Free Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny

reached for it. “I’ll do it. Let me clean it up.”
    He stared at me blankly.
    Bobby translated for me. “ Permitalo. Limpiaremos esto arriba. ”
    The bartender shrugged and tossed me the gray, wet rag. It smelled like vomit, but I wasn’t worried about the quality of my cleaning job. It was the principle. We were their guests.
    The bartender pulled a plastic two-gallon bucket from behind the bar and set it next to Bobby. He dropped his handful of glass shards into it. Bobby reached into his pocket, pulled out one of my twenties, and handed it to the bartender. “ Cuatro cervezas más, por favor. Y uno para usted. ” The bartender took it and walked back behind the bar to get our drinks.
    While wringing some beer into the bucket, I caught Red Boots and Green Boots out of the corner of my eye. They were staring at me. One turned to the other, nodding his head toward me and saying something. The other one laughed and nodded.
    That couldn’t be good.
     
    An hour, five beers, and a couple of shots later, I was beyond caring. It felt good to overdo it. I wasn’t thinking about Pop, which had been dominating my thoughts. I was no longer uncomfortable in Mexicali, joking with the bartender like I was a regular. He acted like he liked us because Bobby was throwing my money around, but that was good enough for me. When he gave us a shot on the house, I teared up.
    I stood uneasily and slowly made my way to the bathroom in back. It was my fourth trip, so I was familiar with the route through the dark hallway. I congratulated myself on only bumping into two chairs and the edge of the bar on my not-so-straight way.
    Thinking the bathroom was empty, I kicked open the door with too much force and walked in. The cowboy with the red boots was standing over the toilet. He gave me a surly look over his shoulder and went back to his business.
    “Sorry,” I said, embarrassed, and waited.
    With just a sink and a seatless toilet, the bathroom was surprisingly big. Because of all the space, it was easy for me to stay the maximum distance from Red Boots. I examined the fixtures on the sink and gave him ample personal space. I thought about waiting at the bar, but we were grown-ups and I had to piss.
    Finished, Red Boots didn’t bother to flush the toilet. He just walked to the door, bypassing the sink. I was in too much bladder distress to lecture him on hygiene. I hurried past him to the toilet and unzipped my pants. And just stood there. Even though I felt like I was going to burst, nothing came out. Fucking stage fright. I closed my eyes and waited for Red Boots to leave, thinking of waterfalls, the ocean, and dripping water.
    I heard the door close behind me. My body relaxed. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. On four, I was pissing. But then, instead of the silence that should have been in the room, I heard footsteps. Bootsteps, to be precise. I half-turned my head, trying to maintain my drunken aim. Red Boots and Green Boots stood with their backs to the closed door.
    In the half second that my brain had to register and assess the situation, I couldn’t imagine a more defenseless position. While Green Boots hovered near the door, Red Boots took small steps toward me, malice in his crooked smile.
    I did the only thing that I could think of. I took the offensive, turning quickly and pissing all over Red Boots’s red boots. He jumped back, but I moved forward, aiming to get as much urine on him as I could. If he would have had a chance to collect his thoughts, he would have punched me in the face. But when you’re dodging piss, that pretty much consumes the mind. I even roped the stream toward Green Boots, forcing him to do a little dance. I felt like an Old West gunfighter.
    “Come on,” I yelled, my drunken bravado making me invulnerable. I was actually having fun, laughing boisterously.
    Then my stream began to weaken. I used whatever muscles I could to force more out of me, but it slowly reduced to a dribble and then