Before I begin, I would like to dedicate this tale to Leon. You don’t need to know who he is, I do, and that’s all that matters. :)

I like to think of myself as a person who enjoys the simple things in life. I don’t think I ask for a whole lot, and it doesn’t take a much to make me happy. We live in a pretty complex world these days, and it’s nice to have basic things we can all go back to that make us feel comfortable and at home.

For me, one of those the things that falls into this category is beer.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me clarify. When I mention beer in this context, it doesn’t mean when I get stressed I bolt out of the house and head for the nearest bar and proceed to drink myself into oblivion. No, not at all.

You see, I’ve been through that stage already. A lot of us go through that in our early and mid 20’s, and we eventually outgrow it. I too, have outgrown the binge drinking days. This isn’t to say there isn’t the occasional celebratory regression, but I think you get my point.

But at the same time, I must admit that I am still rather tethered to the local bar scene. The major reason for this is because the vast majority of my friends and acquaintances work in bars and restaurants. I love to hang out with my friends. I’m a social butterfly in that sense, and most of the time, there is nothing better than taking a short jaunt down the street, and having a brew while watching SportsCenter while jawing with my roommates and other buddies.

Ben Franklin himself said, “Beer is sure proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. “

He was right.

That’s normally how I feel when I’m in said environment. Relaxed and happy. But lately, things have gotten weird.

Earlier this week, I got into a geopolitical discussion with someone I don’t even have any kind of substantive discussions with. I don’t mind having substantive discussions with this person, but there are days when I don’t think that the fact that I left the country for about a week should spur a conversation on universal health care. Beer + Sportscenter = happy, m’kay?

In retrospect, though, that was nothing. What happened later in the week was much worse.

I’m sitting at my current favorite bar engaged in the aforementioned activities, I’m happy. My roommate is slinging drinks down the bar, so he’s happy. The patrons around me seem happy. Life is good, or at the very least, passable for the moment. The majority of us seem to be preoccupied watching the pool game going on at the end of the bar.

During the game, one of the players makes a pretty amazing shot. There was a fair amount of english on the ball, and the guy had the cue at a pretty sharp angle. It was impressive. The kind of thing you see on ESPN. Perhaps I am easily impressed. No matter. The shot got a positive reaction from the small crowd, and I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it was something along the lines of “Oh, wow.”

I didn’t think anything of it. I felt it to be a very positive comment.

Then after about a 10 second pause, I hear a voice say, “You couldn’t do that.”

At that moment, I actually feel the gears in my brain grind to a halt. I turn around in my stool, and note that the sound came from the man sitting next to me. However, I’m thinking that this has to be some sort of misunderstanding. He couldn’t *possibly* be talking to me. I mean, let’s call a spade a spade. No, I *can’t* make that shot. I can barely stand up. This isn’t happening. This guy is a middle-aged man in a sweater. He looks like a cross between a cubicle monkey and an old time door-to-door salesman. He doesn’t seem to be intoxicated. This is a surreal moment.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“You couldn’t make that shot.”

“I never said I could. I complemented him.”

“You were critical.”

“No, sir, I was not.

“Yes you were!”

At this point, I turn directly in front of the man, and put one foot on the floor. I notice a smile on my roommate’s face. “Who *are* you? I ask sternly. “…Other than irrelevant?”
My roommate snickers approvingly, and the man falls silent.

A good 30 seconds pass, and I hear,” You were critical. GO HOME.”

Let’s freeze frame for a moment here. What I about to say here isn’t my ego talking. What I’m about to say is simply true:
You don’t address me that way. Ever. Especially in downtown Peoria, Illinois. I’m a staple. A fixture. I’ve been hopping around the social district of this city for well over a decade. Everyone knows me, I know everyone. In fact, more people know me than I can reciprocate to, because my family has lived here for generations. I wouldn’t say I’m a legend, or anything arrogant like that. (Perhaps I’m infamous?) Regardless, let’s say there is a fair amount of respect that follows me around.

You don’t talk to me like that unless you have a deep rooted desire to have your spleen removed. Telling me to “Go home”? That’s just suicide. More succinctly, assisted suicide, as performed by my large and imposing service worker comrades.
I turn back to the man and I say, “Sir, I *work* here. (Which is true.) Why don’t *you* go home.”

By now, I have some anger welling up in me, and it’s rather weird, because I rarely feel this kind of anger, and I’ve never felt it in a bar. It’s not the “what an asshole” kind of anger. It’s more of the “I’m going to slit your throat and make finger paintings in your plasma” kind of anger.

I take a deep breath, and turn away.

One of my friends sitting next to me says, “You could take him, Art.”

This is true. I may be small, but I’m strong, and I don’t need to stand up to unleash a hellish beating. In fact, all I had to do was grab the rung of his stool and flip him, and I would have been on him before he hit the ground. An understanding of leverage and a high center of gravity can indeed be your friend. Plus I also knew that “Nobody saw anything.”

I haven’t thrown a punch out of malice in probably 15 years, and I’ve been told by people who have been punched by me that it’s “less than fun”. But at this point, I’m beginning to ponder inevitability.

I go back to talking to my buddy and my roommate, and the stranger keeps trying to interject something about the pool table. Were trying to ignore him when my roommate wonders aloud “*Who* is he talking to?”

The man falls silent again.

I’m just waiting for the proper insult at this point. You know what I’m talking about. The specific type of instigation you secretly hope and pray for, so you can turn a guy’s face into Play-Doh? Again, out of the silence I hear:

“If you think you can get anyone in here to…”

My roommate cut him off before I could even finish turning in my chair. Because I had the nuke key inserted in the panel, and I had at least eight of WOPR’s ten-digit code deciphered. Roomie knows me, and could see that. It was on. On like Donkey Kong. Gimp-Fu was about to be unleashed. Jack Bauer’s got nothing on me, baby.

“Leave Art alone!” He said, “Pretend there’s a wall.” Things have now escalated to a bartender-issued edict. That should be all.

But no.

More entertainment occurs outside. There was a girl who couldn’t parallel park to save her life. It took her a good 5 minutes and numerous near fender benders. I hate to admit it, but we call could see her and we were kind of having fun making fun of her and expressing mock words of encouragement. Boys will be boys, after all. (Trust me, if you saw this, you’d be doing the same thing.)
While this is going on, the guy behind me launches into a stream of nonsensical gibberish about his car and the St Louis Cardinals, which was interlaced with the F-bomb and how things don’t matter. He was louder than everybody else, obviously trying to disrupt our fun.

Then comes…the all too familiar pause, followed by:

“You’re a piece of shit.”

*Launch sequence initiated.* Turn key on my mark!

Before I drop my feet to the floor, my bartender roommate says “GET OUT!”

The man smirks, and points at *me* as if to say “Gotcha!” He is quickly corrected.

“No. *You*. Out.”

A look of surprise comes over his face. He pauses for a moment, then leaves.

A bit of an anticlimactic ending, I know. This was probably some sort of test, and I suppose I passed, but something in me still says I should have mopped the floor with the guy.

He got off lucky.

Don’t mess with me when I want a beer.

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