Next day

Another night of karaoke, high spirits, and temporary friend making. That's twice in a month, I'd better pace myself. This hangover seconds that. 

My memory of last night starts to return in fragments.

There was the singing of a duet with brokenhearted Don, a charter boat captain and sometimes commercial actor. I think we did alright. 

Then, later, I danced to Selena with the occupants of the multiethnic table beside me. 

Then, when the place was drunk and full, just before closing time, I sang Ace Of Spades. I got a lot of fist bumps after. A young lady told me I was the performer of the night. I was feeling good.

Went outside to get air and a young man followed me out to have a smoke. He told me that I'd killed it. Within the first minute of talking, we recognized each other as marines. He more recently than I. He'd fought in Fallujah. I'd never gone to war. We had some experiences in common despite the time gap between our hitches and in no time we were laughing our asses off. 

"Come drink with me," he said. 

We walked down toward the seedier end of the street. Before we'd travelled a block, a man ran past us with a look of terror upon his face. I had the impression he didn't see us as he ran past as though he was running in a nightmare. 

"You okay, man?" I said automatically.

"Best if you don't talk to them," my new friend said gently.

Two men followed close behind him, walking fast, toward us. I saw one of them stick a handgun in the back of his pants.

"Dude on the right is packing," I warned.

And then we were intermingled.

"Hi," I said to the man in the hood with the gun.

"S'up," he said while walking by and not shooting me.

And then we're at the bar.  

My friend says, "Hey bro, this place is kinda ghetto. You ok with that?"

I say, "You're with a grey haired white boy in a cowboy shirt. You ok with that?"

Last call. Drunk people trying to order Bud Lights in cans from the overwhelmed bartender. No one looks very happy. I play The Doors on the jukebox - Break On Through To the Other Side. 

My friend introduces me to a friend of his from high school. I do a double-take because the guy looks a lot like the recently deceased rapper, DMX. He's been in some trouble, sounds like he might have a TBI, but he tells me he stands back up every time he falls down. My friend introduces me around as an older marine, and I'm given momentary respect. 

I go stand at the bar to get DMX a Bud Light. A man comes up behind me and asks what am I doing here. He wants to know if I've got a girlfriend or a wife with me. I'm beyond all that, I tell him. He says he's got a husband at home, but he's a ho. He tells me his name and I tell him mine. I tell him he's got a serial killer's name. He tells me not to be nervous if I wake up in the morning and find him in my shower. We laugh. 

Think it over, he says, it's really just a spectrum. 

My combat veteran friend tells me this is where he's from. He says these people were his friends once and, no matter what they're like now, they'll always be his friends. You stand up for that shit, he says. That's what combat teaches you.