Bar fight

You see him thrown roughly out of the bar, through swinging saloon doors, and wince as he lands heavily on packed earth. Moonlight lends the street a radiant glow, but quickly the image is blotted out by men in the doorway. You turn back to your beer on the counter, you haven’t had a chance to touch it since the fight started. Deep thuds usher in sporadically: the usual hubbub of the  crowd has not yet resumed. There is a howl of pain. You want to follow them outside, to watch the whole scene unravel but  it’s not worth the risk of sticking around where you don’t belong.          
         Thinking of the man lying on the ground, just beyond the door. He can still be heard and though you have just seen him instigate this slinging match (you knew he was trouble from the moment he walked in), you cannot help pitying him. You have an image of a clump of dark clothes writhing in dirt. You don‘t know why, maybe because he’s outnumbered, but you want him to win, not out of any sense of allegiance, just some distant longing. You look at the faces around you. They are tense. Some have tried feebly to resume their conversations (probably those in the middle of talking, afraid of losing the attention) but they go unheeded. Everyone is waiting, even those two men you always see playing pool, who never look up for anything and are so intimidating in themselves that you take the long way to the john just to by-pass them. Their bearded faces are keening towards the door, they do not speak, they do not move.
         Your beer tastes bitter. It has warmed since you paid for it, stagnating under the neon sign overhead. You take a large draught (it is only going to get warmer). It is half gone. The bar stool does not push in under the counter. It is bolted down. You feel foolish and you know you’ve made this mistake before. The pool tables are getting closer and still the men have not moved. This time they don’t look at you and you are thankful for the melee that is distracting them.
         The bathroom is cold. There is no-one else here. You greedily stand in the middle of the trough (yet you will still complain is someone stands too close). Gazing around idly as your secretion generates steam, there is an open window above your head, just to the right. The hinge is at full stretch and affords a few inches in which the fresh air can penetrate. You wonder how bad it might smell if the window was closed but the chill is so biting that you think about closing it anyway. The sounds of the fracas echo in with the air and you can hear much clearer now. You cannot resist the chance to satiate your curiosity so you wait and slowly zip your fly, considering whether or not they can hear you.
         There is a sickening crunch as of bone hitting face, teeth in particular. You could’ve sworn that you actually heard the blood land. There is a low rumble of voices. You wish you could make out what they are saying, though it can scarcely be more than usual trash talk. You’re on tip-toe now (how strange you must look if anyone should walk in at this moment). A choked laugh reaches your ears, and you just know that whoever it came from has blood in their mouth and teeth missing. You picture it: a man’s face, he has dark hair scruffily over his eyes, one of which is swollen and blue-black, a nose that is dripping deep red, he puts a finger to it and inspects it with his good eye to confirm he is bleeding, his cheeks are smeared with sandy dirt and his mouth is crooked, the whites of his teeth cannot be determined; thick, bloody drool hangs, like fresh sap from a tree. But his lips are inexplicably drawn into a wry smile. You cannot conceive what joy he might be ascertaining from his thrashing but you can’t shake the image, there was something indefinable in his laugh. 
         You’re glad it’s not you out there.
         The overwhelming taste of smoke enters your mouth and the familiar rubble of half-drunken Texans welcomes you back. The scene has nearly returned to its original debauchery and the volume of the revelry is once again so loud as to drown out any moans of pain. You shirk at the prospect of bitter lager, half a pint of which is staring back at you through a large glass eye, rimmed as if in monocle. There’s nothing for it. You finish it all in one tepid gulp. You have to find out what sort of man could be laughing during the beating of his life. Checking the time on your pocket watch is enough of an alibi: you don’t know anyone here but there is a guilt attached to your desire to leave. You know everyone else wants to, but fear, or reason, is keeping them static.
         “Best be getting back,” you say, to the barkeep, if anyone, “the missus is gonna start wondering where her darn husband has got to.” The bartender regards you and you’re sure he has called your bluff. Even by your standards that wasn’t convincing, but no one says anything. It was your own compulsion to justify yourself and you are relieved you’re being ignored, just like always.
         As you get to the doors, now the eyes of all the patrons are on you, but there is no going back. You self-consciously pull up your faded jeans where you think they may have fallen down your arse. And then you’re gone, you’re out. The wooden doors creak gratingly and they are heavier than you remember. Ironically, you think about pausing for a moment to hear the reaction of those still inside. That’s the only thought you can generate before you are scared shitless. You freeze in irrational fear as they look at you as if you walked out the wrong door.
         There he is. The man on the ground, all in black, twitching spasmodically, either from laughter or pain but the sight ain’t pretty. You hope that your part in this story, for better or worse, is nearly done. The three men standing have turned their heads to stare into your soul and you feel terribly small. One is nursing his right hand as if it is broken from the activity, another wipes blood away from his face with his forearm, though you are sure it isn’t his blood. With the exception of the possibly broken hand they look unharmed. The one closest to you has not liked being interrupted.
         “Wadda you want?” As if to complete his menace he spits derisively on the ground, not directly at you but he never loses eye contact. He resumes chewing his tobacco with a loud cud sound.
         “Gotta be getting’ back is all. Ain’t no other way out of this place.” You are meek, non-confrontational, begging on the altar of their mercy. But their quarrel is not with you and he motions you down the road, in the wrong direction but you take what you can get.
         “Then go on. Get.”
         You still haven’t moved. You are starting to piss them off.
         Then it happens and you can’t help feeling responsible. With all eyes fixed on you, the man on the ground seizes his chance. He had been making his way imperceptibly to his feet the whole time and now he is bent double, a yard away from his nearest opponent. He looks groggy but again his coy smile suggests that he had planned it this way. Soundlessly, he unleashes his fury on the man within arm’s reach, uppercutting him squarely under the chin before he knew what hit him. That’s one down, make no mistake. Something in the man’s technique suggests he hasn’t done this all that many times before and you begin to wonder about him. He was sure in over his head and now you doubted his calculated gamble. He strikes you as some deranged masochist.
         The other two turn from you, see this other fucker lay flat their friend and set upon him. These guys look like they know how to take a punch, and the way they throw them with impassioned fists makes you sure glad you aren’t on the end of them. But the other guy has some tough bark on him too, he must have to withstand this pummelling. Before, they were sure they had beaten him to within an inch of his life and were contemplating whether to leave this instigator with any at all. Now… It’s on. One has him in a headlock as the other lay into his kidneys from behind. You know you can even the stakes. For some reason you had always sided with this mysterious stranger but this is as close as you come to helping him out. You don’t know shit about fist fighting, probably just get your head smashed in. But you stand there watching.
         A well-timed elbow from the man in black has one of them reeling. The other is thrown to the ground, lands heavily and tries to block blows away from his face. The stranger has to lay into him quite a while to see any results, each shot being deflected, or lacking power and precision. Eventually he moves across to the man,  who is still doubled over from being winded. Your stranger has left the other lying motionless in the dust, you’re sure he can’t be dead, not from those hits. Heck, you could’ve taken those.
         The wheezing man is all that’s left but you can tell from the stranger’s face he don’t know what to do. First things first he pushes him to the ground, but it ain’t convincing. You’re sure he’s gonna win now, and you guess you feel proud. Seems like you made all the difference. It was an ugly fight to be sure, and after a few more dull thuds the stranger straightens. He’s moving gingerly, clutching some ribs below his heart. He turns to face you. It must be your turn, you think, but he offers you a weak smile and stumbles hazily over to where you stand by the door.
         “Took you long enough.” The stranger speaks with a heavy southern accent, but not a local one. “Damn near, thought you’se was gonna let them kill me.”
         “Think you got yourself mixed up mister. You can’ta been waitin’ on me. We ain’t never met.” You’re starting to wonder if this guy’s alright, you know, in the head.
         “You, me, anyone, whatever. How’d I do? I assume you saw all of it? Me takin’ down these three fuckers?”
         “You alright? I saw it alright. Looks to me like you were in a world of pain out there.”
         “Like I said, you took your god damn time. Ain’t my fault you’se were so sluggish.”
         “What you playin’ at? I told you I don’t know ya. It ain’t me you was waitin’ for.”
         “It just happened to be you. So did you see me or what?” His swollen eye kept shutting involuntarily and he had started to slouch but there was an unmistakable sense of pride about him. “How’d I do stranger? It‘s important.”
         “Well… you’re standin’ ain’t ya? I don’t know shit about brawlin’. How come you took so long fightin’ back? They damn near killed you.”
         “Don’t you think I fuckin’ know that. But, heck, what’s the use in fightin’ if no one’s gonna see it. I’m not wastin’ my best punches on nothing’ but the Texan breeze. So next time, don’t take so darn long.”
         “I’m sure sorry I didn’t step in, but like I said, I don’t know nothing’ about fightin’.”
         He waves away your apology and gives the impression he was glad you didn’t help him. By some compulsion you want to introduce yourself.
         “My name’s Jed. Jed Boedeker.” You stick your arm out awkwardly, it’s the done thing but you’re not sure you want to shake his hand. Probably hurt him anyway, or cover your’s with blood. Luckily he doesn’t take it, he just looks at it deridingly.
         “I don’t give a God damn what you’re name is. All I need you for is to tell people who I am. And that’s Buck Talley. You got that?”
         “Yes, sir. That’s easy. I ain’t gonna forget that.”
         “Then say it back to me.”
         “Buck Talley. Your name is Buck Talley.”
         “Don’t you forget it neither.” And with that he walks away from you. Down the street, into the darkness. You hear him laughing quietly to himself. He has intrigued you, seemed to be living a life you might want a part of. You call out.
         “Buck! You want me to take you down the doc’s or anything? I can wake him up, he knows me.”
         “No thanks Jed.” He calls back, and then you can faintly hear him chuckling to himself. “Jed. Jed Boedeker. What a dumbass name.”
         The last traces of his silhouette disappear into the all-encompassing night. His leaving was as strange as his coming and now he is nothing but a shadow and a memory. And a name. Buck Talley. Buck Talley. Buck Talley.
         You look up at the moon, just catching a glimpse of it as it hides behind a shadow. The street is poorly lit. You try looking at your pocket watch but can’t make out the time. You’re sure you are gonna be in shit when you get home. Mrs Boedeker ain’t gonna care about Buck Talley, but you’re gonna tell her anyway. Hell of a woman, Mrs Boedeker, you’re Janice has sure got some temper. Better sleep with one eye open tonight.
         You start making you’re way home, at a brisk pace so as not to compound your situation. Your thoughts drift already to Buck Talley, and where the dark road might take him. His is the story, you ain’t nothin’ but a by-stander. You resolve to quit the bar, for a week at least, the memory of the three guys lying unconscious in the dirt is fresh in your mind. You know they got a clean sight of your face and with Buck gone, heck, they might hold you accountable. Part of you wishes you could go with Buck, not face the wrath of a worried wife or three pissed off drunks, but your part in this story is over.
         As you climb the few steps onto your porch and traipse the wooden boards, your heavy boots knock loudly on the timber and it doesn’t take much for the light inside to come ablaze. You pull back your screen door with a screech made deafening by the silence of the night. At the same moment the front door swings open, dictated by some familiar but unseen hand.