Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

Damascus, in the afternoon. You already know the floor, walls, and ceiling had been painted black, but the windows, too, had been smeared in it. During the day, the bartenders made sure that the door was kept closed. It was like a casino, the way Damascus tried to keep daylight away from its patrons, protecting us from the sun: those beams of light that illuminated the secret woes of daytime drinkers.

I walked in, trying to calm myself down. I was sweaty from running, but my thoughts weren't shouts anymore, and the war in my good hand was over. If not over, quiet for the time being and that was enough 0-

Vern sat at the bar with a Latino, El Salvadoran, I think, a name tattooed across the side of his neck in a faded cursive. I couldn't make out what the name was.

They both drank warm beers. No other customers were in Damascus yet; the bartender shot a game of pool by himself.

I walked over to Vern and his friend.

"This is Enrique," Vern said to me.

He and I shook hands; I tried to shake Vern's, too, but he looked at me and made a farting noise, his little, white tongue waggling in front of his lips.

"I like your tattoo," I said to Enrique.

He ran his fingers over it and laughed in a surprised way. "My Gloria," he said. "I got that on our first wedding anniversary." I looked at his left hand and didn't see a ring. Enrique said he'd be right back, that he was going to play some songs on the jukebox, but really, I think he needed to spend a couple of minutes remembering Gloria.

"Did you drink the pruno yet?" Vern said.

"I need some whiskey"

"Whiskey you shall have, soldier," he said. "Hey!" he yelled at the bartender, who was attempting a bank shot, which he missed and then made a face at Vern like it was his fault.

"What do you want now?" the bartender said.

"This boy's dying of thirst."

"Yeah, yeah." The bartender threw the cue stick on the table and loped behind the bar. I wondered if that was the stick that had broken my arm.

"Now that's stupendous customer service," Vern said.

"Go to hell," the bartender said.

"Devil's prodigal son shall soon return. The day I die, he'll throw me a Welcome Home party. All the pussy I can handle."

The bartender poured me a shot and grabbed another six-pack of warm Michelobs, slamming the beers in front of Vern before moving back to the pool table. He checked the cue stick's chalk, applied more, blew on the tip.

Enrique's first song came on, fast rock and roll with too much enthusiasm for three guys drinking warm beers and whiskey in the middle of the day He came back over, but didn't sit down, saying, "Got to go back to work, guys," and scratched at his tattoo, and because of his stubble, it made a noise like someone sweeping cement. He walked out.

"Tell me about the pruno," Vern said.

I couldn't tell him the truth: that I'd nurtured it, named it. That I didn't want to rip Madeline open and drink her blood. That I wanted to watch her grow up.

I slammed my shot and asked Vern for a warm one; he glared at me but handed over the beer.

"The pruno was delicious," I said, and even speaking those awful words sent a flicker, some sparks shooting through my good hand.

He snorted, fiddled with one of his sprawling eyebrows, rolling the hair into a point. "Pruno is a lot of things, but it's never delicious."

We nursed the next couple warm ones, not really talking too much. Finally; he said, "What are you doing here anyway? I thought we made the pruno because you were too broke to go to bars."

"This was an emergency."

He tapped me on my crooked arm. "That's an emergency."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I'm a cheapskate," he said, "but even I'd fix that."

"I will."

"You should break it first"

"What?"

"Listen," he said, "you're going to have to pay more if you go with your arm like that. First, you'll pay for the doctors to break it. Then you'll pay for them to reset it."

"So what?"

"So break it yourself and save the money."

"That's crazy"

"I'll break it for you."

"Out of the question."

"Just remember who told you first," he said, holding his Michelob bottle up in my direction and taking a swig, making a crude aahhh noise when he finished swallowing his latest mouthful. "It would be my pleasure to break your arm."

Letch asked for one good reason why I was taking so much shit from Sean Bourke. "Stand up for yourself," he said. "Fight fire with fire."

"What fire?" I said.

Letch told me to shut up and showed me a way to karate chop a guy in the Adam's apple. He showed me a way to twist someone's wrist behind their back so far it would break. He showed me his favorite move: how to lean in close to someone you were arguing with and say, "I didn't hear what you said," and when they started repeating their words, you head-butted them and cracked their nose.

"While they're standing there bleeding," Letch said, pretending to clutch a busted nose, "that's when you put your balls into stomping them mightily."

Sean had been beating up Skyler and me all year at school. Madeline had tried calling and telling the office about it, but they didn't do anything to stop him. Sean had moved to Phoenix from Wisconsin. He wasn't that tall, but he was fat and a lot stronger than us.

"After you do that," Letch said, laughing, "he'll offer to shine your shoes every day before class."

The next morning, Letch said, "I want you to do it today, Rhonda."

"What?"

"Get even with Sean. Do it before your mom comes back. That way the school will call me." He fuzzed my head. "Unless you like getting your ass kicked like a faggot." I shook my head no, and Letch said, "Make me proud, boy."

At lunch, all the kids were either playing tetherball or standing around talking. Sean was with one of his friends, over on the field. I'd told Skyler that I was going to kick Sean's ass. He said, "How are you going to do that?" and I said, "Letch taught me some tricks." Skyler told a bunch of kids what I was going to do. At lunch, all the kids were standing around waiting for me to make my move. No one thought I'd be able to do anything to Sean, but they were all excited to watch me get pummeled again. Skyler believed in me. He knew if anyone was mean enough to help us with Sean, it was Letch.

When I finally walked over to Sean, there were like fifty kids waiting for it.

I walked up to him, and he said, laughing, "I hear you're coming to kick my ass," and I said, "What?" and he made a fake scared face and said, "Are you going to beat me up?" pretending to bite his nails. "I can't hear you," I said, and he said, "What, are you deaf?" I took another step toward him. I was right in front of him. I said it again, "I can't hear you."

He leaned down a little and repeated himself, and I shoved every sliver of anger in my entire body up into my forehead. And right when Sean was in the middle of his sentence I thrust my forehead forward, crashing into his nose. He fell straight to the ground. He fell so fast there wasn't time to kick him in the balls like Letch had told me to.

Sean held his nose with both hands, screaming.

I started kicking him and I can't really tell you how many times I did it because once I started, he kept turning into different people: he was my mom so I kicked him; he was Letch so I kicked him; he was my real dad who I didn't know so I kicked him. I kept kicking until a teacher pulled me off and walked me to the principal's office.