BIG SOUTHERN CHAPTER 64

NOVEMBER 1979

DAVID

Joe's is up for sale, Gary tells David. They stand near the tavern's steps, the early November sun out, the wind still, a perfect day to start a binge. Deon can't take the Walthers getting cut up, he says. She's visiting family in Oregon, may never come back.

David had been there that day, before it started, Gary was there that night. He watched the whole event unfold. Or at least the aftermath, when the brothers staggered back into the bar, Dennis with his belly slashed and blood gushing forth and Jim limping from a buck knife wound that went clear through his thigh, butcher-like, leaving his muscle dangling free, supported inside his pants.

The two outsiders and the brothers had been playing pool since early afternoon, off and on, their matches broken only when others laid quarters on the table, reserving the next game against the winners. Were they of opposite sexes, the hours long interplay would have been seen as flirting, sexual foreplay, a constant poking and prodding toward further involvement. But the escalation took another path instead.

As evening set in, the verbal barbs acquired more veils, more texture, with side conversations between Dennis and Jim bearing references that pretended to be private but were loud enough for the Marines to hear. Disguised as private exchanges, those needling jabs couldn't be directly addressed by the outsiders, adding to the slow simmer of antagonism.

Patrons came in, patrons went out, Gary stayed. David had left earlier, an hour or two after the lengthy interaction first began. Not all the bar goers were aware of the widening skirmish at the pool table, but some sensed the aura of approaching violence. It was a common enough occurrence in most bars, David himself had walked into establishments and felt the nasty vibe emanated by those looking for contention. You could catch that feel of impending violence and stay, participate and watch or leave and avoid that drama—as David would have.

As closing time neared, Deon crying 'last call'—which didn't mean much to locals, who generally paid no heed. The Marines made to leave. The event could have stopped there but both of the Walthers smirked, made remarks suggesting the departure was an admission of being beaten. The darker haired outsider turned as he left, smiled and glared, Gary said, the meaning clear only after what happened next.

A couple minutes later, Vern Inskeep walked in, panicky, and in his stuttering voice, said, "There's a...two guys out there...cutting up tires. Tires."

From a small window by the pool table, just big enough to crawl in and out of comfortably if indeed it could be opened, you could look into the south parking lot where the Walthers were parked, their truck in full view. The brothers saw the two Marines with knives out, bent over slashing their tires. They instinctively ran out the door to intercept them.

Gary was sitting at the bar but, like others, went to the window to see what was transpiring. The Walthers confronted the two, not taking into account the buck knives in their adversaries' hands. It was the proverbial "taking a knife to a gunfight," Gary says, though it was instead taking fists into a knife fight—a mis-pairing of two eras or two ways of being. It was over in a few seconds. The Walthers rushed the two, the surprised Marines used the available weapons, the Walthers fell and the Marines left.

The patrons helped the brothers stagger into the bar, Gary says. They put Dennis on the floor against a wall, his arms pressed tightly against his abdomen, holding his organs in. He jokingly ordered a beer. Deon smartly refused to provide it. The ambulance came.

That was enough for Deon. David guesses it's enough for him. He looks to where the event must have occurred. It was a good run, he thinks. He must have said it aloud because Gary answers him. "All good things..." Gary begins in concurrence. They decide to get a six-pack at the store, take a drive out onto the desert toward the Butte, and see where it goes.

© 2025 Ralph Thurston