Chapter 13
Jamison
River’s Rum is packed. Sunday through Thursday it’s usually just a handful of locals blowing off steam after work, but every Friday and Saturday they host live music and half-price car bombs.
Unfortunately for me, Ronan’s favorite metal cover band, which he met through the pizza business, is playing tonight and despite his denial, he is Irish through and through. So, here we are.
The lead singer announces the band - Rage Against the SUPREME. It never gets old, especially because I get to remind Ronan every time we hear it, that I had to explain the significance to him the first time they met.
“I don’t get it,” Ronan said above the noise at the first concert they invited him to.
“Like the pizza Ro…Supreme.” He nodded slightly but I knew he was still clueless. They were halfway into the second song when he turned to me, screaming over the sound.
“Jay! Like the toppings!”
Like I said, not Italian in the slightest.
The crowd cheers as the band members mess around, tuning their instruments. Ronan taps my shoulder.
“I’m taking a leak and then heading to the stage. I assume you’re staying back here?” He knows me too well.
I raise my drink in answer. He rolls his eyes as he turns away.
Ro is like a brother but in most ways, we are nothing alike.
He has been through some shit, but he's resilient as hell. An outsider would probably assume that’s because he got adopted at fifteen, after being in foster care for just a few months, where I bounced around from shithole to shithole until I aged out of the system. An outsider just may be right.
I watch him walk towards the bathroom where I see Sean now sits at a high-top, embarrassingly close to a punk-rock redhead who is, unbeknownst to him, very clearly uninterested. From the stage, the guitarist starts with the intro to Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven.
I scan the bar. Luckily most of its inhabitants fled towards the band, so I grab an empty stool and set down my drink.
The few people that are left hold light conversations with the friends they’re sitting with.
The bartender, a pale woman with jet-black hair and an eyebrow piercing, wipes the counter from the previous rush.
Across from me sits an older couple, probably in their fifties, holding hands in a comfortable silence just listening to the music.
She looks around, people watching, swaying to the beat.
He sits, one hand on hers, the other on the back of her chair, singing along.
It makes me wonder. How do some people end up like that and others end up covered in blood and their own vomit, half in the bag and half in the ground?
I throw back what’s left of my drink in one large gulp.
Next to me stands a tall skinny dude in a basketball jersey leaning over the stool on his other side.
From his body language, I assume he is whispering into the ear of its occupant.
His body shifts, and I notice the hand holding his drink tighten around the bottle.
The voice of his neighbor grows louder, and I now know it’s a woman.
Larry Bird over here slams his beer on the counter and pulls her stool so it’s all but on top of his, zero to one hundred.
The woman’s nervous yelp is all I need to hear to confirm my suspicions.
I grab this loser’s shoulder and snap him around so he’s now facing me.
His beer flies from his hand and lands in a crash on the floor.
“Bro! What the hell?” he yells.
I snatch the collar of his douchey jersey and pull him so we meet, chest to chest. Speaking in a fierce, low tone, I look him dead in the eye, my face so close to his that the tips of our noses all but touch.
“If I see you so much as look at her wrong, or any other woman for that matter, I will palm your head like a basketball and dribble it down this bar. Got it…bro?”
Before he can respond, we’re interrupted by Ronan who caught the whole thing on his way out of the bathroom.
Bear-hugging me from behind, he pulls me backward.
Reluctantly, I release the now-stretched collar of Basketball-Guy, who huffs, adjusting his jersey.
I back up just enough to ease the tension between us.
“You’re lucky!” He spits, magically now having something to say. The woman behind him, who until now was frozen, staring wide-eyed, flinches and backs away from him completely.
Assholes like him are all the same. I’ve seen it my whole life. They’re really tough as long as the person they’re beating on is weaker than them. They’re controlling, abusive, violent — a total fucking waste of space.
I make a quick step toward him as if I’m coming for him again. He springs back like the pussy I know he is, and I laugh in his face. “Luck has nothing to do with it,” I reply soberly. Then I turn and walk away. He’s not even close to worth it.
“I’m leaving," I say to no one in particular.
Sean, who has now joined Ronan after noticing the commotion, claps me on the back. “You okay, man?”
I bob my head swiftly, throwing cash on the bar to settle my tab. I just want to get out of here, grab a slice, and go to fucking bed. Another hand squeezes my shoulder.
“We good?” This time it’s Ro checking in.
“Yeah, but I’m out of here. I’ll catch you guys later.”
Ronan gives me a knowing nod. Looking at Sean, he points to where the band is starting their next song.
Knowing I just need my space, the two head towards the crowd.
The familiar drumbeat of Ozzy Osbourne’s Crazy Train booms from the stage.
I pause, taking in the instrumentals and a few deep breaths.
When I finally feel like I can pass Bro on his stool without going round two, I make my way towards the exit.
The woman, who was once by his side, is now at the opposite end of the bar.
She gives me an easy smile that speaks volumes. “Thank you.”
Stepping into the evening heat, the sound of the band resonates outside, while the lyrics play in my head. Walking to my truck, I think about all of the times someone saw my mom in those same situations. Did anyone ever do anything about it? And if they did, did it make her think about changing?
I’m old enough now to know that it’s not as simple as just leaving.
That people don’t just quit drinking or leave abusive relationships on a whim.
That the process is grueling and involves danger, risk, and consequences.
It’s not something you do casually, but a decision you make every single day. That I understand.
What I can’t wrap my head around is why I was never enough of a reason for her. Not at six or eight or twelve or fifteen. I drive myself nuts wondering. Why couldn’t she ever just pick me?