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first there was stunned silence. Then they all started to talk at once. . . "What
do you mean. . .we're ain't doin' nothin!" "Hey man, what are you doin'?" "We're
just standin' here." "Bullshit,"
I said. "You're harrassing my customers, and you know it. And it isn't gonna happen
today. Get off the street
till this over." Dirty
Johnnie, a regular and part-time bartender at the Cal Club, did not like my approach.
"We can stay
out here as long as we like." "Listen,
man. . .I've got way too much money invested in my business and in this event
for you guys to screw it up. These women feel safe in my bar, and now you're scaring
them. Cut it out, now." I
wheeled around and started back to Carpe Vino. I could feel my face was crimson,
and my heart was thumping in my chest. Then Dirty Johnnie pulled my chain. Calmly
and cooly he said "I'm doing all I can to restrain myself." The
last time I was in a fist fight was 32 years ago. I was a 20-year old sailor stationed
at a training center in Pensacola, Florida. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I
was laying in my rack, reading. I even remember the book: James Michener's "The
Drifters." The
door to the room I shared with three other sailors opened and a young man came
in bouncing a basketball. He asked the whereabouts of a roommate, and I said I
had no idea where he was or when he would return. "That's
okay, I'll wait," he replied and sat down on an empty bed and continued bouncing
the ball. "Hey,
man, I'm trying to read." Bounce,
bounce, bounce. "Get
the hell outta here." Bounce,
bounce, bounce. "I
can stay here as long as I want." "Get
outta here now." Bounce,
bounce, bounce. I
rose deliberately and grabbed my irritant by the collar. As I pulled him up off
the bed, he took a full swing and hit me flush on the jaw. For an instant I saw
stars. And then
the Border Reiver in me exploded. I hit him just once, a straight right hand,
and he crashed though the door, bashing his head on the cinderblock wall of the
hallway. Blood spewed everywhere. Navy medics were summoned and the NBA wannabe
was stitched up at the infirmary. After
reviewing the incident report, the commanding officer declined to order a captain's
mast to formally charge me with assault. My Chief Petty Officer told me the Captain
said the other sailor struck first, and, afterall, he probablly deserved what
he got. Now,
on a sunny afternoon a lifetime later on Sacramento Street, that same ire was
ignited in me. I spun around and shot back, "You wanna see restraint. . .you're
looking at it." At that moment, I was ready to go. . .bring it on, right here,
right now. I don't care. Dirty
Johnnie and I were face to face, nose to nose. "This is my street today, stay
off of it til this is over. . .you got it?" Then,
on my right, I sensed a mountain moving. I
turned my head to see a very large man, deeply tanned, dark receding hair, wearing
heavy, black-rimmed sun glasses. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He just
stood there in the doorway of the California Club. For
a moment, the bravado drained out of me, along with the blood in my face. I stepped
back one pace. And then another. Six
against one is one thing. Taking this any further with mountain man was downright
stupid. An instant standoff materialized, and I withdrew from the trouble zone.
Moments later, the gauntlet evaporated. The streets were clear for the duration
of Wine Thing. Shortly,
the large man approached me and introduced himself as "Ron." He let me know he
weighs 360 pounds and was a 70's-era linebacker with the San Francisco 49ers.
He said he has a Super Bowl ring. I invited Ron to participate in the tasting,
and he bought a glass and spent an hour with us. I introduced him to my son and
he said, "Drew. That's a nice name. I've had to go through life as Ronald." As
a peace offering, I asked Laura to take three, 33-ounce bottles of microbrew from
Gold Hill winery over to the Cal Club as a peace offering. "No way I'm not going
over there," she said shaking her head. "Aw
come on, baby, we gotta make nice." Reluctantly,
she complied, resting the bottles on the Cal Club bar saying, "These are from
Gary." An hour
later, Johnnie, scrubbed clean and dressed smartly, walked into Carpe Vino and
extended his hand to me. "Can we go outside and talk for a minute?" Profuse apologies
were exchanged, and then Johnnie left me with this: "I know you are stressed from
your big deal, but so am I. We're having a memorial for my girl friend tonight."
Paulie, a mid-40s
woman I had noticed because of the bandanna she always wore to cover the fact
that she was in chemo, had passed away suddenly. I did not know her name, but
I had seen her many times in front of the Cal Club. I had no clue of her relationship
with Johnnie. Indeed,
Paulie's memorial was held in the same Mary Belle's function room we used for
Wine Thing. Damn.
A fragile peace
lingers on Sacramento Street. I drove by yesterday and pointed at Johnnie standing
in his familiar spot in front of the Cal Club. He nodded in reply. Life goes on.
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