The Runners: Fast Enough?

By Pete Groves

This incredible story is of life set in the San Francisco Bay Area. She, a bit more than he, runs through challenges that very few would have the body and mind to overcome. His challenge is to keep up, keep his love under control, and still stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369404720

Book preview

PART ONE

ONE

D oors open, heads turn. Madison was tall, very tall, over six two. She had incredible legs. In my mind, I called her the python—magnificent legs wrapping my body and holding me close to her. At age twenty-three, it was all I needed. I was happy, very happy.

I first saw Madison as she walked into Smitty’s bar in Sausalito. She was well attended by a large guy; and I was, well, maybe a bit overserved. Sitting at the bar, smitten, I concocted an approach. With another straight shot, I was on my way, telling him he was blessed to be with such a woman. Her eyes said thank you, and I was stepping quickly toward the door before a punch came my way, but not before I managed to drop a business card down the back side of her dress.

Weeks later, my friend Dan and I were doing laps around the Corte Madera marsh. The path had a good running surface of packed clay dredged up for the Larkspur Ferry Terminal, and perhaps the closest view of San Quentin Prison you can get without someone asking for ID.

On your left. Madison flashed by us like we were sitting on a couch. Her running gear was the briefest of brief—spandex shorts and some kind of bra.

That’s her, Dan!

Who’s her?

I’m on the chase.

No, you’re not. She lapped me easy three days ago! he yelled after me.

I ran like the wind, or so I thought. Madison had only fifty yards on me. I could catch her.

No, I couldn’t. Dan was right. A quarter mile into the sprint, I was done. Madison was gone!

Dan took one look at me. Yes, you’re crazy, but I agree. She is more than any man should want.

Two weeks later, she called me. She told me I was toeing in on the kick, and my heel landings were too heavy. She told me I needed to lose ten pounds and drink less booze. Shit, all I wanted was a date, and I was already getting a wife’s corrections. A bit more of those, and I got a date.

A date with a mind and body that now put me sleeping on some wet grass in Oakland.

At 7:00 a.m., someone’s dog started barking. A tent city is not a great place for intimacy, and rolling Madison over with her high-pitched voice of satisfaction could be only a dream. Yes, Madison not only had a great body, a demanding body that I loved, but also the demanding mind that had put us here in this tent city. Activists like Madi plus homeless people had moved into this big city park, very upsetting to everyone but us.

The dog kept barking, and I pulled the zipper on our tent and saw tables going up all over the place. The tables had white linen, real glasses, silverware, for Christ’s sake!

Madi and I pulled on some clothes and stared. The place, our campsite, was being swamped by a catering company!

Would you believe eggs Benedict? This was Wednesday morning, not Sunday morning! Coffee, mocha, latte, and at each plate a little sign asking if you wanted a veggie omelet instead, which Madi got. All 150 plus of us sat down and loved it. The food was hot; it was gourmet, and it was truly remarkable. You sleep on the ground. You hurt. Just having some little nice things happen is good. This was beyond wonderful. Madison was ecstatic. And so was I.

Both of us were impressed with the caterer and the complete organization of the whole thing. Occupy Oakland was anything but organized. A staff person was stationed at each row of tables, watching for anything anyone might want. More OJ, more coffee, more croissants, raise a finger, and things happened very fast.

There was a man; Madi spotted him first, roaming the tables. A white shirt, it looked starched, under a leather bomber jacket above a braided leather belt and well-pressed khaki pants, almost a uniform like the catering people who were in white starched shirts with black bow ties and white aprons. It was easy to see he was getting a lot of respect and attention from them.

Finally he spoke. His voice was distinct and strong enough to command the entire camp: We want to be sure you brave people have a proper breakfast, so if you need anything, anything at all, please beckon one of our well-trained staff.

One person did just that, and in a blink, a cook with a big white hat was by her side. The caterers had a vehicle that looked like a very large motor home. Actually, it was a kitchen; and judging by the quality and presentation of the breakfast, some pretty damn good cooks were inside. But the words that stuck in my head were Well-trained staff.

This was back in the spring of 2012. Occupy Oakland was a total fucking disaster. It was a completely disorganized attempt by mostly unemployed people to bring to the Bay Area public an awakening of corporate greed, in general, and banks in particular.

How in hell are you gonna do that! Roughly patterned after Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Oakland had dedicated people going in all the wrong directions or no direction at all.

Madi bought into this shit; I didn’t. Still, there were signs the movement had had some success, at least significant media attention, and there remained in me some small hope there would be meaning to it all. Madison provided me with an excuse to love every minute of it. A big march on the Port of Oakland was being planned for Friday.

Most of us were still seated, likely reluctant to end this very different morning, when the man started to speak again. He was not a big man, but there was power in his movements as he walked the tables, his voice booming with every step, no bullhorn, just his own commanding voice.

Good morning! someone interrupted with a yell. Thank you for the breakfast. And everyone clapped and yelled and whistled. He smiled, stopped walking, and turned in a slow circle, making eye contact with as many people as he could. I’m sure he noticed Madison.

Good morning, he said even louder. I know you are all wondering what in the heck this is all about. He then paused and turned toward other tables. First, I want to thank Occupy Oakland for letting us speak to you and tell you how impressed we are with what you have accomplished. He paused, turning again. "Certainly, for repeatedly putting your necks on the line, you deserve more than breakfast.

"Perhaps you are not proud yet, but you should be because you are awake and awaking others in Oakland and the Bay Area to the reality of a long-festering situation where over time power has shifted from we the people to a small group I call the top of the top and you call the 1 percent.

"Yes, we are in this together. We simply have a different approach to the same mission, and we would like some of you to participate in this approach to our shared mission. We know you care, and we know you are just as committed as we are.

There are two requisites for our approach. You must be able to run fast, very fast, and not to knock the men out, but you must be able to read a map.

Everyone was in a happy mood after that incredible breakfast, so not surprisingly, that little joke got lots of reaction—applause, punches and elbows thrown by women, and loud groans by men, all of it in good fun.

"Tomorrow at the northeast end of Lake Merritt at 8:00 a.m., we will have time trials. You do not need any ID, and in fact we prefer you not bring ID, valuables, or purses and wallets. We will have bibs, and all you will need is your normal running attire.

"I’m sorry, but for obvious reasons, we cannot answer questions now. Those successful in the time trial will have their questions answered at the appropriate time.

Thank you, and we hope to see lots of you at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.

He then quickly turned and walked away as the caterers took their entire setup down with amazing speed and precision. It was actually fun to watch them as they seemed like a drill team.

Madi looked at me and said, Guess we better take a run around Lake Merritt.

That was Madison. No discussion, no questions, no conjecture, just yeah, we’ll do it. She headed into our tent to get her sweats on.

The rest of the camp, however, was in a deep conversation and investigation mode. Several ran after the caterers and asked them who that man was. The caterers seemed to honestly not know. Of course, pictures had been taken of the man by Frank and Judi in the tent next to us. They also recorded the whole thing and were running it for clues—his clothes, his hair, his shoes.

It seemed easy enough. The guy was about fifty, maybe fifty-five, retired military for sure, probably an officer. He had made money at something, and some other thing had pissed him off. Now, he was doing what he had been trained to do—lead people into battle. The only question was, what battle?

Madi and I ran three junk miles around Lake Merritt. The place was loaded with Canada geese and their bird shit. It was also filled with runners and baby strollers. Plenty of faces we knew from the occupy camp were there too. This might be an actual competition, depending on who showed up at 8:00 a.m.

Let me talk about Madison a bit. The woman was a racehorse. She had an incredible body, you know that, but she also had a constant bounce and the very real ability to win, to overcome all odds. Madison was special. Shit, how I loved her.

Eight o’clock Thursday morning. I had an apple; Madi had two oranges. We were on time. This thing had turned serious overnight. Somehow, people had now decided something was at stake, something worth running a race for. I thought I understood. Occupy Oakland was a disaster; if you could run your way out to maybe some regular meal ticket, why not? About fifty people showed up and were milling about, stretching and checking themselves out. Madi did tai chi.

The Lake Merritt running path was about 3.1 miles; would these fancy breakfast people want the full distance?

Yes, they would.

With the same high-level organization as the breakfast, things began to happen. The man from the breakfast was not there, but a woman about the same age was. She spoke to the group with the same self-assured voice. She was definitely all-business.

"We will be using the champion chip system today. A chip is attached to each bib top. We want you to remove the chip and tie it securely to your right shoelace. If anyone is running barefoot, please tie the chip to your right ankle. You must wear the bib top the chip was attached to. Pick any bib top number you like, but please know that this will become an important number for you. We never will want to know your name, and we will only know you by this number from here on out. So pick your lucky number.

"When you all are ready, we will start runners every thirty seconds. Be sure you start on the start mat and finish on the finish mat.

"As we hope you have noticed, there are regular folk running, walking, pushing strollers, and even shopping carts. And there is also lots of goose poop. We actually like these obstacles to your run as they give us an idea of realistic run times. With this number of runners, there will be runners finishing before all of you have started. Please stay out of the way of the finishing runners.

"You are running against one another, not the clock. We will start with the fastest time and work down from there. It is our goal to end up with a fine group of fast runners.

"At the end of your run, you will be given a card with a phone number on it, your time, and your bib number. This coming Monday after 8:00 a.m., you can call the phone number, and a recording will give you your standing. More information will be provided to you as needed.

Do your best. Get it going, and keep it going. Runners, get the bibs on and line up.

Madison had grabbed bib number 11.

That’s not eleven, that’s two number ones, she said.

I managed to get my age, number 23.

Madison was jostling to get into the first part of the line, and she somehow managed to get me a couple of people ahead of her. She even tried to reassure me.

Johnnie, you can do this. Three miles is a good distance for you.

Like hell it was. It was about two miles too long. Our campers were starting to look like track stars to me, and the way some were now blasting off the start left no question this shit was serious.

About a dozen people started ahead of me, and I did as Madi had instructed and counted down mentally the last ten seconds to my start. She had also set mile times on my watch. I felt good and knew I was running smoothly and at a good fast pace for me. I passed three runners and hit the first mile marker on time. Glancing back, I saw Madi on a bend in the path, and she was moving fast, very fast. I went to a longer stride and pushed.

Two hundred yards more, and Madi was passing on my right.

Come on, Johnnie, come on now.

Madi was very proud of the fact she was the fastest woman on the track team at Stanford. She loved to run, and she loved to compete. Her dad had gone broke and she had to drop out of school, but I knew she left some record runs behind her.

At full speed, her stride was so smooth it was hard to believe her feet touched the ground. But right now, she was coming up on a total paint trade with another runner, an overhanging branch, and a woman with a baby in a running stroller.

The woman with the baby was running to avoid the branch on the right, and the runner ahead of Madi was running to the left to avoid the stroller.

There was no place for Madi, so Madi made a place for Madi.

She stiff-armed the runner. He had the wrong foot forward and went flying into Lake Merritt.

Holy shit, I couldn’t believe she did it, and I poured it on to get the hell out of there before that guy came out of the lake.

And come out he did, screaming obscenities at Madi who by now was long gone.

At the second mile marker, I was behind the time Madi had set for me. It was going to be tough. I concentrated on my breathing and my stride, but even so, two runners passed me in the final hundred yards.

I flopped the finish. Madi was pacing back and forth with her hands on her hips as if she had been waiting forever. What the heck, she probably had been. I was whipped, but managed a What in hell did you do that for?

At the same moment, the guy she had pushed into the lake showed up.

He had a lot of mud still on him, and he was very pissed.

That was completely uncalled for! Women like you are scum! he yelled at Madison.

I was bent over trying not to be sick from running so hard and thinking, Oh god, help me please.

Madison, of course, needed no help from me; she never stepped back. She looked right at the guy and said, Sometimes men who push get pushed back! Scum? Women like me stop scums like you from procreating!

The guy was completely taken off guard. He looked at his petite blond girlfriend, who had not run, and then back at Madison. She’s crazy, he told the girl and stalked off. The girl looked up at Madison, pushed the red streak in her hair back, smiled, and then followed behind him. He surely had missed the running time cut, and I figured we would never see this guy again.

I was wrong.

I was lying on the grass looking up at Madison as I choked out, What in hell was that about?

That was two birds with one stone, Bucko. First, he was in my way, and second, I saw him push her on the ground last night.

Oh yeah, I always knew you were a protector of tiny blond women. Admit it, the guy was in your way.

OK, mostly that was it. He should have run faster. But that asshole should not have pushed her because she is a small woman. I can’t allow that.

Let’s get our times.

A good time for a 5K (three miles) is anything under twenty minutes. My time card said 25:32. Madison picked up her card, and the woman at the table looked up at her and said, I guess we will be seeing you again, Runner 11. You are one fast woman! Madison glanced at the card, smiled at the woman, and stuffed the card in her pocket. She refused to tell me her time, but she was happy. We turned in our bibs and chips, walked off, and went for soup with a bit of cash from Madison’s last unemployment check.

Madi and I were totally broke. I had been unemployed for almost a year, and she had not worked in several months. Madi was a graphic artist, and I had been a time programmer. I set up the functions for appliances to do their thing. Appliances stopped selling, and I stopped working. Worse yet, this kind of design engineering work all went to Asia and was not coming back. I was going nowhere in life, but here I was riding with this incredible woman in an old VW, and I was happy, very happy.

Later that night, I woke up and checked my watch. I noticed my split times were still on there. The math was easy, and I couldn’t resist. Madison started one and a half minutes behind me. My time for the first mile was 6.5 minutes. She, on the other hand, had blown off the first-mile sub five without starting blocks! Madison was a lot faster than I thought.

TWO

I was convinced back then, and I have never changed my mind since, that the only reason Occupy Oakland had success in getting media attention was because the mayor of Oakland at the time was completely inexperienced and had no idea and no good ideas on how to deal with us.

Anything as disorganized as Occupy Oakland would have been quickly dealt with by a more experienced mayor. Oakland had an excellent new police chief who actually had ideas on how to stop the gang-related shooting of innocent people all over the town. The mayor quickly managed to somehow alienate the guy and he quit.

So here on Thursday night, Occupy Oakland had yet another meeting at the camp on just how we would shut down the Port of Oakland the next day. As usual, an hour got lost on what time we would start marching toward the port and where we should start marching from, or would we march at all?

It had all been discussed before and had been decided over and over that providing the media with photo ops was more important than almost anything else.

I noticed that the group running the meeting seemed on edge about the breakfast and the time trials. It was obvious in the camp that the people loved that organization and the feeling of getting something done right. The crew running things had the rhetoric down, but actual leadership and organization were sorely lacking; the breakfast and time trials made this a nasty stark reality.

So it was basic to me. We would start at 10:00 a.m., march to the port, and then get our heads busted. For weeks, there had been no further discussion as to whether or not trying to close the Port of Oakland was even a good idea. One guy with common sense mentioned that there seemed to be no groundswell of public support for closing the port. The port was a huge economic engine for the city, and everyone knew jobs were the biggest issue of the day.

Madi and some others had scored at a grocery store cardboard-packing machine and got a lot of nice clean cardboard for signs. They were hard at sign making while I got together with Frank and Judi and listened to their recording of the Breakfast Man as we had taken to calling him.

Finally, I called my dad and ran the guy’s voice for him. My dad had been drafted into the army during Vietnam, and he had also attended and graduated from SF State during that war and at the height of the protests against that war. In the army, he had managed to become an artillery officer and later a battery commander. He was my age at the time.

After the usual I hope you’re not calling me for money, John, because I ain’t got any, he then offered the following: "John, I think you already know this guy is military top to bottom. If I had to guess, I’d go with army, maybe marine, but more likely army.

"So what’s he all about is your question, right? Well, knowing his training, you are never going to know until the very last minute. You could be on a train going off a cliff before he will tell you. Or given the high stakes involved, that breakfast does not sound like small change—you could be lined up as scapegoats for something.

"One thing is for sure. He is going to want to train you before he uses you for whatever purpose he has in mind.

"My guess is, training will be next.

"Knowing what you guys are up to now makes me think most of you will be in jail anyway.

Is there any chance at all you will ever get a job?

Well, I do try, but Madison—

Shit, the president girl. Of course, you’re still with her, right? Bring her around, will you? Her picture gives me an instant hard-on.

As usual, I gave him the hang up, as Frank and Judi laughed.

Judi, Frank, and I did some more conjecture. I found out that Frank had done the time trial and he was at least two minutes faster than me, certainly not difficult with my time. Judi was adamant that Frank would go no farther with it. She was a marcher, not a fighter, and she felt the military overtones of the Breakfast Man were frightening. I thought Judi was right.

The next morning, we were marching toward the Port of Oakland. Madi and I had our bike hats on, and I had my knee pads from the Sausalito Boat Works that had saved my legs more than once.

Always it started with great enthusiasm and adrenaline, a march toward the unknown. What I did enjoy was the camaraderie. Madi liked to whoop it up while I just liked to talk to people. One was a wonderful older woman named Mabel who had marched many times. I asked others why they were marching and where they were from. Most had horror stories about lost employment or bank foreclosures. It was really bad stuff, and it gave me the resolve to march on into the complete disaster I knew was waiting for us.

I gave the organizers credit this time. The idea was to block the trucks inside the port or to convince the truckers to shut down and just temporarily park in the way, just long enough, about an hour, for media photo ops. Not an impossible idea, I thought.

After an hour, we were close to the port entrance; and marchers in front were jumping on truck runners and talking to the drivers, trying to convince them we could do this quick and dirty and it would all be over with. A few TV crews had been following along with us; we had a good turnout, and for once, things looked good.

The truckers were younger than I expected, but most made it abundantly clear as in Get the freaking hell off my truck.

Two of the occupy marchers, both with masks, made it on top of the transport containers on the trucks, and I was thinking what a great newscast opener that shot would be when I noticed that the news media had suddenly disappeared.

Ahead, I could see why.

Madi was on a running board carrying on a lively conversation with the driver. He was smiling, she was laughing, with neither of them noticing a huge row of policemen lined up about two hundred yards ahead.

I ran over and grabbed Madison’s leg, yelling and pointing, Look up ahead!

Both she and the driver looked, and both at the same time said, Oh shit!

A police copter passed overhead, and I was really starting to sweat. Madi bailed off the running board, and the occupy leaders were screaming into their bullhorns for everyone to link arms when at the same time we saw the trucks pulling off to the sides of the road. It could only get worse as that huge row of cops in full riot gear was slowly advancing toward us while one of them with a bullhorn was yelling, This is an illegal assembly. You all must leave Port of Oakland property or face immediate arrest.

Why were the trucks pulling over? Our plan had been to ride and march with the trucks into the loading area, assemble there, and block traffic.

Then I overheard a radio in one of the trucks: Pull over farther to your right. We want you farther to the right.

It hit me hard: Madi, our guys screwed up. All these trucks are on a port radio frequency, and now the police are using that frequency to direct them where they want them. They are probably using the police chopper to do it. Somehow, I think the media got crossed up because they’re definitely gone.

Madi was turning all around, looking, looking back down the entry road. But we were also linking arms with other marchers and moving slowly toward the police line.

Then we heard it: the unmistakable roar of motorcycles.

Oh please, god, let it be the Hell’s Angels, Madi said.

It was not the Hell’s Angels.

It was about twenty-five or thirty motorcycle cops in full riot gear coming right at us from behind.

Goddamn it, the police and mayor had gotten organized after all!

In another minute, we would be surrounded and very likely get the shit beaten out of us.

Like caged animals, the marchers were quickly looking around for a place to go.

There was none.

The motorcycle cops were slowing down and spreading out. They had to get off their bikes. Right in Madi’s ear, I yelled, We got to get the hell out of here! I think we’ve got to sprint through that line of bikes, and we’ve got to do it now.

We both shook loose from the other marchers and sprinted full bore toward the motorcycle line. It took the police by surprise that two people were running directly at them. But they closed ranks to try and block us with their bikes.

We both were full of adrenaline and running very fast side by side until Madi gave me a light shove, and we split toward opposite sides of the line. The police tried to turn back, but we were just a little too fast for them and successfully crashed their line and were running like crazy back together. Two of the motorcycle cops gunned their bikes after us, and the race was on.

To our right were stacks of shipping containers, and we ran like mad to get to them where it seemed the cycles could not follow us. We made it and ran up and down a couple of rows to get lost in the maze of containers.

I was breathing hard, and Madi kept hitting me, putting a finger to her lips. The police helicopter seemed to be gone so we climbed up a stack of containers and got on top out of sight from the two motorcycle cops gunning up and down the rows looking for us.

Madi had a big welt on her shoulder.

Yeah, one of the bastards nailed me with his baton as I went by.

We lay on top of the containers feeling guilty listening to the screams of people being arrested.

I worried about the old lady I had talked to. She had marched during the Vietnam War and had been arrested more than once, so I decided she must have the moxie to take care of herself.

Later, we learned that very few marchers had escaped the cage the police had designed for us. Some had tried to run like Madison and I had, but the cops had quickly dismounted from their bikes after we got by and then easily clubbed and maced those who attempted to follow us.

We lay on top of the containers for several hours and talked strategy about how to get out of the port. We worried the entire place would go into lockdown mode at night and we would not be able to get out.

One surprising thing was the view from the top of the containers. You could see the whole Bay Area.

The police action and the associated noise didn’t last long, but we were not taking any chances so we waited. Finally about 1:00 p.m., we decided to go for it.

Turned out it was a piece of cake. We simply walked to the gate, and the guard asked if we were Occupy Oakland people as though he could care less. We did not respond, but were ready to bolt.

I guess you two had something better to do, huh?

Yeah, I guess. I smiled back at him as we walked swiftly away down the frontage road.

Back at the camp, there was no camp.

The camp now was many small piles of gear with big numbers attached to each pile. Park and recreation workers had moved in while we were gone and had taken the entire camp apart. They were still cleaning up and cussing us out.

You jerks sure made a mess here. Sign for your stuff over there.

Almost no one from the camp was there. Probably it would take all afternoon to process the hundred and ten people that were arrested that day.

Eventually, we found our stuff. Madi got her old VW Bug where she had left it, parked in a foreclosed property driveway about six blocks away. We jammed our stuff in the backseat, and I called Dan at his work.

Dan, they destroyed the camp and I’m sorry, but I got to come back at least for a few days. Can I bring Madi with me?

Dan was a totally good guy. I knew he would never say no.

Well, you know we Marin County people are very much into conservation and conserving water so you can bring Madi, but only if we all shower together.

Well, of course! Then laughing with relief he was letting us stay, I said, We’ll see you tonight, dude.

Madi had wiped new mud over the expired registration on her rear plate, and we now were headed for the Richmond Bridge with the gas gauge on empty. We needed a little gas and still had to have enough cash to pay the bridge toll west bound.

Don’t tell me we’re out already, I whined as Madi suddenly pulled over on the freeway shoulder.

Hell no! Did you see that?

See what?

Back there, under the end of the overpass, there is a big roll of something.

I’m backing up.

OK, I’ll take a look at it.

Whoa, baby, you stone fox, this is a roll of copper wire. It must have somehow fallen off a truck.

We were both giddy with excitement as we managed to get the rolled wire resting on the VW rear bumper and tied up through the rear vent windows.

And guess what, you sweet lovely woman, I know where a recycling yard is only about two miles from here in Richmond.

We were off to a place I managed to remember. I had taken a junk car there I had stripped for parts in high school. The place was still there and open for business. We showed the scale guy our roll of wire and told him we found it on the side of the freeway.

Yeah sure, brand-new rolls of copper wire are always found on the side of the freeway! Clean copper wire is thirty bucks a pound. This is a complete roll, has the insulation on it, and it has to be stolen. So I am supposed to do a bunch of paperwork on you two and treat you as thieves.

Madi took it from there.

We are not thieves. We are telling the truth. We just got busted in an Occupy Oakland march, had our campsite destroyed, and we’re looking for a little understanding here. I mean, do we look like thieves?

"Well, you don’t." His eyes raked over Madi.

Give us a fair price, and this roll of wire—you will get full retail on—is yours, she said.

OK, ten a pound. We’ll weigh it and deduct the reel.

It came in at thirty pounds, and he deducted four pounds for the reel.

Madi and I could hardly restrain ourselves as we jumped into the car with $260 bucks in cash. A hundred yards down the road, we were screaming at each other in total joy.

We got some gas, and at the toll booth, I was kissing Madi up and down the side of her face and neck and told the toll taker she was looking at the most wonderful woman on the face of this Earth. Madi actually blushed.

Well of course, but what am I? Chopped liver? the toll lady kidded back. Get him across the bridge, sweetheart. He don’t belong in Richmond.

In the middle of the bridge, Madi looked at me and said, You know, that reel never could have weighed four pounds. I should not have allowed that.

We got to Dan’s place in Sausalito after 4:00 p.m. I hadn’t had a beer in so long; I was dying to head right down to Smitty’s.

We have the bucks from the metal sale. Let’s go to Smitty’s for some beer.

Smitty’s? Ahh, I don’t think so. I’m going to use Dan’s bathtub to do some clothes while he’s not here, she said, and then she kissed me. Man, what a choice to make. But she would be there later and hopefully Dan would still be gone.

I practically ran to Smitty’s and jumped on a bar stool.

Draft, please, Steve.

Steve was the longtime owner and main bartender, and he came over and slowly leaned in to my face as he said, I’m going to serve you, Mr. Johnnie sir, because you stayed away an appropriate length of time, but I’m still pissed at you because you, sir, you asshole sir, were the cause of the whole thing.

The whole thing?

Yeah, the whole thing that cost me three chairs and a table after you hit on that monster blonde.

She’s not a monster, just kinda tall.

"Well, I admit I, among others, many pool shots were missed, did watch as she fished your card out of her dress, but the large gentleman at her table took exception to her reading it. How old are those cards anyway? Let me see your cash. And this guy grabs the card away from her and throws it on the floor.

"This action upset her, whereupon she then rams the beer pitcher with lots of beer still in it into his face, sending him over backward and down on the deck.

"The guy was blessed enough the beer pitcher did not break, but it seems his nose did. Blood flowed freely down his front as he attempted to rise, but Tiburon Pete caught him in a neck lock on his way up. Now, he was full of fight and lifted Pete right up with him. The guy was big enough to spin Pete and crash into everybody and my expensive furnishings, and that’s when Charley Joe caught him with a vicious swing to the back of the knees with a pool cue, bringing him to the floor for the final time as many boots held him there."

Man, I can’t believe I missed this, Steve. Please, a draft of that craft stuff.

"Don’t interrupt. I provided a towel or two for our boys in blue to keep the blood off their uniforms and the patrol car seat. In spite of people like you, I do try to keep our local fuzz copasetic with our establishment here.

"As they stuffed him into the patrol car, the man kept yelling, ‘That woman is crazy, she is stone crazy!’

"The woman in question, that vision of loveliness you so adored, somehow managed to disappear before the cops arrived. One of the girls said she saw