A DOUBLE, AT LEAST

BY BRIAN RIHLMAN

I grabbed the bat
from beneath the bar
and brandished it, yelling
“That’s enough, assholes!
I’ve already had a gun
pulled in here tonight!”

They stopped shoving,
but the three hundred pounder
with the shaved head
glared at skinny me, shouted,
“Fuck you, motherfucker!
I ain’t afraid of your bat!”

I blinked. Glared back. Waited.
His friends talked to him,
sat him down, got him a drink.

Not the reaction I expected,
but at least I’d smoothed the wrinkles
from the rest of the night.

Under the counter,
the bottle clinked
against the glass
as I poured myself
a vodka cranberry.
Double, at least.

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