There's Gonna Be A Headache Tonight
By closing, the bleeding had stopped. Ice helped, though it was difficult to hold both bag and beer. It's dark, the only lights being those above the bar, brightly illuminating the counting of the till and last drinks shared among the chosen few. In the aftermath of the night's melding of bar, booze and brawl, adrenaline is ebbing, the story being reshaped into an archetypal tale of masculity and chivalry. I stare at nothing and flick a clot of blood from my shirt.
The night of flat face began as countless other Saturdays would. Arrive as the afternoon tiplers stagger out. Clean, stock, enjoy the silent, dim coolness. Note the arrivals: the boss, the barmaids, the bouncer, the band, the last of these drinking lots of "put it on my tab" as they lug and plug, tune and noodle. With each arrival, the energy ticks up a notch.
Earlybirds shuffle in, plop at the bar and light up the first Marlboro of the night. The bouncer, a three-hundred pounder nicknamed "Pudge" places two stools at the door, one for him, and, checking IDs being thirsty work, one for beer. Booths fill, then tables, then corners. It's gradual, like putting change in a jar--a few coins at time, suddenly it's full.
Knots of the young and hopeful eye each other over first drinks. They've spent their weeks working the line at Rubbermaid and Frito Lay, but now they're showered, clean-shaven, coiffed and made up. It's the era of big hair--glistening mall bangs will stay erect all night. It's possibility that fuels this party, the sense that something will happen, someone will happen.
Unable to squeeze between filled barstools, orders are yelled. "four Millers" "Jack and Coke" "two G & Ts." Waitresses elbow drink-seekers out of the way, but still wind up shouting. It's electric--the lighted stage. The glow of the jukebox. Shouting. Perfume. Hairspray. Laughter. And...just when this bubble of anticipation can't rise any higher, the band opens up with, "heartache tonight."
Somebody's gonna hurt someone
Before the night is through
Somebody's gonna come undone
There's nothing you can do
Everybody wants to touch somebody
If it takes all night
Everybody wants to take a little chance,
Make it come out right
Exactly. it's not a song-- it's a soundtrack
Couples leap to the dance floor where they compete for space with clumps of girls whose eyes dart, looking for who's looking. Music thrums and thumps, bodies gyrate, hormones flow, sweat flies. A bobbing mass of bodies anxious to procreate, the modern version of fertility rites of millennia past. None expect the coming tumult.
In a back corner, illuminated by a dartboard light, a woman is invited to join a bachelor party via a yank on her blouse. This does not go over well with the grabee or her date. One minute, the usual litany of booze, laughter and stupidity. The next, wrestlemania. Grunts and epithets, glasses skittering off the bar and exploding on the floor. My partner, despite the restrictions of hip-hugging disco bells and platform shoes, leaps over the bar into the fray. Ego pushes me in the same direction, but "you've got to be kidding!" wins out and I take the long way around, grabbing the first person I reach, pinning him against the bar. I'm congratulating myself for decisive self-preservation when someone yells "fucking bartenders!" and I turn just in time to catch a meaty fist. Turns out the "seeing stars" thing is real, and the descriptors "crunching" and "recoiling," useful. It's clear I'm in the midst of an "oh shit." moment, like when your car starts sliding on a winter road, you know you're gonna hit something but can't stop.
I sensed a note of bemused pride in my father's voice when he shared the next day, "you are probably the only person in the family who has ever had their nose broken in a bar fight." If he only knew how many times I was to be the "only person" in the coming dive into debauchery. A whole new world was opening, one where sex was recreational and transactional, drunkenness intentional and cocaine offered in dark corners. I had not been taught that nights out with the boys turned into nights out with the girls, and sometimes it wasn't pretty. Didn't realize that a bar fight was a merit badge of manliness, proudly displayed for decades to come. It was new but real, a world possessed of its own dark gravity, pulling hard.
"This night is gong to last forever
Last all, last all summer long..."
And last it did. Through the summer, the following decades, and into the winter of this life. When I want, I'm still there, ice on face, lights up, doors locked. The cronies tossing me gentle barbs, like, "you're really good with your face," Pudge hulking nearby, shaking his head, knowing he's the only reason I'm not in the ER.
I'm still shaking my head, amazed that it happened, glad it did, realizing it was a wake up, not a knock out, punch. Glad I broke away from the lure of cheap thrills and returned to a place where I wasn't the "only one." Thankful the nose healed without crookedness.
Relieved the headache tonight did not become the pain of a lifetime.
5-16-26
6-6
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6-29
7-1-26
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7-8-26
7-21-26
Go back nd check the flow. Does it build and burst at the fight?