You Looking for Trouble?

*** Warning: This story contains profanity. ***

I picked up the phone to call my brother and realized that I hadn’t spoken to him in many months. I’d been calling him more regularly, for the past twenty-five years, but this time was different. The last six months for me had been extraordinarily…complicated. Complicated enough for me to call him. I had the propensity to fight and had a handful of them in the last months. One encounter, about a month ago, happened to be the worst decision of my life. I messed with the wrong guy. He threatened to get me and rather than wait around I began to travel from town to town regularly.

I dialed the number—it began to ring. C’mon, answer. Maybe I should hang up. What am I going to say? Ten rings. He should have answered by then, but he didn’t, and I was directed to voicemail. I left a message, “Hey, it’s me. It’s been a while, I know, but I’d like to catch up with you. I don’t have a phone, so you won’t be able to call me. I’ll try back later today.”

I had no way to know if that was still his number because there was no intro to leaving my message, but I left the message anyway. I planned to continue calling until someone answered, but I hoped that it would be him who answered.

I headed out of my motel looking for a bar or restaurant where I could kill some time. I walked several blocks and noticed a bar located down a side street.

I was sporting long gray hair and a half-gray beard. Sides trimmed and about six inches hanging from my chin. I was wearing my black jeans, one of four button-down shirts, and my black motorcycle boots. My black leather jacket came down to about the middle of my thigh. It was fairly worn and scuffed.

I entered and made a straight line to the bar and took a seat. The bartender was immediately attentive, and she was attractive—in her forties.

“Whatcha have?”

“Jack Daniels and a draft beer.”

“You got it, Jack.”

I watched her do her job and particularly liked when she reached for the Jack Daniels. Nice shorts. She turned and poured the shot. She slid it to me and then poured the beer.

“You ain’t from around here, are ya?”

I gave some lame response, “No, I’m not. Just traveling through.”

I threw back the shot and reached for the beer.

“There will be a band here later, if you’re interested.”

“What time?”

“Oh, about nine.”

“Maybe I’ll come back. I was hoping to get an early start in the morning.”

“Where you headed?”

“North. I’m headed north. Can I have a menu?”

“Our specialty’s a Reuben, if you care.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Fries are fine.”

“You got it, cowboy,” she whispered.

“Will you be here tonight?” I asked.

“You bet. I’ll be here till we close. It’s my bar.”

 “I may be back, but I can’t guarantee it.”

“Can I get you another drink?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Same?”

“Yep.”

“Your food should be up in about ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

It was only six o’clock and I figured I still had a few hours before turning in, but I needed to get hold of my brother.

I finished my second round of drinks at the same moment she delivered my to-go bag. “My name is Taylor, by the way.”

“Pleasure. I’ll try to come back, Taylor.” With that, I took my bag and headed for the exit. I was hungry and the smell of the food was making me hungrier.

I walked slowly back to my motel room taking notice of everyone I encountered. I’d gotten into the habit of always checking behind me to make sure no one was following me. Many times, I’d purposefully taken an indirect route to my destination. Sometimes even doubling back.

I made my way to my room and decided to eat and then call my brother back.

The sandwich was good. Taylor hadn’t lied.

I cleaned up my mess and redialed my brother’s number. One, two, three, rings. C’mon man, answer.

“Hello?”

“Dude…it’s me.”

“Well, well, well.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been…busy.”

He joked, “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

I hesitated, “Maybe.”

We both laughed. We always joked with each other about being in trouble. I guess it stemmed from our childhood.

“Are you still living in Colorado?” I asked abruptly.

“Yeah, why?”

“I was hoping I could stop on my way through.”

“Where are you headed?”

“I’m heading to North Dakota. What are you up to?”

“Nothing really, I’m home by myself. The boys are at college and the wife’s in Detroit. When are you coming?”

“Well, I can probably be there by early morning. Does that suit?”

“Yeah sure, I’m home so whenever you get here. I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said and hung up.

I squeezed in, “Yep.”

I was still thinking about returning to the bar, but I decided to take inventory of my belongings to make sure I was prepared to leave in the morning.

My saddlebags were laying on the bed. I had my spare pants and shirts. I also had some deodorant and a couple extra pair of socks, and my wallet with about $7,500 in cash. That was it, my last bit of cash. I really had no other personal belongings—apart from my guns, which I carried on me all the time.

I noticed it was about quarter after eight and figured a couple more drinks wouldn’t hurt. I stuck my handguns in my belt and hid the shotgun under the bed. I threw on my jacket as I walked out the door and I retraced my steps to the bar.

As I entered, Taylor made eye contact with me immediately. “Welcome back, partner,” she yelled.

I nodded and quickly took a seat at the bar.

“Jack Daniels?” she asked.

“No. Actually, get me a tequila and a beer.”

“You got it gringo,” she replied and winked.

There were about thirty people filling up the joint. There were three guys in the corner: one on drums and two with acoustic guitars. The sound of country music filled the air. They were actually pretty good. They took requests and engaged the audience. It wasn’t all that loud, but very enjoyable.

Taylor returned with my drinks and put two drink chips in front of me. Did somebody already buy me a drink? She turned and winked, again. Oh shit, I’m in trouble. Thank God I’m leaving in the morning.

“Hey,” I yelled as she walked away.

“Yo,” she yelled back.

“Those guys are pretty good.”

“Yeah, they are. They do mostly covers but they mix in a few of my songs. You know since I own the bar I get special treatment,” she laughed.

“So, you’re a songwriter. Good for you.”

“Thanks. I hope to make it big someday, it’s a dream of mine. I’ll be right back.”

I sat for about thirty minutes, finishing my first order of drinks, and listening to the music. Taylor was busy with serving customers. There was one other waitress, but she was busy with food orders. Between the two, they could hardly keep up.

As I glanced around, I couldn’t help feeling I was the shadiest looking person in the place. There were a couple other guys with beards and long hair, but I was by far the oldest, judging by my gray hair anyway.

I slid my chips to the edge of the bar to get Taylor’s attention the next time she came by, but she didn’t come back. Eventually, the other girl came over and told me Taylor had taken a break. She gave me my second order of drinks and went about her business. I continued just watching people.

After a period, I thought I needed a cigar. I checked inside my jacket, and I had two remaining. I smoked the smaller variety cigars called cigarillos. They were stronger than cigarettes but smaller than a regular cigar. I motioned to the waitress that I’d be back.

I stepped outside and walked to my left and lit my cigarillo with my last match. As the nicotine filled my lungs and I looked up at the night sky, I heard some commotion. I turned and looked down the alley behind the bar and there was a couple arguing. I stepped out from the wall, trying to get a good look at them, but it was dark, and I was far enough away that I couldn’t really see who it was. However, from all the yelling, I could tell it was a man and woman. I couldn’t tell if they could see me or if they even knew I was there, so I finished my cigarillo and was about to return to the bar when I thought I saw the man strike the woman. I immediately walked toward them. As I approached, the man got ready to defend himself while I was holding up my hands, but the dude seemed to be hell-bent on fighting me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the woman was Taylor. This asshole gotta be her boyfriend.

So, I yelled out, “You looking for trouble asshole?”

Immediately, he was on the offensive, swinging away. He seemed to know how to fight, so I changed my approach. I attempted to let him swing himself out of breath. I’d seen those types before. Once they’re out of breath, they are usually easy to handle. I did my best to keep from getting hit, but one of his punches landed on my left cheek. It stunned me for about two seconds. The next one he landed was just above my belt and right on my gun. No doubt broke his hand, and I believed he knew it.

I thrust forward and my left hand caught him in the throat. He fell to the ground gasping for air. I immediately punched him with my right hand in the side of his head. I’d heard that sound many times before, and I always hated it. He was out cold and lying, seemingly lifeless, on the sidewalk. Taylor started yelling, “You killed him. You killed him.”

I knelt and checked for a pulse but there wasn’t one. He was dead. How in the hell?

Still yelling, Taylor continued, “That’s my boyfriend and he’s an FBI agent. You’d better get the fuck out of town. I swear, if I see you around here tomorrow, I’ll tell everyone that you killed him.”

Never saying a word, I turned and walked off straight to my motel and packed up my shit. I hated driving at night, but I had no other choice. I also hated it when men believed they could beat up a woman. I’d let my emotions get the best of me, but I felt I’d saved her life.

I drove for a couple of hours north when I decided that I couldn’t drive anymore. I noticed a truck stop and thought I’d rest a short time.

I hoped that no one was following me, but I decided to have a couple of drinks to calm me down. The bar was packed. I’d never seen so many hookers in one place in all my life and I’d been in many a sketchy place.

I stepped up to the bar and ordered a shot and a beer. I noticed there were a handful of bouncers, and I was fearful to make eye contact. I decided to get my drinks, drink ʼem, and get out. Not so easy, as two women saddled up to me. I was fucked, for sure. Why did I stop here? My life was full of bad choices.

I needed an exit strategy and quickly.

The bouncers were covering the two main doors, but there had to be emergency exits so I scanned the perimeter. There were three other exits, and they were not covered. Unfortunately, the door closest to my motorcycle was the furthest away from me. I needed to get to that door. It was about twenty feet from the door to my motorcycle, I had guessed. I knew opening the door likely would trigger the alarm, so I’d needed to get away quickly.

At that point, I noticed a guy sitting near me and holding a lighter. I asked if I could borrow it. He said no but asked if I minded if he joined me. I followed him out, as he was already up and walking away. He walked directly toward the exit door and out. The alarm never went off.

A feeling of relief came over me, as we both stepped outside. He already had a cigarette lit and offered me a light. I took out my last cigarillo and lit it.

“You here for the night?”

I replied, “Nope. I’m just here for a short rest and then I’m gone.”

He responded smiling, “You seem a little anxious.”

Still smiling, he continued, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll make your destination. I’m headed north at the break of dawn.”

“Well, I’m headed north as soon as I finish this smoke.”

With that I began walking toward my motorcycle.

He shouted, “Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks for the light.”

I took out my riding gloves and stomped out what remained of my smoke.

Before I knew what had happened, the dude was behind me shoving a gun into the back of my neck. My immediate reaction was to raise my hands, which I did. He started talking, but I couldn't hear anything he said with all the sirens—and the lights were blinding. A second and third person quickly disarmed me and the dude that had offered the light then handcuffed me as I dropped to my knees—with some help.

He began speaking again, “I’m Agent Strausfeld with the FBI. You’re under arrest for the murder of FBI agent…”

“Shit, this ain’t happening,” I blurted out.

He yelled in my ear, “You done fucked up.”

I knew I would eventually have time to tell my side of the story, but I also knew that I had fucked up.

Two of the agents stood me up and escorted me to one of their vehicles and placed me in the back. I was chained to the bench and sat there by myself and in the dark leaving me plenty of time to think about what had happened in the alley. The dude attacked me. I tried rationalizing what I said, but in the end, I knew I should’ve approached the situation much differently.

I stared at the ceiling of the vehicle with my head back and against the wall wondering what Taylor would say or had already said.