Image by Dain Sandoval via FlickrI look at their carefully skewed trucker hats, their well placed piercings, and dangerous tattoos and I see obedience disguised as rebellion. The room fills with an air of testoserone that is about to explode on a wave of cheap draft.
The bartender asks me to keep an eye on things while she goes to the washroom. Lets just say that I have darkened this door more than once, and the bartender has never asked me to do this. In relative terms, it felt like closing the casino after the Tyson fight.
I suspected it, but she knew.
And so it was that a fight began to break out among these "friends". It ended up with the dude in the Argentina jersey out cold on the floor. At the height of it I actually got off my bar stool, it was that serious. A brief thought flashed through my mind that I should try and help the owner/bartender stop this.
Then I looked at her, she was having none of it. Then I looked at the combatants and realised that each and every one of them could kick my ass. It felt like a mini G20, I witnessed, but did not participate.
However, I was pretty happy to see Argentina breathing, even if he wasn't moving. And a little part of me was grateful that it didn't happen in the bar that I work in on my watch.
Eventually, Argentina was escorted out with assistance from his friends. He was shirtless, his blood soaked jersey abandoned in the bathroom trash. I was glad to see he wasn't dead, but I didn't feel too bad for him.
He started it.
I just feel bad for the bartender, because sometimes things can spiral out of control, and there is nothing you can do but watch helplessly, despite your best efforts.
I also get especially worried when people walk in wearing motorcycle helmets and boxing gloves or, rather, I would if it ever happened.
Are you taking notes, 180? Apparently it is all about the head butt and something called "StraightBlasting".
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