Lesson Unlearned

    I don’t know why I have to learn everything the hard way.  Its been demonstrated to me repeatedly that people do not want a hero, no matter what they claim.  Even though I learned this lesson way back in grade school, I have continued learning it for twenty-some years.  But yet, here I am, driving my El Camino over to pick up a friend, and I bet I just may learn it again tonight.          
         Just so that I’m not getting ahead of myself, let me tell you that my name is Ed Whiley.  I was born in and raised in Minden, Nebraska.  Truly, that is where my story starts, if you skip a few years to me in the second grade at Train Whistle Elementary.  We were all out on the playground at recess just being kids.  Some of ‘em were swinging in the early Spring air, some bouncing around four square balls, and I’m sure some were playing basketball or tag or something.  I’ve always been a bit of a loner, and I don’t remember exactly what I was doing that day, maybe just strolling around with my head in the clouds.  What I do remember is coming up on a boy and a girl picking on a little blond haired girl over by the tetherball pole.  They weren’t hitting her or nothing, but the mean girl had one of the blond girl’s pretty long braids in her hand and the boy was on the other side, standing too close to her with his chest all puffed out.  I took a quick glance around, and naturally the teachers were gabbing in a little sewing circle by the back doors.  I looked back toward the girl and I knew she was scared.  Our eyes locked, and I knew what I had to do.
         I’d always been told that you don’t hit girls.  Now, these kids weren’t hitting her, but I walked right on over there and stood right in front of all three of ‘em anyway.  Even though I was tall for my age even then, the two older kids towered over me, and I wondered what I was getting into.  I recognized both of ‘em.  They were brother and sister and didn’t live but a couple of blocks away from me.  I remember she was a year older, and he was a couple years older and obviously both thought they were too cool to hang out with me, because we never did.  My parents said they had it kinda rough.  The blonde girl was in my class; Emily was her name.  Her lip quivered on an otherwise defiant face, and I wanted to rescue her.  I wanted to be a man.
         “Leave her alone.  She didn’t do nothing to you,” I challenged.
         “What do you know punk?  Beat it,” the boy answered.
         “Little priss here says her dad thinks my dad’s a good for nothing.  I’m going to rip out her stringy hair if she doesn’t take it back,” said the angry girl.
         “I didn‘t say anything about you,” countered Emily. 
         “My best friend told me she heard you, and she don’t lie!”
         “All I said is that my dad said your dad got laid off again.”
         “That’s not his fault!”  Shrieked the angry girl.  “You think you’re better than me?  Spoiled brat.”  With that, my angry neighbor girl cuffed Emily upside the head with the hand still clenching the braid.  I stepped up further to intervene, and big brother pushed me back.
         “I told you to scram.  This snot’s got it coming,” he declared.  But I was filled with what I guess was adrenaline, and I pushed him back.  The surrounding children must have smelled the conflict brewing, because they started to gather.  I guess the gossiping teachers must have noticed the crowd, because a few came up to intervene, so a true fight never broke out.  They had missed the hitting and pushing and just told us all to go find something to do. 
         As the crowd dispersed, Emily turned her pretty face back at me and spat with a sneer “You didn’t save me.  Besides, my dad says that whole family is worthless.”  Just like that, she walked away, absolutely ungrateful for my heroics.  I should’ve learned.
         But I didn’t, because just a couple weeks ago, just to mention the most recent time that scene has played out, I tried to stare as the hero again.  Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut inside, drink my beer and play my pool game?  Well, it could be because I have a death wish, because maybe I do.  Or maybe I just think I’m invincible.  Most likely, I just want people to need a hero, and for that hero to be me.  That’s what caused me to tell the man that if he needed to prove he was a man, he could take it up with me and leave that waitress girl alone.
         We’d all been inside, and I‘d watched as the man I heard some other guys call Jimmy got drunker and drunker.  Apparently, every time the waitress girl walked by, she got a little prettier to him.  I’m sure she was used to guys trying to tug at her shirt for a peak, or maybe even an innocent ass groping here and there.  I was a regular, and I’ve seen her handle herself plenty of times.  She was a tough little thing with a couple of babies at home, but I could see the jackass was unnerving her.  He started out with lewd sexual comments.  Then he’d wait till she walked by, and then act like he was humping on her with his pool stick, his buddies laughing like it was the best joke ever.  The last straw for me was seeing him grab her breast when her hands were full of mugs of beer.  Trying to stop him, she sloshed beer all down the front of him.  He looked down at her and called her a stupid bitch.  The guys he was with just looked uncomfortable, but did nothing.  That’s when I walked over and told him he could either leave her alone, or take it outside with me.           
         I should’ve known he wouldn’t just leave her alone.  Apparently I looked pretty threatening to him, because he went out first, but had to take three of his buddies.  I walked outside alone, thinking I could handle this myself, though a few others followed a safe distance behind me, so as to let the other guys know they weren’t backing me.  Assholes.  I walked up fairly close to them in the parking lot across the street from the bar, and then waited for them to come to me.  I thought we might be able to settle this with a few words, but the man just kept walking right up to me and jacked me in the side of the head before I could even throw up my hands to block, let alone to hit him first.  My dad always told me to let ‘em throw the first punch, so I probably wouldn’t have tried had I had time.
         That was it.  One punch, and I woke up on the ground a few minutes later, I guess, bleeding with a terrible throbbing in my temple and jaw.  Nobody was around anymore except for the cute little waitress.
         “You should’ve stayed out of it.  I could have had the bouncers take care of him.  One of the other waitresses called the cops when she saw you heading outside with that huge guy.  If you can hurry up and leave before they get here, I’ll tell them we’ve never seen you before,” she said. “Unless you wanna stay and fill out a report.”          
         Not even a thanks.  I think I mumbled something at her, got to my feet, and walked away.  Some hero, I thought.  Wasn’t she supposed to throw her arms around me and thank me for defending her honor?  Instead, I think she felt sorry for me.  I probably did look pretty pathetic: laying in the abandoned parking lot with only a few steel trash cans for company after the crowd cleared out and left me there.  It should have been a lesson learned.
         I feel like I’m getting too old for barroom brawls.  Some mornings, my body feels like its 51, but I’m only 31.  I’ve been driving a damn truck since I was only 19, and I think it’s about time for a new job.  I only took the job in the first place because I thought it’d be a real neat way to see the country.  Well, I saw lots of country, and then I saw it again, and again, all from the interstate at 70 miles an hour.  Not many better paying jobs out there for a guy who barely got through high school.  I wasn’t like I was dumb; I was just restless.  I’ve never thought college was for me, but its looking better these days.  I’ve picked up some mechanic skills from driving a rig.  Maybe I’ll go to a technical school or something and learn it right.  I know my folks would love to see my settle down and make babies.  They were married by 18.
         Regardless, I’m in off the road for the weekend as usual, and I‘m on my way to pick up my buddy Jake.  We go way back.  He even ended up dating that Emily girl.  He got her knocked up our second year in high school, but she gave the baby up for adoption.  I wish they’d just have gotten married, so he wouldn’t have married the witch that he did.  All poor Jake ever wants to do is watch some football and sing some old country songs at a Karaoke bar.  She can’t ever seem to stop nagging him and just let him get to it.  I call him about every other weekend, but this is only the third time in six months that she’s let him go out me, or probably anybody else.
         I pull up to Jake’s little white house that looks just like the gray house next door.  I see him standing outside his front door, smoking a cigarette. 
         “Hey man, let’s go sing some tunes,” I holler out the window at him.  There’s a nice May breeze and I’ve got my radio tuned to 61 Country.  It feels like its gonna be a great night, and beer is sounding good.
         “Hey Ed!” Jake says as he jumps through the open window.  He knows the passenger door always sticks, and I think he prefers the Dukes of Hazard entrance anyway.  “Jenny just got the kids asleep, so don’t try to lay tracks when you drive off.”  Just the fact that he says this makes me wanna do it.  I’d love to see Jenny come running out with her eyes blazing, but poor Jake would never get out of the house again.  He’s a great guy, but I wish he’d grow a pair.
         “The usual, Jake?”  I ask.
         “If you can call once a year usual, I guess so.  I think I’m gonna change it up and sing some Eagles tonight.  Rock and roll,” shouts Jake to the night air.
         We catch up on all the things that haven’t been happening in our hometown in the last couple months.  It’s pretty much the same old story.  Jake’s been framing houses and Jenny’s going to turn their house into a daycare.  Poor guy, he’s already got two kids, and now he’s gonna have to put up with other people’s kids too.  Personally, I love other people’s kids, and that’s it.  I stir them up, and then give them back to their moms.  Oh, I shouldn’t say that.  I do want a family, but I never seem to meet the right girls.  No honest woman wants a husband who’s gone all the time.  Maybe if I become a mechanic some woman will want to settle down with me. 
         “Are there any decent, unhitched women left in this town, Jake?  I think I’ve had my fair share of trashy road beauties.” 
         “Thinking of settling down, huh?  Sometimes I wish I could trade you.  This shit gets old,” he says, as he beckons at the string of 1950’s tract houses that all look identical.  I own one similar, but in a different neighborhood, but it always looks so empty and lifeless.  Usually, it is.  Both of them used to be a nice little neighborhoods when our grandparents were starting a family.  Now they’re all poor and run down. 
         “I can’t think of anyone right off.  Jenny has a couple of single girlfriends.” Jake answers.
         “Maybe you could set us up for next weekend or something.  I could take us all out for a steak or something.  I know I could use some pleasant company with a woman who isn’t just looking to make fifty bucks,” I say.
         “Maybe tonight’s the night you meet your wife.  Keep your eyes open at The Crescent,” Jake says with a smirk.  He knows I’m always trying to get him to fix me up with someone.  I usually do better with women when I can just be introduced to them, instead of having to trip over my feet to walk up and meet them myself.
         A half-mile outside of town on a gravel road, we pull up to The Crescent.  The air smells familiar, the breeze carrying the scent of stale beer and cigarettes right out the open door and to the crowded parking lot.  I can hear bits and pieces of the current song being karaoked and I groan.  Someone is butchering “American Pie.”  I’m more into country, but if you are gonna sing a song, do it freakin’ right.  I tip my hat at a couple of older women outside the beer joint, and suddenly we are inside and the night is young.
         I recognize a couple of guys up toward the bar, and make my way up there through the 9:00 crowd.  It’s Saturday night, and I’m sure a lot of these guys have been here all afternoon.  Jake follows behind me like a lost puppy.  It always takes him a pitcher or two to remember how to have any damn fun. 
         “Hey man, lets get us a couple shots of Southern Comfort and a pitcher of Bud.  Loosen up, this’ll be a great night.”  I nod at the two guys I remember from high school, and they nod back.  The waitress walks by and I give our order, plus a shot for her.  She probably has a boyfriend, but I don’t have a girlfriend, so what the hell.  Jake is heading for the pool table, so I follow him over and he puts up quarters.
         “I thought you were gonna sing,” I coax him.
         “Oh, I will.  I just want to relax a minute and drink a beer without kids jumping on me.”  I know this is just his excuse for needing liquid courage to get up on that stage and sing.  I hear some woman up there right now doing a warbling rendition of “Bobby McGee.”
         Two guys I don’t know are already at the pool table playing a game of what I guess is nine ball.  They’ve got all the stripes sitting down on the floor.  This could be fun; maybe we can get a couple friendly bets on the table.  These guys obviously think they’re good or something.  One of em looks like he thinks he’s in some old west movie.  He’s wearing a trench coat and has his raggedy old jeans tucked into his boots.  Oh yah, this guy definitely thinks he’s good.  He even has his own cue and he’s only drinking water, unless it’s a glass of vodka or something nasty like that.
         Jake must think this guy has control of the table or something.  He walks over and chats with him a bit, then comes back over to me.  “That’s one strange dude.  Smells bad too.  He says he only wants to play nine ball, and that I should expect to be playing him after his next shot.”  I raise my eyebrows and glance back over at the urban cowboy.  He has just nailed in the eight ball and is zeroing in on the nine ball.  The cue ball bumps two rails and comes to sit for a perfect shot at the nine ball in the corner.  He takes his time, gets into position, and takes his practice strokes even on this easy shot, and makes it.  Rather than shake his opponents hand, he just walks back to his bar stool and leans up against it with his stick in both hands.  Then he gestures humbly at Jake and to the table.  Jake sorta grins at him and struts to the table.
         The guy’s opponent apparently isn’t impressed by the nine-ball ass kicking, and puts up more quarters, then comes up to me just as the waitress is bringing the beer and the shots.  “Did you get yourself a shot too, miss?”  I ask her.
         “Yah thanks.  I’m Amy.  What are we toasting to?” she asks.
         “How about to a life off the road?  I’m tired of driving a truck.”
         “A semi?  My dad did that almost his whole life.  Then he became the Coke man.  Got in good with the owner of this bar, and got me the job.  Cheers!”  She smiles a pretty white smile at me, and raise our plastic shot glasses and down them.  I hand her twenty bucks and tell her to keep the change.  I think that’s a good tip.  I guess I’ll find out if she doesn’t make her way back to our table.
         “She’s a pretty one, huh?”  Says the opponent.  “My name’s Ryan.  Cool guy over there needs to get beat, on the table or somewhere else.  Smug little guy better watch the attitude.” He says this jokingly, but I’ve been in bars enough to know it doesn’t take much to make it serious.  Ryan looks like a good old boy, probably mid-forties, just into town for the evening, then on to church in the morning.  I generally like this kind of guy.  They tend to be good company, if a little on the dull side.
         Ryan invites me to have a seat there at the table that I’ve sat my beer on.  I guess its his because cigarettes and a bottle of Coors Light are already laying on the table.  We make some small talk, but mostly we are watching the game between Jake and the weird guy unfold.  The guy is running the table out on Jake, then chokes on the nine ball.  Jake makes the final ball.  Urban cowboy glances up at me as he props his stick against the stool, then he just stares at me for a minute.  Finally I lift my hands up, like “What the fuck?” and he looks away.  He puts his stick back into its bag and wanders off toward the bathroom.          
         “You’re up, man.”  Jake says to me.  I think his confidence is already up.  He downs his shot and finally pours himself a beer from the pitcher.  “Let’s just play some straight eight.”
         I rack em up, and we bat some balls around.  Amy comes back around and drops off a book with all the Karaoke songs.  I order another round.  We finish up the game and sit down.  Jake starts thumbing through the book, and I think he’s finally ready to sing after two rounds.  Ryan says he’s gonna turn in for the night and that it was nice getting to know us.          
         “You wanna get a table up closer to the stage?  I’m thinking about turning in my song,” says Jake.  “I’m gonna do “Lying Eyes.”
         “Yah, sure.  I need to take a piss though.  I’ll meet you up there.”
         I make a beeline for the men’s room.  I’m standing there pissing in the urinal when I notice I’m not alone.  That weird guy from earlier is hunched down in the corner by the stalls writing in a damn notebook.
         “You writing a song or something?”  I used to know a guy who would stop in the middle of anything and start writing on whatever was handy, but never while sitting on the floor of a bathroom.
         He says nothing, but looks up at me and stares while I’m zipping up my pants.  I almost feel like walking over and knocking him in the head.  You just don’t stare at a guy in the men’s room while he’s trying to take a piss.
         “I don’t think you’d call it a song.  There is no tragedy in your life, and your dog’s still alive.  Definitely not a country song.  All you have is a drab existence, peppered with misplaced heroics.“  I really wanted to hit him now. 
         “Why are you talking like you know me, you little fuck.  Keep it up, and I’m gonna ram your teeth into the damn toilet stool.”
         “Oh yah, and you have a fairly quick temper.  What I’m writing is your story.  When I saw you sitting there at that table, drinking beer like you always do, I decided you needed a purpose to all your heroics, so I’m writing some changes into your life.”
         “Whatever floats your boat, man,” I said, determined to hold my temper.  “You go ahead and get your rocks off writing about other people’s life.  Don’t you get enough excitement dressed like that?”
         “Petty does not become you.  I don’t think you get it.”  The freak hops up and moves closer to me.  “I’m not writing about your life.  I’m writing your life, before it happens.”  With that, he grins at me as if this makes sense.  I’ve changed my mind about hitting him.  I think he most definitely has escaped from somewhere, so I decide to humor him.
         “Okay, so you are making predictions as to how my life will work out?  I’ll become a mechanic, marry a local girl, and make babies.”
         “Yah, that ’s what I was thinking for you too.  I had a pretty good start on your character up until you as a high school kid.  Then I wrote you into a truck-driving career, thinking it would teach you a few things.  But you stagnated.  Now, twelve years later, you have truly gone nowhere new.  It’s your own damn fault.  If you had done something, I would‘ve continued your story.”
         “Alright you Looney.  I’m walking out this door, and you better not be in here when I have to piss later, or I’m gonna knock in your teeth.”
         “Wait.  Tell me one thing you want to happen immediately after you walk out of this dingy bathroom, and so it will be.”
         “Okay, fine.  You write down there in your notebook that that sweet little honey Amy walks right on up to me, tosses her tray to the table, and wraps her arms around me.  Then, she lets me grab her ass.”
         “Wow, such imagination.  That much time on the road, and that’s all you’ve got.  Well, fine.  Its yours.”  He says, and touches his fingertips in front of his face with a little nod, then bends down to scribble in his notebook.  What a freak!  I re-enter the smoky bar, and run almost directly into Amy.
         She sits down her tray with a sultry little look.  She sidles up to me, wraps her arms around me, and starts moving her hips back and forth to a karaoke rendition of Journey’s “Loving, Touching, Squeezing” or whatever its called.  Suddenly I’m dancing with this girl in the middle of all these people, and they are backing off and shouting catcalls.  When the song is over, I press my luck and go for an ass grab, and instead of slapping me, she grabs my butt with both hands.  Then she just looks at me kind of strangely, picks up her tray, and walks away to take some drink orders.
         I see Jake staring at me, and make my way over to him, past some guys who give me high fives.  “I have no idea what just happened man.”  I blurt out to him.
         “I so wish I wasn’t married, Ed.  That was straight out of a movie, man.  Do you even know her?”
         “Just met her tonight.  I went to the bathroom, that weird guy was there, I told him I wanted that to happen, and it did.”
         “Oh, what?  Sorry, they just called my name.  Time to belt one out.  Here‘s our pitcher, and I got you another shot.  Whooh hoooh!”  He was off.
         I decided I’d go back to the bathroom and see if my new friend was still in there.  I didn’t see him right away, so I looked in the stalls.  He is sitting on the back toilet in one of them, and looks up as I enter.
         “Happy now?  I added in the details about the dancing and her grabbing you back.”
         “You must have just been watching.  You don’t control anything.”  I counter.
         “Oh, yah, Ed.  You got me.  I’m crazy, and you are a loser.  You should just walk out and go drink some more Budweiser.  Maybe Amy will let you take her home.”
         “Works for me, psycho.  Everything is how it always has been, except that I’m taking home a nice girl tonight.” 
         “You might have trouble explaining why you are carrying your recurve bow out of the bathroom, when no one saw you bring it in.”  Suddenly, I’m holding my prized recurve bow in my left hand.
         “You did this.  You really did this.  Now get rid of it.  I can’t have this in a bar, and I’m sure as hell not going to just leave it here.  My granddaddy gave this to me.”
         “Yes, I know.  I remember writing it.  So you believe me now?”  The bow disappears.
         I gape.  “I don’t know.  What’s going on?”
         “I told you.  I’m the writer of your life.  You disappointed me as a character after I made you a truck driver, so I put your story down for a while.  Apparently, you weren’t strong enough to grow without me, so you stagnated and did the same thing, year after year, with only a sneaking suspicion that there was more for you.”
         “Yah, that makes perfect sense.  I’m just a character in your notebook, and so are all the people around me?”
         “And you don’t think you are the college type.  Yes, everyone else is a character, though not necessarily of my creation.  Even I am a character.  I’ve written myself in as a character who is writing you in.  It’s all very complicated.  I’ve stepped in personally to this story to get you to wake up and do some moving through your life.”  I am speechless as I try to wrap my mind around this.  I feel like I am standing between two mirrors and seeing into infinity.  Maybe I am.
         “Alright then, Writer.  Lately I’ve been thinking of all the times I’ve tried to be a hero, and been kicked in the face for my efforts, sometimes literally.  Frankly, any more, I’m not sure that anyone even can be saved or even wants to be.”
         “Yah, I remember writing that,” he replies.  He doesn’t have to rub it in, even if I am beginning to believe him.
         “Anyway, if you are so talented, then make me a hero, then let me live out my days as a mechanic.  Write me in a couple of babies, barbeques with the neighbors, and my beautiful wife, Amy.  That’d be good enough for me.”
         “Again, your imagination astounds me, but so be it.  Walk out of here now and your dreams will soon be realized.  I will write away your memory all of this, unless you want to remember.”
         “No, I just want to live a normal life.  Make it good.”
         I leave the restroom, and look around for Jake.  I recognize the voice coming over the speakers, and move in to give my support to Jake.  He must have decided to do a duet with Jenny, because there they are, looking into each other’s eyes like Kenny Rogers and Dolly Pardon.  Apparently their little spat earlier about finding a babysitter just fired them up for each other, because I see only love between them now.  I’m happy for them, but a little lonely too.
         I turn a little to see who has bumped into me.  It’s Amy.  She looks scared, but is glaring defiantly at a twenty-something year old guy who is clenching her arm.
         “Man, get your hands off her now.”  I challenge.
         “So this is the guy, Amy?  No girl of mine is going to be fucking around on me.”  His speech is slurred and his eyes are wild.  I can smell the whiskey on his breath from several feet away, even over the alcohol that I’ve consumed.
         “We broke up.  Leave me alone.  You aren’t supposed to even be in here, it’s against the restraining order,” Amy screams.          
         “Whore.”  With no warning or further provoking, he tries to land a blow on her pretty face.  Men do not hit women.  Not in my book.  I catch his fist and reach my other hand up around his neck and pull his head down under my arm.  I start pushing him back toward the front door, and out into the night.  I lose my grip on him, and he stumbles to the ground, and looks like he’s going to stay there.  All of a sudden, he is back on his feet, and trying to see through his double vision to land a blow to my head.  I catch his intended blow again, and push him up against a truck.  A police car pulls up, and Amy runs out to tell them what’s happened.  Her brute of an ex-boyfriend is arrested after some questioning of all who saw what happened.  The onlookers start to trickle back inside until only Amy and I are left outside.  I think she has it planned this way.
         “I see enough violence working in this bar.  Thank you standing up for me, and handling it the way you did.  Most guys would have beat the shit out him, but you just kept him from doing any more harm.  Thank you.”  She moves in close and hugs me, and I know she is still shaken from the whole experience.
         Her boss gives her the rest of the night off, and tells her that she knows what its like to have that kind of trouble.  Amy stays pretty close to me the rest of the night.  I sit with my arm draped around her, and I notice my grease stained hands.  I feel the best is yet to come.