Other people's bums

One morning over a year ago, I rounded the corner from the parking lot at our location in the small town of Hillsborough. That store opens at 7am, so I imagine it was around 6:30. A police car was stopped in the middle of the street in front of the store. It was a pretty wide street, granted, but he was smack in the middle of it - a car would have had difficulty negotiating his presence in either direction. As I approached, he glided slowly forward. It was still dark enough that I couldn't see into the vehicle, but I could feel his eyes on my back as I unlocked the front door.

Hours passed, and I had forgotten about the brief incident. I was unnerved, but the pace of the store that morning had taken precedent. The afternoon approached. At this time the store was quite slow, and a lone customer approached the counter - a southern man in his 50s who worked at the Fish and Game store just next door. He asked if I had heard about the events that morning. At that point I did not even recall the officer. Little did I know the preceding events had occurred well before my arrival at the store...

The manager or owner or whatever of this F&G store got there around 5am every morning for... whatever reason, and so did the baker of the French patisserie. The F&G dude was going about his usual morning business (of gutting fish? fucked if I know), and his wife was at the front of the store. A scrawny black man (whom my storyteller identified as a drug addict) approached the woman and began harassing her. From what I understand, he was soliciting money (or possibly sex? Again, I dunno). F&G guy took offense. He yelled at the man to vacate, but things only escalated. F&G kept a shotgun in the back room (of course), which he moved to retrieve, wife in tow. Upon returning, he found the handgun and camera missing from the cab of his truck along with the aggressor. He phoned the police...

I don't know how much time passed in the interim; neither do I know if our store was open for any of this story. The addict (which will be later corroborated) was picked up trying to sell the gun at a pawn shop in another town. How he managed to cover that much ground so quickly... I couldn't say. My guess would have to be running like a guy being chased by a redneck with a shotgun. Crazy fucker was identified and taken to holding. Therein, the ranking officer at the time decided he didn't want some crack addict (thereby the corroboration) tearing up his cell. Dr. Wacky was released unto the public.

Were I in such a fix, my first inclination might be to pick another town to terrorize. But then my history of being arrested is decidedly limited. What could have been on his mind? Revenge? Justice? Further theft? He jumped right back into the fire, making a bee-line for the Fish and Game store. Outside, he met the Frenchman out for a smoke break. The heated conversation between these two must have been... amusing in the least. Hearing the commotion, our portly F&G hero drew his weapon (a bat) and leaped into battle. With his already demonstrated proficiency in flight, crazy fucker made haste. To whence? It may surprise you to find that his instincts lead him directly back to the place which had only just released him. His presence preceded by frightened squawks, the Hillsborough officers ushered our addict past just as the charging brute rounded the corner. He was tackled and subdued by a small force of Hillsborough's finest and taken to holding.

Scrawny-ass disappeared, never to be seen again.

The very same day, as I was accustomed, I finished the work week with a trip to the neighboring restaurant. I took a seat at the bar alone. The waitresses, who are usually attentive, were talking amongst themselves behind the bar & stealing glances at a woman opposite my location. She was bent over a nearly emptied glass, her hair covering her face. At the nearest opportunity I asked the waitress what was going on. "She's very drunk," she whispered. I gathered they were afraid she would start trouble or refuse to leave. I further understand (since, anyway) that she was often wont for money to pay for said beverages & could only pay in advance. The woman's figure, though hunched, was not out of shape. I imagine her younger years found her quite attractive. A small commotion drew my attention - she was attempting to dismount the stool. The horrified wait staff was unable to assist in time. As she rose from her knees, her hair fell back from her face. I caught only a glance (I looked away much like one does when not wanting a crush to catch you gazing). Her face had a scrape on it that I can only describe as low-impact road rash. Bizarre. Since I had plenty of storytelling at my fingertips, I moved the image to the back of my mind.

The following week (Monday or Tuesday) I joined my manager for drinks at the Mexican restaurant nearby. As we entered, I spotted the same hunched figure roosting at the bar. I ordered a small pitcher of margaritas for my manager and me. The waiter returned with the drinks but informed us his boss had told him to make sure to check our IDs. I had mine, but she had left hers at the store. We already had the pitcher, so she elected to rush back to the store to retrieve it. We went ahead & ordered before she left. I sat in wait without touching my drink (like the fucking gentleman I am).

Lost in thought, I did not sense the woman approach. Even so, the cloud of liquor was intense. She loomed over my table. I looked up at her and could barely make out a face behind the countless bruises. One eye was swollen shut in an award-winning shiner; the other bulged with fantastic greed at the two salty glasses. I recognized her as the woman from the restaurant - the earlier scrape now framed still more wounds glistening with fresh scabs. She looked as though she had only just stumbled in from a street brawl.

"I'm very sorry to bother you... terribly sorry."
...
"But I saw the bartender making those drinks and I was wondering, can I have one of your drinks?"
"Uh, I'm sorry...," was all I could muster
"See I just got out of jail, and my husband beats me."
...
"And I don't have any money... I was just wondering if I can have one of your drinks there."
"I'm uh... I'm sorry, I don't think I can do that," I said, feeling kind of like an asshole.
"I'm so sorry," she replied, almost in echo of my sentiment.
"No I just... I don't think I can do that for you."

Without saying anything else, she retreated to the back. I heard a screen door snap shut, and I assumed she had left the building through a back exit. Just then, as I was still turned around marveling at the space before the dark back rooms, my coworker returned. I must have had my eyes wide open in amazement. She apologized for having to run to get her ID, thinking that was why I was in such a state. I related the story to her and shifted the drinks closer to the wall.

She laughed, "That's crazy! You're kidding, right?"
"No," I refuted, "She only just went out that back door there!"
"Really? Uh..." I kept my resolve. "You're kidding!"
"I'm afraid not," though I had begun to laugh.
"See, you can't even keep a straight face!"

I didn't press it much further, but I was still shocked. We began discussion about work for several minutes. From the shadowy alcove in the back, the beaten woman returned. The women's bathroom, I realized, was separate from the men's.

Again over the table she hung in a stupor before us.
"I'm sorry to have bothered your friend before. I didn't mean no offense."
...
"I just saw that you had two drinks there and..."
She lunged forward like a zombie, her hand outstretched in the direction of my friend's drink. As if in correction, she instead braced her arm hard against the bare part of the table.
"And I just got out of jail and I... I just really wanted some of your tequila."
I glanced at my friend who had that look on her face... the one that's in the movie where the character realizes they were telling the truth all along (or something). Yes, we might as well have been in the presence of an alien.
"I didn't mean no offense."
And she left.

Later I related this story to the wait staff at the aforementioned restaurant. They claimed that it was extremely unlikely that she had a husband & was instead homeless. The bruises were more likely from a drunken fall or from a run-in with less than gentle police officers... a fight she had likely forgotten.