Necessity is the Mother of Intervention: Part III

We often pretend to be something we're not. Inner reflection reveals the truth, providing we're prepared to accept it. I grew up a skinny kid with a big mouth. This led to frequent fights and altercations with neighbor kids that couldn't think of a witty comeback and had to use their size to attempt to intimidate me. I wanted to think of myself as a "tough guy", but I was often insecure, having no bulk or muscle to back my acid tongue. I found strength in music, using the channeled adrenaline to shore up my lack of confidence.

My transition into adulthood was much different. Surrounded daily by members of my parent's generation, I aged quickly. I spent my laborious workdays, which often streched into the late evening and weekend, testing limits between humor and insult, trading good-natured barbs with my weathered compatriots. In short time I carried my balls with two hands and led with my acerbic mouth.

"Let's hit Ernie's for a cold one, Kid!" Randy was in a mood to drink and at 19 years old I was not one to complain.

These moments made the long hours brainlessly moving thousands of pounds of block and mortar worth it. Budweiser is similar to llama musk in taste, but after eight hours of swallowing dust, it's the closest thing to utopia I've found. The first two went down quickly.

"Man, that guy won't stop staring at me...do I have something on my face?" I asked irritated, spinning my 12 oz longneck over the condensated napkin. I had developed somewhat of a short fuse and was growing tired of the overweight, balding creep at the other end of the bar dressing me down with his pedo-glasses. I had noticed him watching me for the better part of a half hour; which is approximately 5 minutes in sexual deviant time.

Randy, turned to glance behind him and returned his head to position, his features stoic.

"That's the neighborhood pervert" he delivered as if foreshadowing a future altercation with Chris Hansen's future acquaintance. "He's been out of the big house for awhile, but this whole town knows about him. Hell, he can't be within 1000 feet of an elementary school!" I think If I paced it off, we were about 1002 feet from the nearest daycare. A master of his own state-imposed limits.

"Well he's creeping me out." I shot back. I was getting visibly more agitated, but my focus was quickly diverted by a the fresh beer delivered by the waitress.

"Wait, did I already check your ID" she asked, eyeing me with an incompetent unsurety.

"Yeah, you checked it when we got in, remember?" Randy answered before I could speak and place another $20 on her tray. She retreated without another word.

The first thing I learned working construction wasn't reading blueprints or how trades interact...it was how to get served as an underaged kid. We'd go into the bar, Randy or Jack or Howard would order a round of beers, one extra for me, while I hung back or hit the head, and when I returned, the server would lose track and keep serving me. I figure we had about a 95% success rate with our little ruse. Everyonce in awhile you'd get the self-important "this is my world and you're just living in it" infant-dicked bartender that would throw a fit and kick me out. Keep in mind, this was typically the same guy you hear stories about getting hospitalized for injecting coke into his dong.

Feeling the urge to give back what I had taken in means of liquid ounces, I ambled to the men's room. Upon entering, it had completely escaped my attention that Chester the Molester was following close behind. No more than a half step inside the lavatory, I spun on my heels and exited. I had no interest in letting my lower colon become his Elysium.

(...to be continued)