I was with my boyfriend, Hank, at his brother's bar. Hank was a 39-year-old man. I was 17. He was a boxer many years ago, and still went to the gym regularly to pound the punching bag. I was drinking my Vodka and grapefruit juice, and Hank his usual Jim Beam over ice.
A tall man, a stranger, came in. He walked to at the end of the bar, a short distance from where Hank and I sat together. The man's demeanor told me that he was looking for trouble, and I knew I could be a part of it if I stoked it. I gave him a half-grin. He made wisecrack after wisecrack, and no one but me seemed to listen. The bar was noisy. I eyed him carefully. He began to flirt with me, even though he saw that Hank and I were close together. I responded to his words but was not wholly receptive, since I respected Hank for the most part. It was loud in the bar.
"You like this place?" the tall stranger said to me. "Do these people look like rednecks?" He looked away for a moment. When he turned back towards me again, Henry sucker-punch him hard in the face, and the man fell down on his back. He started to lift his head, and Henry kicked him in the face, and the man went down again. He lay on the cold bar floor for several moments. There was a low hum of voices, but the quiet was even more conspicuous. The man rose and walked steadily into the men's room. It was ten or more minutes before he came out. I looked to see if there was any blood. There wasn't. As he proceeded to the door, he turned to Henry and said, "Anyone could've done that." I thought Henry might hit him again, but he was unmoving.
Once the man was completely out the door, people left their stools and surrounded Hank. Their voices were loud. These were all people he knew. "Are you alright? Were you jealous? Did that guy say something to piss you off?" Hank spoke very little, except to say, "He was in my space." "Did he make you jealous?" an old woman asked loudly. "Hey," his brother, Steve said. "Leave him alone." Hank replied again, "He was in my space." I believed that. I understood it. But it made me see Henry a little differently: as someone who was weak. And cold. A time passed, and everyone sat back down and reclaimed their drinks. Hank and I left.
Yes, Ron, I believe that fighters, boxers, wrestlers have their hands registered with the FBI as lethal weapons. So if a professional boxer hits someone, and the person dies, it is considered 1st degree murder. I don't know anything about manslaughter(?)
I have heard that if a professional boxer hits a man, he can be charged with manslaughter. I'm not sure what that guy's real motives were, but may have been trying to egg on a fight by flirting with you. But I fully agree with you and Eva that Hank probably could've handled the situation more diplomatically. At least, warning the man rather than sucker punching him. The problem with bars like that is that all strangers are suspect and I've known of bars where it was considered "fun" to beat up strangers that happened in.
Through interviews with Lauren's doctors, along with those of other physicians, researchers, and clinicians who specialize in lung cancer, readers will have a better understanding of the disease.
With the same passion and honesty Lauren exhibite
Rosetta was born in 1909 as the youngest of ten children. The family had more laughter than money and neighbors would knock on their door to ask, "Can we come in and laugh, too?"
