Wavy Relationships
Chapter Four
Later that night, about 2230, in a fish camp bar thirty-five miles west of Miami on State road 41, that Rios and the guys had no idea Salem occasionally frequented when he wanted to stay off of Rios' radar; the young man dropped another ten dollars into the juke box. It made the evening's total about 250 bucks. The bartender, an old Florida shrimp fisherman, told Elliot he'd be better off just buying the aging old machine. Salem had shown up in the sketchy joint around 1300 hours, and had been drinking steadily except for a brief siesta he'd taken from 1930 hours until 2100 out on the deck overlooking the Everglades. Now he was up, and at it again. Carlisle, the bar's owner, wished that he'd leave. He knew from first-hand experience that when Elliot was spinning out of control the way he'd been all day the situation would not end well.
"Hey hippie dick, I done asked you ten times now to please stop playing that same fucking song over and over!"
"Fuck you! My money; my choice. Just watch your stupid round-d-round race, and fuck off. Talk about boring, fuck, around and around and around; that shit's boring."
"Round-d what? This is NASCAR, hippie dick. Are you some kind a commie fucker? It's god damned un-American to not love NASCAR, sonny! Now turn that hippie, acid trip'n shit down, or pick another song."
"Lighten up Bubba, just relax." Carlisle plead, "I'll handle him."
The old, barrel chested fisherman ambled out from behind the roughhewn lumber bar, and made for where Elliot was shooting pool with a very innocent looking tourist who'd wandered in with a few buddies for dinner and a beer. They were pale, obviously northerners, and seemed oblivious to the somewhat seedy environs of the fish camp bar, not to mention the powder keg situation that was brewing.
"Salem, my friend, I'll give you back the money. I'm just asking that you pick a different song, or let me turn it down a notch."
Salem leaned over the cue ball, and unsteadily aimed his cue stick. He struck the white ball deftly, despite his level of intoxication, and stood smiling as the eight ball dropped into the side pocket after banking off of two rails.
"That's another ten and a beer, Yank, wanna do double or nothing?" The kid ante upped, and began racking the balls.
"Salem come on; the music, what 'a you say? You'll can just keep playing the old eight ball over here, and Bubba can have his race over yonder. Volume down just a little bit."
"Fuck Bubba. I was here first."
Bubba over heard him, and stalked toward the pool table. The Yank backed off a bit as the two men sized one another up. Carlisle went six foot four easy and 290 pounds minimum. Salem just smiled innocently and drunkenly up at the scruffy man, and grinned.
"Counting that snuff spit stiffened bit of your moustache there, I'd say you have what, all a about three teeth Booby."
"Bubba."
"Yea, whatever." Salem sneered, and then backed away to break the now racked pool balls. "Watch my six now, Yank. Booby's gun'n for my skinny little bitch ass. I offended his religion. He's one a those," he bowed his head reverently in prayer and went on, "Our father who's Dale Earnhardt, hallowed be his restrictor plated name, his kingdom come, the 500 will be won on earth as it's fuckin done in racing heaven. So give Bubba here this day, and his possum pie, and pray that soon the stupid fucks'll learn to drive the opposite way. 'cause on that day 'ol Dale'll rise up again an they'll be peace and joy in his round-d-round domain. Amen." Then he looked up, and broke the balls up. "Looks like I'm solids, Yank; seven ball, two rails in the corner pocket."
Bubba was infuriated, and Carlisle placed his hand against the huge, overall clad man's chest to push him away.
"I'll kill you, you little long haired, commie son of a bitch. I will break you skinny fuckin' neck. I'm gonna stomp you senseless! You makin' fun a number three?"
"Commie son of a bitch. Commie son of a bitch. Do I look like a communist to you Yank? Don't answer that kid; they come in all shapes and sizes. Believe me you, 'cause I have killed them all over the world. What I am though, Booby, is a real mean son of a bitch when I'm pushed. And right now you are pushing me. Now go on over, like Carlisle told you to do, and watch your race. That way, unlike the old Intimidator, you'll live to race another day. Your shot Yank; I shanked the last one."
Carlisle led Bubba back to his seat at the bar, and returned to his station. The juke box continued to blare out Godsmack's Time Bomb, and Bubba kept throwing the younger man glares from across the room. Finally there was yellow caution flag, and Bubba couldn't hear the commentator. He got up from his chair, crossed to the juke box, and with Salem playing air guitar, and screaming the final stanza,
'I'm a bad motherfucker who lives it every day
You never look at me now.
You never look me in the face.
I'm a time bomb, Yeah!
along with the band's singer, Sully Erna; the big red neck yanked the plug out of the wall. As he was just about to take his seat again he heard Salem holler.
"Frag out!"
A second later the forty-two inch, flat screen television exploded in a hail of glass and sparks showering the men sitting at the bar. The perfectly thrown cue ball had hit the device dead center. Before anyone could react Salem's second throw exploded the next screen, and the following three sets met with the same fate. Carlisle, his bouncer and Bubba were on Salem in a flash, but despite out weighing the man, and being three against one it took them ten long minutes of beating, and kicking him senseless to get him out of the bar, and thrown roughly into the gravel and sand parking lot. All three men had suffered the smaller man's wrath and now nursed their collective wounds while watching him collect himself in the dirt. Carlisle recovered first.
"Now get on that fuckin crotch rocket a yours, and get the fuck off my place, and don't come back here Salem. That's seven TVs in a year, and I'm through with your shitty temper boy. Now git."
Salem spat out the blood and dirt filling his mouth, stood up wobbling a bit before finding his balance. He yanked a wad of fifty and one hundred bills from his left front jeans pocket, and tossed it toward Carlisle.
"Here, that'll take care of it, Carlisle, and fuck you too." He gasped through spilt lips.
The older man watched him stager round and stumble toward the big Ducati. He sighed when his fatherly instincts kicking in.
"Elliot, wait boy. You can't ride that thing like this; wait up, and let me call someone for you. Wait."
Salem ignored him, got on the bike, started it, and after backing it up spit down at Carlisle's bare feet, while gunning the engine. The bar tender stepped in front, straddled the wheel, and pushed back against the handle bars.
"Come on Elliot please. I don't want to read about you in the paper man, please."
"Later bro, I'm off to see the old Intimidator up on that great big race track in the sky."
Then Carlisle and his bouncer jumped back out of the way as Salem blasted through them, and onto 41 heading east with the red bike pulled up onto the rear wheel. Carlisle considered calling the highway patrol then reconsidered. If the boy had a death wish so be it. Some men just hurt too much to live forever, and who was he to try and keep the boy alive. All he could do was hope nobody else was hurt in the process.