It’s just before noon and I’m sipping my Jack and Coke in a Sturgis bar I won’t name when the shouting starts.

Big guy’s shoving his girlfriend, and she’s trying to get away. I look at the bartender, but he pretends to be busy polishing glasses. I look at the bouncer, but he pretends to be talking on his cellphone.

“You lay off her!” I yell, getting up from my stool.

Everyone’s looking at me now.

The guy turns, eyes blazing. “Mind your own business,” he spits.

I don’t like his tone. Don’t like what he’s doing either. “Your business is my business when you treat a lady like that,” I say.

A fist comes at me, connects with my face. The guy’s buddies join in, and I’m swinging, hitting, dodging until WHAM! Something slams into my jaw, and everything goes black.

When I come to, I’m on the curb, jaw aching — and a dozen people are taking photos and videos of me. I feel a smear of blood pooling under my left eye and touch it gingerly. That’s going to be a beauty of a shiner.

Inside, the bar’s careening along like nothing happened. “Hey,” a voice booms from inside, “did you see how we tossed that loser out like a box of cat shit?”

For an insane moment, I consider pulling my hunting knife from my right boot and going back in. But the last time I did that, things didn’t turn out well, so I let it rest.

I check for my bike keys. Still there. Good.

A craving for Norco sets in, gnawing at me. That’d fix things right up. Instead, I pull myself to my feet, stagger over to the Harley. Don’t feel much like a hero.

I start her up and ride off, the roar of the Fat Boy cutting through the music and noise. I’m just another guy with a sore jaw, a developing black eye, and a head full of thoughts I don’t want to think.

It’s been a lousy day and it’s only half over. But that’s life. You step in, you take a swing, you end up on the curb.

Maybe next time, I’ll mind my own business.

Maybe not.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon