Just Practicing

John is the kind of guy you don't want to mess with.

Fists the size of hams and liberally scarred. An awkward limp, kind of a limp with a limp, and a scowl that will challenge your words right back into your mouth.

Most days you can find him behind the local diner, next to the dumpster, in a stained apron, smoke in hand, shivering in the cold. No coat.

Taking a break. The break that is rightfully his. You can see that in his eyes.

John is 47. All the other pukes who take their breaks out back are a lot younger than John. The boys are soft and naïve but they act tough and street-wise. Which only makes them more pathetic.

The girls look like slut wannabes. Lipstick that goes beyond sexy to absurd. Spines bent back, breasts thrust forward,  promises they are not woman enough to deliver on.

They don't talk to him, nor he to them. Nods suffice.

No one knows John's story. Except the boss. Paulie. But Paulie isn't talking. John and Paulie have a respectful relationship. Not a lot of words are exchanged but those words carry weight.

John does his thing and Paulie does his.

It works.

A lot of rumors surround John, bizarre violent tales, a colorful history that has no evidence to support it.

People love to talk. Especially about people they don't understand.

There was one incident, though.

A guy sitting at the counter giving the waitress a hard time. Doing his version of flirting based on the assumption that young girls like older guys with beer bellies, grey hair, and $8/hour jobs.

You know the type. Kind of guy who buys two handles of rot gut vodka every other day and tells the clerk every time "You know this stuff ain't half bad. Especially for the price."

The waitress warned him off once or twice, then signaled for John out of the kitchen.

John walked out slowly, leaned over the counter and asked the guy to knock it off or leave, in a whisper. A menacing whisper.

Cheap vodka causes brain damage. The guy mouthed off one more time.

John grabbed him by the throat, one handed, lifted him off the stool long enough for a stain to spread across the front of the guy's pants, then bounced him off the opposite wall.

The guy left a nice tip.