for the bar.
Up against the rather crowded bar ordering a beer I was confronted by the young man who held an open Swiss army knife in my face and told me he was doing to “cut me.” He was a mousy little man which generated little fear in me so I asked why he wanted to cut me. He said because I called him a “fag.” I told him it wasn’t me, that it was Nelson who was still out there. He turned and walked out the door while I sipped my beer waiting for what I knew would be a good ending.
A few minutes later Nelson casually walked in horsing his way next to me at the bar. He clanked down a closed Swiss army knife and signaled for a tap beer. Before he took a sip, he spit out a small piece of someone’s ear to ask, “Did you sent that guy out to stab me?”
“Yeah, I did.” I admitted as we drank to just another typical day in the life of twenty somethings in the Seventies.