Bitches be Starting Shit

Quite inadvertently, I gained a reputation as a badasss.

On an unsuspecting Wednesday night I trickled into Amestoy's for the first time in well over a year.  The bar was busy, the walls rattling from the music of the DJ.  Surprisingly, to me at least, was that most of the patrons were Black.  I don't really care - It's just that I live in East Bakersfield, where most of the population is Hispanic and among them, I barely qualify as Hispanic too.

Most of the crowd was dancing so there were plenty of open places at the bar and as I took one, the bartender grabbed my hand and asked how I had been.  I just stared.

"You don't remember me."

I don't.

"We went to high school together?"

"Oh, yes," I feigned.

"And I know your brother."

"Of course.  Remind me of your name?"

"Tim.  Timmy.  Like your brother."

No bells resound.

"Yes, that's right.  Hi.  Corona, please."

The DJ is sounding off about this mother fucking this and this mother fucking that.  It's Candice's birthday, so let's all give it up for Candice.  I take a sip of my beer as the crowd hollers, then parts.  On the pool table I see a make shift altar, with a poster sized photo of a young, beautiful girl, and candles.  I realize that Candice is dead.  Shortly thereafter, i realize that the DJ is Candice's father.

"Let's go release these balloons for Candice."

The crowd gathers the mylar balloons and walks through the front door.  I observe, drink in hand, as they count down and then I see the streamers part from their hands, moving upwards, as the balloons are released.  I few uncontrolled tears trickle down my cheeks.

The attendants make their way back inside and a man starts shouting at me from across the bar.  The woman with him is trying to calm him, and I am not sure he is talking to me.  There's a man standing beside me, running interference.  I keep asking, "What? What?" and the man keeps shouting.  Finally, I can hear him. "Are you starting shit with me?" The man running interference says, "You should ignore him, he's drunk."  I calculate.  The woman with him seems pretty solid.  There are two other patrons, plus the man next to me, between us.  I;m not trying to start shit.  But if he is, he's got to get over some hurdles.  Ultimately, he defuses, and the night goes on.

Tim comes around the bar and sits next to me with his glass of water, and tells me about life since high school.  He says that he has heard about me having been a bartender at the Wright Place for a long time now.  His customers are last-calling themselves, dissapating as a bartender always hopes.

A drunk woman walks up. "Bitches are always starting shit with me. What am I supposed to do? Ignore them?"

"Yes, ignore them," Tim says, and her boyfriend assists her out of the bar.

"Bitches are always starting shit with me too," I joke. "I'm just kidding.  No one starts shit with me."

"Well, I'm a dude and I wouldn't start shit with you.  Seriously.  You give off that vibe."

I stare for a minute.  "Yeah. I guess not."

"No one wants to start shit with you."

I'm pretty happy with this revelation.  I rarely walk into any place doing anything but pretending to be something I am not.  I am not brave.  I am not tough. Last night I promised Delilah I would rock her for one song.  ONE song.  Three songs, plus one abridged, later, I tucked her in her crib.  A couple hours after that when a frightened Eden called to me from her monitor, I invited her into my bed, where she consumed my pillow and my blankets and generally made me irrelevant.  Nearly any time they beckon, I will be on call. Just a few minutes before, I was slinking into the grocery store ten minutes before close to make sure the girls had flavored milk for their breakfast. They do love flavored milk.

The bar has been almost completely evacuated.  It's just me, Tim, the DJ and one of his friend.  The two of them approach the bar.  I am ready to go, so I turn to the DJ and say, "I am really sorry about your daughter."

"Thank you."

"I lost my son when he was ten days old.  I know it's not the same, but -"

"But you know how it feels." He grabs me, and hugs me fiercely, tears in his eyes.

"She was really beautiful."

"She was.  She wouldn't let anyone see her or take her picture when she had the cancer.  She wanted everyone to see her like this."

"Well, she was beautiful."

He hugs me again, and I leave.  He will not likely remember me tomorrow, but I will remember him.  Perhaps more importantly, I will remember Candice, a beautiful girl that I never knew, who was stolen by cancer, but who is remembered with love and loyalty.

Happy would-be 31st birthday, Candice.