“John, shut the hell up,” Nate slurred. “You were whooping like a rabid hyena, end of fucking story.”
Somehow, we managed to find ourselves in The Field after a walk down Mass. Ave. from the People’s Republik. This was the seventh stop on our crawl, and things were getting dicey with blood having finally been drawn prior to our arrival at The Field, which was absolutely packed at what must have been 10:00 p.m., maybe later.
The denizens of Central Square were out in full force. Mixed with the constant blare of Friday night horns, bubbles of light, and women dolled up in garish lipstick, it all painted a grotesque tableaux that my alcohol-soaked eyes took in, barely aware of the attack that Little John and Nate threw at John who had been speaking with a man of the streets prior to the ambush. A series of Greco-roman holds and half flung haymakers ensued, with Aaron walking quickly away and entering the bar, while the boulevard bard John had been engaging with shuffled off, protectively cradling a bottle shaped paper bag. John let out a keening wail as he thrashed around wildly, outnumbered, when Jim stepped in with a loud, “We’re wasting time here,” and separated the combatants. And as if nothing had happened, we all entered the bar, finding Aaron already with a pint, leaning against one of the columns that separated the bar area from the six or so tables that lined the padded bench wall towards the back and the restrooms.
“Now wait just a second,” John turned to me, his martini floating a naked toothpick, “Mr. District Attorney, would you agree with that statement?” I stared at him, uncomprehendingly, and simply nodded, noticing one of our gang was gone.
“Where’s Kumar,” I asked nobody in particular.
“When we reached the Square he said he was going to go get my sister and her friends at the Phoenix,” Jim yelled over the din, starting to make his way through the crowd to the bar. “And more power to him, he can deal with those skeskies,” and with that he reached the bar and slapped Little John on the back who had set up shop by himself, nursing the cut lip he suffered at the hands of John, or Nate, or himself, who could tell?
“John, you had gone into full-on cornered raccoon mode before Jim stepped in, the fuck,” Nate said, glancing around quickly to see where Jim was.
“Whatever, Nate,” John replied slurping at his glass, “you idiots rudely interrupted my repartee with that guy out there. I’m going to finish my talk with him when I finish this drink,” and with that John swilled the rest of his concoction and stormed outside while the rest of us settled in a bit.
The bar proper ranged down to the back and sat about fourteen. Cape Cod and Lays “crisps” were up behind the bar, fighting for space with the usual Irish bar kitschy stuff, as well as a large fish net strung up and pictures of friends of the joint here and there. The kitchen was located down at the far end of the bar, somewhat open with a pick-up window. Always nice to be able to see what the cook is up to. There was another room off to the left of the bar area we were in that had a pool table and some darts, but I turned my attention to the taps nearby. In total, there were about fifteen, including Circus Boy, which is what I was making disappear, Buzzard’s Bay Lager, some Sam Adams and Harpoon offerings, Stella, and whatever else, not worth noting. The full bar seemed to be receiving equal attention from the mixed crowd of hipsters, ex-pats, and scholar-tick-tocks, while the crap-topia bottle selection (with perhaps the exception of Czechvar) certainly had its adherents. Still, the vibe was good, with drinks draining away imperceptibly, and some good rock pulsing in over the PA, though mostly drowned out by the raucous crowd. The taps, although not extraordinary, offered something to everyone, and the atmosphere of the place, not overly contrived, pulled you in and welcomed one and all. This place would do on a Sunday hair of the dog just as it would a throw down on a Friday night, which is what we were currently involved in.
“Oh shit,” Aaron sputtered, almost spitting out his ale, “that’s Goat Boy over there,” he said pointing over at one of the tables in the far corner. “Seriously, I think that’s Jim Breuer.” And although the guy had an uncanny likeness to him, he was too young, and his eyes weren’t bloodshot enough to be the comedian. I decided we needed to regroup, no sign of Jim or Little John anywhere. They must be in the game room.
“Hey, I’m going to go get Little John and Jim,” I said, “you guys go out and round up John.” Jim was holding court with Little John and they were apparently running the table as a team, lots of general scowls darting in their direction.
“We’re off,” I told Little John as Jim was busy lining up a shot and talking smack with his opponents. “Meet us at Miracle of Science.” As I stepped outside into the cold air, Jim potted the eight ball and yelled, “Yeah, you fuckers, that’s a hundred bucks, what do you have to say to that, fucking chooches!”