Page 5

I’ve handled my share of punks before. Being in the military taught me how. Kissed the asses of sergeants who don’t deserve it. Sucked it up and saluted them. Dropped down and gave twenty, fifty, even a hundred while holding anger in my heart.

I pride myself in knowing how to keep my cool. At times, my life depended on it.

But this Anthony guy …

This spiteful little twat …

“Oh, shoot, I knew I should’ve helped you!” cries Trey when I arrive back at our table with the drinks, noting we’re one short—and I’m wet down my front. “I’m so sorry! Did it spill? Is that what happened?” He grabs a wad of napkins off the table and starts pressing them to my stomach where most of the liquid went.

“Nah, I’m fine, thank you,” I assure him, taking over with the napkin dabbing while he nudges Cody to get more. “I don’t need a drink. I’ll be the double-D. You go ahead and drink up.”

“You sure? I feel so bad.”

Pete leans in, grabbing his own glass. “Bridge here, he almost never drinks,” he explains to the guys. “The man’s as dry as a bone most days. Well, except for this moment,” he adds with a chuckle at my very much not-dry shirt and pants. “What happened, man?”

I shake my head. “Just clumsy. Spilled one. No biggie.”

“Clumsy? You?” Pete snorts. “You’re the least clumsiest guy I know. Did you piss off the bartender or something? Look at a girl the wrong way?”

Anthony’s contemptuous sneer is starting to take permanent residence behind my eyelids every time I blink, and I’m not a fan. I realize I’m dabbing my shirt more vigorously than I was a second ago. Cody hands me more napkins. “Nope, no one did anything, I just tipped over a glass is all.”

“Not buying it.” Pete nudges Cody. “This guy, my pal Bridger, teacher’s pet all the way. A perfectionist, by-the-book, iron rod of a man. He’s been my daddy these past few years, I swear, staying sober all the time just so he can watchdog me.”

“Calling me your ‘daddy’ doesn’t sound the way you mean it to,” I say, causing Cody to snort into his beer. “I just like to keep a level head is all.”

Trey smiles, then eyes Pete across the table. “You’ve got a real wise buddy here.”

“If you aren’t gonna drink, at least let me get you a water or somethin’,” says Cody. “Gets hot in this place after a while. You’re gonna wish you had a glass of somethin’.”

I turn to get a look at the bar counter, but my eyes find the jukebox instead. Anthony’s still over there with who I’ll presume is his girlfriend—God bless her for putting up with a guy like that. From the looks of it, I’m no longer a thought on his mind, dancing badly, laughing so loud it cuts through the room, and spilling his drink all over his tank top and loose, threadbare jeans, sagging on his ass.

I find myself wrinkling up my face as I look at him partying it up with his girlfriend. That guy bugs me. Deeply bugs me. To the damned core. But I can’t for the life of me put my finger on what exactly it is.

I mean, other than he’s a waste of space.

Does he remind me of one of the troublemakers I dealt with at the base? Or farther back than that to my high school days? Is it possible that I’m just projecting everything I hate about my past onto Anthony, all of the guys who pushed me around, who stood over me, who played games with my head—the dickheads from my youth who are, more than I’d dare admit out loud, the reason I enlisted in the first place? There were years in the Army I’d stay up later at night than I ought to have, staring at the bottom of the bunk above me, wondering what I was trying to prove to myself, to the world, to the men who’ve made so much of my life hell.

Starting with my old man, the most miserable shit of them all.

Thank Christ my brother and I got away from him .

Maybe when I see Anthony, thoughts of all the evil men in my life come rising right back to the surface like no time has passed at all, undoing the work I have done over the years to neutralize the trauma, like all of that work was for nothing, like all I’ve actually done is practice maintaining a state of denial—as if I don’t still carry damage from the heartless enemies of my past.

Well, either that, or Anthony’s just an annoying jackass who’s freakishly skilled at getting under my skin.

“Why am I hearing Take On Me for the third time in a row?” asks Pete, interrupting a joke Cody was telling to his husband, who didn’t look too inclined to laugh anyway.

I’m still watching the dancing fool. “Because someone’s being an inconsiderate juke-hog.”

“No big deal. I like 80s mus—Hey, where are you going?” Pete perks up when he realizes I’ve left the table. “Bridge?”

I calmly move through the crowd, politely excusing myself as I make my way. I shouldn’t do this. I should turn back now. But whether it’s thoughts of all those men in my past, of my old man, or just pure vindictive pettiness, my feet keep moving. Others are dancing, too, and I try my best not to knock into anyone with my shoulders, despite the anger crawling out of my heart.

Every note of music is an attack from Anthony.

Every note is a ringing peal of laughter.

Mocking me. Cheering in victory over me.

Pushing me down.

One young woman steps on my foot, apologizes, then bats her eyes when she gets a look at me, in shock. Her date frowns and puts an arm possessively around her, pulling her attention away—a reaction I regret to say I’m used to. If only the insecure, jealous straight dudes of the world would figure out somehow that I’m no competition to steal their lady.

The only thing I’m out to steal right now is all the air from a certain jack-hole’s sails.

The moment I make it through to the other side of the crowd, Anthony spots me. And bless the gods, it’s perfect how my mere presence causes him to stumble on a ridiculous dance move he’s failing to pull off, not having expected me to seek him out. His girlfriend—just like the gal whose foot met mine halfway across the room—stops dancing at once to drink in the sight of me, her bubblegum lips parting and eyes widening in wonder.

Despite the tension twisted up tight in my heart by Anthony, I refuse to be petty and sink to his level of immaturity. I’m only here for one purpose: to liberate the jukebox for my friends. My goal is noble, right? Selfless? Admirable? “Pardon me, ma’am,” I say to the young woman in a sincere, gentlemanly tone, “but do you mind if I put on a different song?”

“You can put on or take off anything you like,” she answers.

I’m not sure I can dignify that with a response, whether on my face or in words, so I just nod respectfully at her, then tap a button or two on the jukebox. Aerosmith’s Walk This Way plays—a favorite of Pete’s for whatever reason, something sentimental to him—and I smile to myself. I nod again at the lady, then ignore Anthony as I turn and head back through the crowd to my table.

I only get halfway there when the music suddenly cuts off and shifts to something else.

Guns N’ Roses’ Back Off Bitch .

I close my eyes.

My body plays a game of tug-of-war with my heart.

Do I let this pettiness go? Do I stand my ground? At least it isn’t Take On Me again. Wasn’t the point just to change the music? Who cares if it isn’t playing Pete’s favorite? He’s probably deep in conversation with his pal Cody anyway, laughing about whatever, drinking their beers, not caring about the music.

But I care about the music.

And I care about shitheads winning when they don’t deserve to. I care about standing up for myself. If I don’t stand up, I may as well lie down and let every prick who’s ever crossed me walk over me like a rug.

I’m no one’s rug.

After a breath, I finally look back over my shoulder. Anthony’s leaning against the jukebox, his arms crossed, with a shit-eating smirk on his smug face.

Then I experience another wave of doubt. Don’t do it , I tell myself, remembering the gas station and the moment at the bar just now. Don’t do it, it isn’t worth it, don’t engage, just go back to your table . My presence over there won’t make this better. When a kid slings mud in the playground, don’t sling it back. It solves nothing. You tell yourself to ignore it, sticks and stones and all that, and leave children to play with children. No one comes home clean from a mud fight.

But then Anthony zeroes his eyes onto me.

And I see his lips move, singing: “Back off, back off bitch,” at the chorus, with his bright blue eyes alight and triumphant.

It boggles me, that eyes like that, which effortlessly summon the mystique of bright blue oceans, of cloudless summer skies, of countless sparkling facets of pale sapphires, are wasted on a man so depressingly devoid of integrity and character.

And those pretty eyes are eating this up.

Delighting in my anger.

He fucking loves this .

And despite all my resolve. Despite sticks and stones. Despite every lick of my better judgment built on years and years dealing with tougher, harder, far more savage adversaries in the Army.

I turn and head right back up to that jukebox.

The young woman is still watching me like I’m a god stepped down from a heavenly throne when I approach. As Anthony stares me down with those undeserved gifts for eyes, I calmly tap a few buttons and switch it right back to Aerosmith, then saunter away without a word.

I barely make it three steps before the song cuts off yet again and switches to Britney Spears’ Oops!... I Did It Again .

This motherfucker.

I’m not used to jukeboxes that don’t play through their queue, able to have one song cut off for the next. I guess it’s a trick of this particularly cruel jukebox, facilitating Anthony’s childish acts of retaliation against me, becoming something of a referee in this musical boxing match between us.

I’m right back at the jukebox, pressing the buttons with as much patience as I can muster, my steely eyes burning Anthony, as I switch it yet again back to Aerosmith.

This time, he doesn’t even wait for me to go before his fingers fumble over the buttons, his lips twisted up into a mocking smirk, his blue eyes watery with madness and alcohol.

And out of the speakers comes Hit the Road Jack .

I grind my teeth as I switch to something else entirely: Three Days Grace’s I Hate Everything About You .

Anthony’s face tightens when he switches to Cry Me a River .

The buttons creak when I switch to Loser by Beck.

He scowls as he puts on You’re So Vain .

I play Go To Hell .

He plays Sorry Not Sorry .

I play Bitch .

He plays Sesame Street’s Rubber Duckie .

Then he turns to the jukebox, his swagger destroyed. “What the fuck? I didn’t—” He bangs the side of the machine with his fist, looking betrayed. When he presses buttons, it appears the jukebox has hit some song limit, because it doesn’t respond. His girlfriend next to him is busy sipping her drink, oblivious to all, dancing to the kiddy song like it’s her favorite jam.

That’s when the bartender appears next to us. “Is it you two who’re giving my jukebox dissociative personality disorder?”

I blink. An oddly brainy joke, coming from the bartender.

Before I can respond, Anthony pushes away from the jukebox. “We were jus’ headin’ out,” he states, proud of himself anyway, as if declaring himself the winner of this jukebox ping-pong match. He hooks an arm around his girlfriend, who seems surprised by the gesture and murmurs, “Oh, we are?”

Then he struts past me, knocking forcefully into my shoulder on his way by, his pretty eyes full of triumph, even with his sweaty matted hair all over the place, stumbling drunkenly every couple of steps and stinking worse than he did at the gas station.

I watch him push through the crowd, his butt swaying in his loose jeans, torn at the back pocket and showing a peek of his blue boxers, the back of his tank top bunched up at the top of his butt, his neck glossy with sweat. His girlfriend struggles to peek back over her shoulder at me, bewildered by everything, until the two of them are out the door.

“Sorry, sir,” I say calmly to the bartender as my pulse keeps thumping with rage in my ears. Ernie serenades the bar about how his rubber duckie makes bath time so much fun.