How I learned to Mind My Own Business

How I Learned to Mind My Own Business


         We were at that age where we were old enough to drive and stay out late but too young to drink, legally at least.  The four of us were out looking for fun and adventure, excitement and women, but as usual, we ended up at Denny’s. That night it was Denny’s. Sometimes it was a 24 hour IHOP or a privately owned dinner called “Grama Jo’s” that accommodated our nocturnal schedules.  Alas, there was nowhere to go and nothing to do for a handful of nineteen year old kids at 2am. We resigned ourselves to our nights disappointing fate and filed into the building from the hot summer night.  It was a real scorcher that day if memory serves, and despite the late hour it must have been 80 degrees outside.
         Scott, being the most outgoing and assertive of the group went in first and asked for a booth.  We all looked around for people we knew, other victims of our towns lack of entertainment.  In retrospect our town had much more to offer than most, being close to Chicago and replete with malls, theme parks, and whatever else pseudo-urban suburbia had to offer. At the time though, being as cool as we were, we had all decided that we were surely much too cool for our “boring” hometown.  That particular night, we didn’t see anyone we knew, which was odd, because though many of our classmates and friends left for various universities, still more stayed to attend the community college that was conveniently located in the same general area as our high school, and most of the people who did leave for school were now back on summer break.  It was a common occurrence to run into a fellow group of aimless wanderers and either join tables, or “start shit” depending on our opinions of their character via our experiences with them in highschool.  Brian, who was the most likely candidate to “start shit” was walking ahead of me towards the booth, and being the evil genius I was/am I hung back and let everyone else funnel into that annoying semi-circle booth so I could have the end to myself, a necessary action for a man with a fickle bladder. 
         In fact, there was actually no one in the entire restaurant save one man eating by himself off across the room.  Our waitress came by and dropped off some menu’s, she was a heavy set older woman with graying brown hair pulled back tightly.  She seemed nice enough, though she had that all too familiar look of mistrust that a group of young guys such as ourselves constantly seemed to inspire.  We were after all, likely candidates for mischief and no doubt fell into the low-tipper demographic.  We ordered our drinks; water, pop and for me, coffee.  Brian, who had witnessed me order coffee this late at least a dozen times still seemed shocked.
         “Why are you getting coffee this late man?” he asked as he flipped through the menu.
         “Just to annoy you Brian.” Truthfully, I was a hopeless caffeine addict and had been without for most the day, I could feel a soreness behind my eyes growing steadily and needed my fix.  Ben was sitting to my right and leaned the opposite way as he farted loudly, then started waving his hand to fan his fumes at me. I punched him in the shoulder. The others chuckled. Ben made an exaggerated sniff in the air.
         “Ah, those are the tacos I had for lunch, methinks.” Scott shook his head at him and looked down at his menu. 
         “Triple prime cheeseburger,” he read “three patties smothered in cheddar, American, and Swiss cheese, topped with bacon and drizzled with our special sauce.”  He grabbed at his chest. “I think that’s just what my arteries need right now, mmm.”  Brian, who was not quite fat but heavier than the rest of us, glared at him. 
         “You ass, how do you eat like that and stay thin, I hate you people.” Brian was the tallest of us and had a naturally broad and muscular body but was always struggling with his gut, which never quite seemed to go away.
         “I just work off the calories with your mom every night.” Scott said grinning.  “It’s a great full body workout-all those positions....” An ice cube from Brian’s water hit Scott in the forehead and bounced onto the table. The noise made our waitress turn from her table-wiping and frown.  I’m sure she was thinking something like “kids these days” or “God damn kids.”          
         As Brian struggled to muster up a comeback insult for Scott, Ben nudged me and nodded towards the only other patron at the restaurant that night.  Our waitress had just set down 5 little plates at his table, each with a slice of apple pie on it.  Upon further inspection I noticed the man was strangely dressed.  As I mentioned it was an exceptionally warm night and here this guy was wearing a long black trench coat.  “Check this guy out,” I muttered to the table quietly.  Scott and Brian were looking at him too.  A trench coat wouldn’t be so odd if it were some Goth looking dude trying to seem dark and mysterious. “Goth” is how were referred to those people who wore black lipstick and listened to Marilyn Manson, you know, those people who have a curious obsession with “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and show the world via tee-shirts and bags sporting said movies name and logo.  This guy however, looked to be in his early thirties and was clean cut, with a closely trimmed beard. 
         “I think he’s high” Scott said as he stared conspicuously.  The man’s eyes did seem a little cloudy and he was just kind of staring into space, “…weird.”          
Brian snorted disapprovingly and closed his menu. “Whata fuckin freak.”
         The waitress came over and got our orders, I just stuck with coffee but the others each chose a dish higher in fat than the last, culminating in Ben’s choice of an ice-cream sundae for dinner.  Like Scott, Ben could pretty much eat whatever he wanted, we were all young after all and our metabolisms handled just about anything we threw at them. 
         “So,” Ben said as we waited for our food. “Back to the discussion at hand, who would win in a fight, Batman or The Punisher?” I had forgotten the debate we started in the car on the way there.  I quickly voiced my opinion, as if something so obvious even needed to be said.
         “Batman.”
Brian gawked, “Are you kidding me Mark, the Punisher would just shoot him in the fucking face. End of story.”  Clearly, Brian was a moron.  No, I shouldn’t be so judgmental, he was just ignorant.  Though we were all nerds of the highest order I had inarguably the most comic book experience at the table, and was the self-proclaimed authority on super-heroes.
“Brian, listen,” I said in my trademark patronizing tone, “Batman has defeated countless foes that had guns, he doesn’t need them.  Batman would disarm the Punisher, probably-but not necessarily- using a Bata rang, and proceed to beat the shit out of him with his superior combat skills, then make him his bitch and put him on the street, where he would be forced to give $5 dollar blow-jobs and promptly pay his Bat-pimp like a good ho.”  This provoked some chuckles.
“Seriously though, let’s be realistic.” Scott chimed in. “If these were real people, and we are talking about two men who don’t actually have superpowers, my moneys on the man who has the guns. Furthermore, the Punisher is a fuckin killer, he blows people away without a second thought, and Batman doesn’t kill.”          
“False!” I quickly proclaimed.  “Batman, being a true hero, tries not to kill, but if I may reference numerous comic books, or more notably Batman Returns- Batman can and does kill when necessary.” There were nods of thoughtful consideration, then Ben threw in his two cents,
“The Punisher could just snipe him from like a mile away, Batman couldn’t dodge that, or disarm him, he would just fall over dead man.”
“And how, my beautiful, yet simple-minded friend, would the punisher locate Batman? He doesn’t fly around in a brightly colored spandex jump suit. Batman is the fucking night, he is a genius detective, a master of stealth, and has billions of dollars at his disposal for the best equipment imaginable.”
“Ah,” Scott smiled.  “No wonder Bruce Wayne is so rich, it’s from the pimping,, with his defeated enemies giving out $5 bj’s, he’s undercutting the competition, Batman has a monopoly on hookers in Gotham.” I broke out laughing with the rest of the table, our waitress was frowning at us as she brought out our food, though at 2am what Denny’s serves just barely qualifies as food.          
Before my friends dug in Brian made one last comment on our superhero debate. “I don’t think Batman would beat the Punisher hand to hand. I mean, the Punisher is a huge guy and a skilled fighter as well, why are we assuming Batman would win?”
“Bruce Wayne is in way better shape,” I said. “He’s been getting those full-body workouts from your mom.” Again, laughing and table slapping proceeded loudly. Brian was a little red in the face though; I could tell he was getting pissed, he was known for his short fuse. 
“Enough about my mom already, God damn.” Brian then looked across the room and blurted, “What are you looking at?”  I turned my head to see the man across the room was looking our way.  This was understandable to me, seeing as how we had been making so much noise, not to mention solving the world’s problems with our prodigious reasoning skills.  The man, upon Brian’s comment, tilted his head to the side curiously, much like a cat pondering a piece of string, but said nothing.  He simply smiled and went back to eating his pie.  In fact, he had finished the first few pieces and was working on some new ones the waitress must have brought him. 
Brian stared at the guy for a moment longer and grunted his disdain before turning to his sandwich.  I watched him and thought about my big friend.  He had always been quick tempered and the first one to start a fight.  He had a buzz cut going and as I mentioned a large frame; his muscles were easily recognized through his Bears tee-shirt.  He had a tendency to intimidate, a good guy to have on your side. Across the table Scott was digging into his heart attack burger fervently.  He was the most popular of our group in highschool; he had well groomed blond hair and a good athletic build as well, and was always very affable to friends and strangers alike.  Ben and myself were both of average build, Ben was a little on the skinny side and had a mop of unkempt hair.  A few minutes of silence set in punctuated only by chomping and the sounds of forks scrapping against plates.  While my friends ate I watched them reflectively and I remember thinking to myself that these were some of the best days of our lives.  We were all out of the monotony of highschool, we were young, but men.  We “had the world by the balls” as my dad liked to say.
         Without food to divert my thoughts, I decided to broach another topic of discussion. “So, Scott, what’s going on with that Amy chick?” Scott’s face reddened a little.          
         “I don’t know, nothing really.  Same story as last time.” He said with a shrug. Ben, who had finished his sundae with astounding speed and was now leaning back against the booth with his hands on his stomach decided to join in.
         “Why don’t you just ask her out man?” 
Scott smiled bashfully. 
         “I haven’t had a good chance yet, the time isn’t right.  Girls fucking suck man, there’s no way to tell if they like you or not.  Why is it always the guy’s job to ask out the girl?  It’s like, if they like you, they can’t let you know or they think they’re being slutty or something.  I mean I kind of think she likes me, but what if she’s just being nice?  Nice girls are the worst.  Being the idiot I am, if some girl smiles at me and talks to me, I think they’re flirting with me, and before you know it, I’m in love.  But most of the time they’re just being friendly, it’s horrible.”
         Ben laughed. “Hey jackass, you know what would help you gauge whether or not she liked you?  If you actually talked to her in person, like…ever!” Brian and I snickered; we knew what Ben was talking about.  “Let me take you though Scott’s version of the courting process. The first step, the only one that actually involves human contact with the female specimen, is asking them their AOL screen name.” Ben paused here and gave Scott a patronizing thumbs up.  “Nice move you stud-muffin.  From here on things get a little sad gentlemen, as Scotty’s version of ‘getting to know a girl’ consists of instant messages and an unhealthy, almost stalker-like examination of her Myspace or whatever other information she has opted to post online.” Even Scott was smiling at this, because it was undeniably true.  Ever since I have known Scott (who is easily the best looking of us) he has been trying to cultivate relationships via AOL instant messenger.  “This all culminates in the coup de grace of Scott’s chances with whatever female specimen he’s working on, when like a true loser, he asks them out online.”
         “Alright we get the picture.” Scott said, his composure was that of a beaten man.  Brian slapped him on the back. 
         “It’s true buddy, I’m no ladies man but I know you have to ask them out in person.  They can smell fear.”  We had a good laugh at that. As my friends took their last listless bites at the remains of their “food” we all stopped and gawked as the waitress passed as by with three more plates of pie and set them down on the only other patrons table. 
         “Jesus fucking Christ man, how fucking high are you?” Brian blurted out laughing.  Shut up Brian I was thinking to myself.  I had a feeling he was looking for a fight, something to liven up our otherwise uneventful night.  Brian shook his head “Whata fuckin freak” he said to us, but loud enough for the man to hear.  I remember thinking we didn’t really have to worry about a fight; there were four of us after all.  The man didn’t seem particularly offended though, in fact, he was grinning.  He just went on eating his pie. 
Scott frowned.  “Brian, don’t start shit man, I’m too tired to have to keep you from getting your ass kicked.”  Brian snorted at this perceived insult and nodded towards the stranger.
“I could take that asshole easy man.  No worries.” Again, this was loud enough for the guy to hear, though he didn’t visibly react.    Scott shook his head and started explaining why Brian shouldn’t be such a dick, but my attention was on the strange man.  He had presumably eaten his fill of pie and stood, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out an unusually thick wad of cash. He flipped through it, pulled out two bills, and tossed them on the table. I can’t be sure, but I could have sworn they were each $100 dollar bills. The man started towards the exit, which was next to our table.  He walked with a kind of lithe saunter that seemed to exude confidence, and appeared to be rather thin for a man who liked to eat such copious amounts of pie.  As he neared our table I averted my gaze and looked down at the table; after all it was rude to stare. 
The chattering of my friends abruptly stopped and I heard Brian say “What the fuck do you wa-” I looked up just in time to see the man who had stopped at our table, reach into his jacket and pull out a horrifyingly large revolver, aim in at Brian, and cock the lever in one impossibly fast and smooth motion.  The silence was, as they say, deafening.  My body was literally frozen, I felt as if the tiniest motion might result in an explosion at the end of the silver barrel leveled at one of my best friend’s faces.  Brian was white and visibly shaking, he was pressing back against his seat tightly.
“Now,” the man said in a tone just above a whisper.  “No one move-or speak, or your friend’s head is going to take on the geometrical proportions of a cave.”  His voice was icy and calm, which made him all the more frightening.  For some truly insane reason, I remembered the pocket knife I  kept clipped inside my right pocket.  In my true adolescent pride I always carried it thinking I would someday need to brandish it in an act of self-defense, at the very least I figured pulling it out would dissemble some hypothetically dangerous conflict I might find myself in.  My hand was already at my side by my pocket, I inched it the tiniest bit closer. Despite my fear I remember thinking if that gun went off I would pull out my tiny little Boy Scout trinket and throw myself at this man.  Without moving his cold stare from Brian for an instant, the stranger spoke to me, “if you touch that knife your dead, ginger.” I froze again, something in his voice made me believe him. Oddly, I was thinking to myself Ginger? I’m not a ginger! My hair was auburn with a little red tint, but surely I wasn’t your classic fiery haired red-head with freckles. To be offended at such a comment at a time like that sounds crazy I know, but the thoughts that go flying through ones head in times of distress usually are.
“Now,” the man continued.  “I’m really not a bad guy…” he paused momentarily, “well I suppose I am, but right now I’m feeling rather benevolent.  I’m really just doing this as a favor to your obnoxious friend here.”  He was obviously referring to Brian, who we later learned, had pissed his pants in the course of these events.  “I feel that after this, he won’t be so inclined to randomly accost strangers.  Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?  That was a rhetorical question, don’t answer it, I meant what I said about the whole speaking equals dieing thing. I also imagine that, in light of your friends new found propriety; he -in fact- all of you will be much less likely to get yourselves killed by calling someone a ‘fucking freak.’” With a deft motion the man flipped the gun so that he was holding the barrel, and smacked Brian square in the nose with the butt of the handle, his hand moving like a striking snake.  There was a crunching sound and Brian’s nose was crushed in, blood was literally pouring out of his nostrils in two dark red steams that ran down his face. He swaggered a little in his seat, but didn’t grab at his face or yell out in the slightest, he kept staring straight ahead like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.  The stranger swirled the revolver back around and slid it back into the holster now visible on his hip, then pulled his coat back around it and walked out without another word. 
We allowed a few moments to make sure he was long gone before we all exploded into commotion and grabbed at Brian probing him with questions about his face and general health. In a daze he slowly lifted his hand to his face and drew back a handful of blood. 
“Holy shit man we gotta call an ambulance,” Scott was saying. Ben was babbling about how broken noses always seem worse then they are, something about blood vessels in the face.  I was out of my seat looking for the waitress who was nowhere to be found.  Brain was still clearly traumatized and without words, his mouth was hanging open. 
I rounded the counter at the front of the lobby and picked up the phone to dial 911 when Brian called out to me.  “Stop!”
I looked back to see him pushing napkins soaked with blood against his face.  He did and awkward scoot-shuffle out of his position in the middle of the annoying semi-circle booth and stood up with one hand on the table for support.  “Let’s just get out of here guys, please.”
“Dude we gotta call the police,” Scott had his hand on his shoulder. 
Ben was looking around the lobby, “where the fuck is the waitress?”
“Guys,” Brian had a nasally tone to his voice like he was congested from a cold. “Please, let’s just get the hell out of here.  Please.”  Something in Brian’s demeanor made me hang up the phone.  I saw the wet darkness in his jeans around the crotch, but the others hadn’t noticed it.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the car keys, I was the one driving tonight.
“Alright.” I said, let’s go.  Ben and Scott looked at me in shock.  “There’s no cameras facing the tables in here, that guys long gone, let’s just get the hell out of here.”  There were a few mutters of protest, but we left.
As we rode home in my car, Brian kept his head titled back with piles of bloody napkins pressed against his nose.  We kept asking him if he was ok and he kept saying he was, and after a long silence he spoke.  Perhaps it was because he knew he bought this on himself, or maybe he was just embarrassed, but our big friend who boasted so often how he wasn’t afraid of anyone and never lost a fight, asked us not to tell anyone else about that night.  We agreed.
Brian responded to various inquires by telling people we were playing baseball and he caught a line drive with his head, and that was that.  Among the four of us, the strange man is a lively topic of conversation to this day; looking back on it we decided it was most defiantly the coolest experience of our lives.  Even Brian agreed.  And, just as the stranger predicted, Brian and the rest of us made it our habit to mind our own business, especially while eating out.