Fuzzy nursed two beers the entire day at the Rainy Day and voiced not one syllable. At nine o'clock that night the bar was full of smoke, music, and laughter. Fuzzy sat alone at the counter unaffected by the world around him like a lonely lighthouse on a restless sea. He gazed into the bottom of an empty beer mug and thought of his life being empty. It was the first time in his life he had ever been reflective. It was not a philosophical endeavor. It was self-pity. For the first time in his life, it was now his companion.
Ralph Hanson, Jack Brewster, and Stump Gorch were sitting at their usual Saturday night poker table discussing who the fourth player should be. Fuzzy was the traditional one but was in no mode to communicate or play cards. They sat fondling the cards and chips.
A brawny blond-haired young man who was so tall he had to bend down to keep from bumping into the hanging lights, stationed himself before the table. His face was as smooth and soft BFas a baby's backside and his voice high and shrill like steam escaping from a tea kettle. His hair sat on his head like a bird's nest.
"Ya mind if I sit in for a spell?" he said with a boyish midwestern draw.
The three looked up at the sturdy tree of a man holding a mug in one hand and a pitcher in the other.
From the mirror behind the counter, Fuzzy observed the tall stranger sit in his seat and play cards with his friends. Of all nights he desired matters to be in place and uncomplicated this was the night, but now something was out of place and it angered him greatly.
The young man cradled the first hand of cards to his chest and Fuzzy called from the counter, "Yer in my seat."
A hush rippled through the bar. The music from the jukebox was the only sound. Everyone was expecting Fuzzy's finest performance, due to the events of that morning. Everyone knew what was about to occur. They’ve seen it happen many times. The young man was a sacrifice to Fuzzy's disappointment and wrath. He must be appeased, better a stranger than a friend, and given the size of the lad it was more than enough to satisfy.
"Hey mister, I just sat down. I've been here a half hour and ain't seen nobody sittin' here and all the sudden ya come waltzin' in here from nowhere and ya expect me ta move. I ain't movin'!" The lad studied the cards.
Fuzzy waddled to the table, storing his anger like steam collecting in a pressure cooker. "That's my seat and if ya know what's good for ya, ya better get up and get outa here."
"It would be better for you if you'd just get outa here and leave me alone. If I want ya I'll whistle for ya." His attention went back to the cards.
Stump leaned into the lad and whispered, “He's small but I'll tell ya one thing, there ain't any five men in this bar that could whip him if they's tryin'. Take my advice just let him have it his way. He ain't been feeling so good lately."
Brewster began to plead with Fuzzy, "Come on Fuzzy, the kid ain't hurtin' nothin' of nobody, let ‘em finish his hand."
The lad said cooly, "Appreciate what yer tryin’ ta do here for me, but I ain't leavin' till I get ready to and that's not till I've had at least another pitcher of beer. Now if ya wanna, grab another chair and be dealt in with the next hand," he looked at Brewster, Hanson and Gorch, cocked his head and said, "It's always the little ones."
It was obvious a fight could not be averted. Sympathy began to envelop the patrons. He was so innocent and pure like the first fallen snow of winter, a lamb in the meadow, a fresh blossom of youth and vigor. He must be ignorant of Fuzzy's reputation.
Fuzzy tapped him on the shoulder like he was squashing an ant. "Ya got my seat," he insisted, "'nd if ya don't get up and get outa this place right now, I'm gonna rip ya outa my chair and put ya through the door headfirst.!"
The lad looked straight across the table at Hanson. A deep breath of inpatients whistled through his nostrils and his chest swelled. He gritted his teeth and the jaw muscles rippled. Brewster, Hanson, and Gorch withdrew cautiously from the table. The lad pushed the table away and stood toe to toe with Fuzzy.
Someone pulled the plug on the jukebox and everyone crowded around Fuzzy and the lad, allowing them just enough room to maneuver.
The patrons called:
"Fuzzy's at it again!"
"Who is it this time?"
"Some big blond kid."
"I wouldn't wanna be him!"
"Me neither!"
"Fuzzy's had a bad day."
"That kid's gonna have a bad night!"
From the rear of the crowd, it looked as though the lad was standing alone, but from the front, the lad was a head and then some taller than Fuzzy. Fuzzy looked like a poised bulldog and the lad a grain-fed bull.
As though the recoil of a cannon, Fuzzy's fist thundered into the lad's belly. The sound of the impact was like two colliding football players with leather and plastic echoing a haunting crack!
The punch was perfectly executed. It was rare to experience such complete and total satisfaction from a punch. One only encounters this feeling when all the elements of the punch are perfect. The leverage, the tightness in the fist, the shoulder into the punch, it all felt so exhilarating. It was perfect.
The lad did not move or buckle an inch.
In Fuzzy's mind, he envisioned beating him badly and slamming him to the floor as he had done so many times in the past. He was gleeful and astatic. He was beyond reality for he was not aware the punch did not affect the lad.
The crowd stood in astonishment. Never had they heard or seen such a perfect punch and yet the lad was standing. It was as if a miracle had been observed. Their mouths were agape.
Fuzzy had but one intuitive reaction. He launched another blow, but this time it was to the head. The lad stepped out of the way and grabbed Fuzzy by the back of the neck and shoved him to the floor. His face was pressed flush against the floor. He kicked and flopped like a rooster trying to elevate to flight, but he could not get to his feet. It was a sad sight. The death of a king. His match had been met and he looked so helpless.
Sounding more like a scolding older brother then a barroom fighter the lad said, "I'm gonna letcha up, but if ya don't behave I'm gonna have ta do this to ya again."
The lad gradually released his grip and Fuzzy struggled to his feet with the aid of the lad. Humiliated he brushed the residue from the floor away from his mouth and cheek, spitting what had entered his mouth. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. No one had ever seen him bleed. It was an affirmation he was human and mortal.
The door swung open and another astounding event occurred, in walked Rudy Betz. Of all the people in the world, it was Rudy whom Fuzzy wanted to see least, especially in this position. There he was, smiling.
For the first time in ten years, Rudy spoke to Fuzzy. "Hey Fuzzy, I see ya've already met my sister's boy Sam. You remember her, she married the Schnieder fella from over in Indiana?"
Fuzzy squinted his eyes searching for the relevance and the coincidence he had seemingly encountered.
"I know what yer thinkin'," said the smiling Rudy, "Where have I heard that name before? Well, let me tell ya. It was this mornin' at the bank. This is Samuel Schnieder, the one who bought the Hollinger farm. I'm glad ta see you two getting along so well. Yer gonna be neighbors!"
Fuzzy's eyes popped as if two kernels of popping corn.
Sam spoke proudly, "Hey Uncle Rudy, so this here is Fuzzy." He looked down at Fuzzy and said, "My uncle Rudy has told me all about you and yer everything he said you were."
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