I met Verrant for a drink at Cy’s Roost, a small college dive bar on Welch Ave, a street known for the bars and tattoo parlors lining its sides which occasionally graced the airwaves featuring drunken student riots. The conflict in Iraq had been over for us for nearly two years, but the memories were still raw. I hadn’t yet noticed how the war followed us home, conflict and violence spiraling like a double helix through our lives. So when Verrant said, “These two guys are here to fuck me up. We’re going to have to fight.” I was confused, asked him if he was serious. The two men, one white, the other Black, raised their voices and advanced on Verrant.

We squared up on them, chins tucked, trading blows as we bobbed and weaved on unsteady feet. We herded them toward the door, kicking over bar stools and throwing bottles. The bouncer had seen the whole thing, and helped us finally manage to repel them out and into the street. The taller one with fine blond hair charged the door and the bouncer gave ground.

I’d pulled the mace out when the fight had first started, kept it in my off-hand. I’d been waiting for the chance to deploy a chemical deterrent, but didn’t want to do it inside and end up clearing the bar out. I hit him in the eyes with a stream of OC and CS as he crossed the threshold. As the tall one clenched with the bouncer, I punched him in the head, and followed with a shot to the stomach when he turned.

Backwards, backwards, back out the door, he fell and landed flat. His friend yelled, “They’re macing!” and ran, leaving the fallen to us. We’d had enough, though. The bouncer was coughing and gasping. Verrant appeared with a barstool, ready to swing it like a baseball bat.

“It’s strong!” the bouncer shouted before burying his face in a wet bar towel.

“Who the fuck brings mace to the bar?” Verrant said.

“Who can’t handle their own business?” I replied.

One of the staff who knew Verrant threw his arm around him.

“Those guys were going to jump you right in front of God and everyone,” he said.

Then Verrant put some effort into getting wasted and became incoherent. The fight — and what I pointed out was an averted beating — had shook him up, something about a girl. It always seemed to be that way with Verrant. Before deployment, I’d had to tell him his girlfriend was sleeping around while he was gone, and it had nearly turned into an issue when I wouldn’t tell him how I knew. Months later, I’d buy weapons and ammunition from him when he wanted to start a workout regimen turned lifestyle fitness place; no idea if there was any boxing equipment in his gym, or if he ever learned how to fight.

I left the bar and immediately ran into the combatant I hadn’t maced. He motioned with his hands that he didn’t want any trouble. I didn’t either. I tried to remember what had brought me out for a drink — I hadn’t had a chance to talk with Verrant. Maybe it had never been on the agenda.

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