Adventures of Daz and Alex  
 
Showdown  


Despite the fact I know Alex will inevitably get us in griff up to our chins, I am always surprised when we step into it. It always looks so peaceful, like what could go wrong here? That's why I say he creates it. He says, "Brah, it's you. You're always getting us busted and picking up weird girls," but I swear to God it's him. It has to be. This griff never happens when I'm alone.

It's a warm afternoon, we're cruising west through the farms and we see this AfAm hitchhiker. We're talking sore thumb city out here. He's in uniform, and after getting to know Rich then I feel some sympathy for all the grunts in uniform so I pull over.

Turns out this guy Rick is trying to get home to Seattle. He's gotten a couple of rides from truckers, usually vets who spocked his skins, and he's ready to get home.

"Nice car," he tells us. He's our age, and I feel the old feeling of being an irresponsible slack-master compared to guys like Rick. You know, learning a trade, defending the country, all that book, and here I am cruising.

We ask him about the Army, where he hopes to be sent next, where he's been. It's a weird life. To think that Alex and I could have joined the Army. It's a strange thought. I'd probably end up in the brig in no time. Alex would just be canned as a bad jank for the country. He'd probably get us in a war somehow with his triple-shot energy for trouble with major corporate sponsorship.

He nearly started a war right in South Dakota. We were feeling hungry so we stop in a little town and find the usual homemade cafe. These cafes are the same all over, and they're definitely strat. They're always small, family run, put out basic food, and have paintings some relative did on the walls and a rack of postcards saying "quitcherbellyachin'."

So we go in and as we sit down, I notice some big corn-fed farm boys are at the counter and I feel a cloud forming, like we just invaded their turf. They're wearing over-alls and stained blue jeans, and one of them has a pack of nicspliffs rolled up in the sleeve of his ratty T-shirt, just like some black-and-white movie from the 50s.

They look around at us and hold us in their eyes and I feel a chill that rips up through my spine and lights a fire when it hits my skull. I have this sinking feeling like, "Here we go again."

Sure enough, they spock our car and start making fun of it, guffaws and a few words here and there, just to let us know that they're torqueing us. We order some burgers and Rick seems oblivious, he and Alex are talking about how hot it is in Texas and then all of a sudden he says to us, "I'm getting a bad feeling about those guys over there. I been on the streets and I know when some bad stuff's coming down. Let's get out of here."

So does Alex listen to this common sense? Of course not. His pride is flaring out and he says, "They're just talking." He'll never look like he's backing down. Rick seems sort of resigned and just looks out the window. I keep hoping the farm boys'll finish eating and leave, but their plates are already gone and they're obviously enjoying spliffing off of us. These guys are all D-9s, six-four and beefy. They grow football players out there, believe me. Offensive linemen, linebackers, the big ones.

Finally one of them with scruffy blond hair turns to his friend and says real loud, "Hey look, they're from California. Isn't that where they grow all the fruits?" And they all split out, har har.

This lights Alex's fuse, and he gets this smoky look behind his eyes. He gets real stiff and just disappears into himself. The food comes and he acts like it's not there. Then one with slicked-down black hair says, "Well, there's three of them traveling together, maybe they're from San Francisco," and Blondie tells his buddies, "Yeah, I hear they're letting queers into the Army now."

That's the camel and straw gig for Alex, and he stands up really quick and heads straight for these five guys. Rick says, "Looks like I gotta get ready to kick some farmboy ass," and he gives me this weary look like, "oh man, why did you clowns have to get me in this assbreaking fight in the middle of nowhere?"

I just shake my head, like "I don't know man, it's griff but I can't help it." So we have to stand up to back Alex and it's just what these assbites are drooling for, a fight five to three on their own turf. Why can't Alex ever pick a gig with odds in our favor? But of course he'd never fight anyone weaker than himself, so the odds will always be against us.

So these Attilas slide off their stools like, "Oh boy, something to break up the monotony, we get to kick some butt," and the owner comes over.

"There won't be any trouble here, boys," he says. "You just go sit down again, all of you. Your butts will be in the slammer if there's any trouble."

His wife looks out of the kitchen but she doesn't seem worried. I could just see Alex tearing the place up, tossing these corn dogs into tables, smashing everything like in a Western. This cafe didn't have a big mirror behind the counter but I could see some major griff being torn down if Alex went bananas in a Hercules-versus-the-Romans gig.

Rick is talking almost to himself, "I am personally going to kick your friend's ass if he gets our asses kicked. Shit, I just spent the last three months kicking ass and now I gotta kick some more. These sumbitches remind me of the big farm boys in my unit. Just protect my back, man. I'm gonna wait until they're on your friend like stink on shit and then peel them off one at a time. Just cover my backside."

We're standing there with our arms folded, and I'm starting to shiver with fright, the first time I ever felt that before. Oh man, I'm thinking, I hope this won't hurt too bad, I guess I'll live, I hope they have a good hospital around here. I cross myself as secretly as I can, like I'm scratching myself, but hey, I need all the help I can get.

Alex is just standing there, no way is he going to back down, and the homeboys are just riffing on empty, not quite sure what to do because they obviously know the owner and don't want to rip his place up but they'll be damned if they pass up a fight with some salads from California.

"So wanna go outside?" one says, and Alex says, "Yeah, but one at a time—unless you're too lame to fight fair."

So this one big old boy is just anxious as hell to get into it and he says, "Sure, let's go." He looks mean and strong and I'm worried. His sunburned arms are huge and covered with scratches from some kind of work, and he has these confident little eyes that would fit just fine inside a football helmet.

I'm thinking, maybe Alex isn't invincible; after all, it is their grass. The owner is less than pleased so he says, "They'll be no fighting here or outside, boys, so just sit down and cool off," and he calls some of the assbites by name.

Several of them turn around and sit back down, but this one gorgon is just straining at his leash to fight with Alex, like it's the biggest treat of his life and it's hurting him bad to pass it up. It's strange to see somebody want to either get hurt or hurt somebody so bad. I turn to sit down but Rick says in a stage whisper, "Stay cool, don't move."

So there's this standoff, nobody can move without losing their pride, and then the sheriff walks in, I guess because the wife called him. Thank God, I say to myself. Now we can end this weird gig and get back to the fries, even though by then I had no appetite for anything except to get out of that burg.

I swear to God Alex could be stripped naked in a bare room and an hour later there'd be some weird griff happening in that room—a fight, a girl, a few holes punched in the walls, some piss pooled in the corner, an empty beer can, the ceiling torn down and an electrical fire burning out of control. And of course, none of it would be his fault.

The sheriff strolls over like he's in charge, he finally gets something to do in this dirtball town. He's shorter than the big assbite who's standing up looking all anxious that maybe there won't be a fight, so he tells him to sit down. The turdhead sits down and the sheriff is happy because now he can look down on the guy.

"There ain't gonna be a fight today, Matt," he said. "I'd say it's about time to get back to work, wouldn't you?"

"We were gonna take it outside, Sheriff," Dickface said, but the Sheriff is damned if he's going to let a giant-ass brawl rip up his town, so he just shakes his head slowly.

"You can fight with the boys from across the county line like usual, Matt, but not here and not with these guys." Maybe it wouldn't look so good; three guys with some dark color in their skin and three minutes after they blow into town they get their asses kicked by the locals.

Matt is sulking but he turns back to the counter after giving us this look like a tiger gives an antelope, just, "damn, it would have been great," and I almost wish I could see Alex dismantle this guy. I know Alex takes special pleasure in taking down guys who've never lost before just because they're big and strong.

It's so weird to see the look on their faces when their punches just blow by Alex and he's laid one on a pressure point and their knees are buckling and their expressions say, "What's happening, I punched him, this fight should be all over and instead I'm falling down."

So after the big jerkoff Matt sits down the Sheriff comes over to us. "I'd like to recommend that you don't say anything to the boys over there, just finish your meal and move along. I don't put up with any trouble. Understand?" We all nod like, yup, Mr. Guppy, we hear you loud and clear.

Then the sheriff stands between our table and the counter and says real loud, "Boys, look here." The clowns at the counter turn to spock him and we're at attention, too. He scans our faces to make he's got us and then he reaches into his mouth and pulls out his lower teeth. He holds his bridge up and swings it around so we can see. One of the numbnuts chuckles, but an iceberg stare from the sheriff nails him shut.

"This is from a stupid fight I got into when I was about your age," he says. "I'm still living with that mistake. Don't you make the same one." He puts the front teeth back in his lower jaw and nods to Matt and his pack. "Matt, get a move on. Now."

My body's so torqued up I'm still vibrating. "Let's blow this burg," I say. Alex gives me this look which I know means, "And what? Look like we're scared?"

So instead we dawdle over the cold plates, fingering the stone dead fries around in the catsup. It's some sort of victory to walk out last, and since the sheriff insisted, the jerkoffs leave first, slowly and only after giving us what Alex calls the Big Stink Eye. After a while we leave and climb in the Cruiser, start it up and vector toward the nearest I-state.

On the way out of town we're silent. The tension is still dripping off the windows like early morning condensation.

I finally relax a little and try to start a conversation with Rick. "Jimi Hendrix was from Seattle, wasn't he?" I ask, and he nods and then we start chatting up what's worth seeing around Seattle. Alex is driving with one hand, still pumped but slowly deflating.

Just then a dark-blue Camaro on full tach roars past us, cuts in front of us and hits his brakes. Alex slams on the Cruiser's pads and these guys pull alongside again and then speed up and repeat the braking action in front of us.

Alex jerks the wheel over, skids to a stop and jumps out. He's out of control and that feeling of doom ramps up and then explodes in my head. The other car spins a U and pulls up on the other side of the two-laner. The big lineman-sized buttwipe Matt is grinning, and he leaps out of the driver's seat.

I'm thinking of what the sheriff said, and then I remember Alex's master and his little demo about the gun.

Rick starts climbing out of the back seat and I grab his shoulder. "Stay here, man," I say.

"And let your pal catch it alone?" he asks.

"They might bring out tire irons," I say. "Maybe it'll cool off."

Rick shakes his head but he stays put. "You got one?" he says.

"In the back," I say. Then I yell out, "Hey Alex. Remember your Master." He doesn't even glance back but I know he heard me.

He goes up to the big gorgon Matt and I'm tensing for the first blow, which is usually the last one for Alex's opponent. The guys have all piled out and there's five big strong numbnuts standing between their Camaro and Alex. I'm gripping the handle, ready to blow out the door and be cannon fodder.

Alex puts his hands on his hips, so icy and calm, and starts talking to them in a voice so low we can't understand what he's saying. He gestures back to us, kind of lazily, and the poo-eating grins on their faces disappear and they start folding their arms. Then he points to an old shack back in a field and gestures to the big gorgon, like "come on." The big jerkoff scratches his patch of sweaty dark hair and hesitates, and then follows Alex down a dirt road to the shack, which is maybe a hundred yards away. We all watch them go, and the other four guys are glued in front of the dark-blue Camaro. They don't move and they don't say diddly, and neither do we.

Alex and Turdhead go behind the shack and I expect to see Alex come out alone in a few seconds but nothing happens and I start to get scared. "Maybe we should check it out," I say, and Rick says, "He's got it down to one-on-one, man. Let it ride."

Finally Alex comes out, and the dipstick Matt comes out right behind him, walking upright, not staggering or bleeding. No fight? I think to myself. What happened?

They walk to the Camaro and then shake hands kind of formally, and then Alex spins and walks back to us.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says, and he gets in, starts the car and pulls onto the highway.

Rick says, "Whatever you did, you cooled them right off."

Alex keeps his eyes on the road and doesn't say anything.

I'm bug-eyed because when Alex gets shaken loose like this, nothing can stop it. Rick says, "How'd you isolate Big Boy?"

Alex stares at the white line ahead of us and says, "I just told the big one to follow me if he wanted to fight. Once nobody could see us, we talked story and then I asked him if he still wanted to fight. He said no, so we came back."

I remember Alex's lightning strikes and the way he can whip about fifty fists in your face in two seconds, and I realize he gave the guy air space to come down soft.

"You played that smart," says Rick, and Alex doesn't say anything, but I know he's pleased.

                                                           



Excerpted from I-State Lines by Charles Hugh Smith (The Permanent Press, April 2006)

I would be honored if you linked this story to your site, or printed a copy for your own use.

                                                           


Copyright 2008 Charles Hugh Smith all rights reserved in all media. No reproduction in any media in any format (text, audio, video/film, web) without written permission of the author.


articles    blog    fiction/novels     my hidden history     books/films     what's for dinner     home