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[Rebus]

* * * *
Diane lived in Freeport, about a half-hour north of Portland. I followed her battered '92 Ford Escort up I-95 in my even more battered '65 Mustang convertible. I had the top down, hoping that the cold air rushing across my face would help keep me alert and awake for at least the duration of the drive. I stuck a Porno For Pyros cassette in the tape deck and let Perry Farrell's wail fill my ears as I kept my eyes glued on Diane's tail lights. At that hour of the morning, keeping up with her was no problem.
As I drove, my mind wandered down predictable paths. The old what ifs and if onlies; half-regrets and bittersweet memories. Since I'd last seen Diane, she'd been married, had a kid, divorced, and, until recently, had been shacked up with an abusive boyfriend. There'd probably even been men in between. Me, I'd never been married. Hell, I hadn't had a serious relationship since Metallica had made a decent record, I won't say which one. Came close to tying the knot once, but...
Well, let's just say it didn't work out.
Diane took the first Freeport exit and I followed her up Route 1, past a large store to the small, four-unit apartment building where she lived. She turned into the drive that led around to the back of the building and its small gravel parking lot. I pulled in right behind her. Every window in the building was dark, the parking lot unlit.
I parked my ancient car between her Escort and the dumpster, and pushed the button to put the top down. While the motor whined and the roof unfolded, I reached over to roll up the passenger side window. By the time I had my Ford tucked in for the night, Diane was standing by the front left fender waiting for me. I joined her, slipped an arm across her shoulders, and together we started across the lot.
It was a cool, quiet, Spring night. The sky was clear and splattered with stars. The moon was low in the West, and in the East, false dawn lightened the horizon. The air was still, and for a moment, it was really pleasant walking there beside Diane, my arm around her.
Romantic, even.
.Then I heard something behind us; the sound of loose gravel crunched under a heavy boot.
Remembering suddenly why I was there, I wished I'd stopped at the hotel for my Browning Hi-Power before driving all the way to Freeport. The heavy 9mm automatic in its custom suede shoulder holster would have been real comforting right about then. It's remarkably effective at discouraging people who might otherwise be inclined to violence.
I turned slowly.
Standing in shadow next to a dark-colored Mazda pick-up was a stocky figure. The moon was behind him and I couldn't make out his features. Whoever he was, he was a pretty big bastard; taller than me, and wider, too. I was guessing this was Larry.
."Shit," Diane whispered.
.Ah, confirmation. Nice to know that my vaunted deductive powers were still as sharp as ever.
"Which apartment is yours? Upstairs or down?" I asked her.
"Down. Number 3."
"Go. Lock the door. If you hear or see anything that looks bad, call the cops." Now, Freeport isn't a city with its own police force. The best I could hope for was that there was a County Sheriff's deputy or State Trooper somewhere in the area, and I couldn't count on that. They have a lot of territory to cover; after all, it's a big state. If Larry intended to cause trouble, it looked like I was going to have to deal with it myself.
.She took off toward the building at a run. The figure took a couple steps forward. I moved in his direction and he stopped. "Who are you?" he asked.
"You're the guy lurking around parking lots in the dark. Who the hell are you?"
"None of your business, asshole." He was getting surly now.
"I think it is. Unless you live here, you better get in your truck and hit the road."
"Screw you. I live here." He took a couple more steps towards me. We were only about ten feet apart now. I was really missing my Browning.
"I don't think you do, Larry," I said. "Not anymore."
.The name stopped him. "You her new boyfriend? You fucking her?"
"No. Just a friend. She wants you to leave her alone, Larry. Whatever you guys had is over. Let her be."
"I'm spending the night with my woman," he snarled. I could see his face clearly now. Square jaw, wide nose, eyes small and close together, his dark hair cut short and spiky. He wore a light denim jacket over a dark T-shirt, jeans, and heavy work boots. With my luck, they'd be steel-toed. "Unless you think you're going to stop me?"
"If you're determined to make trouble, Larry," I sighed, "I'm going to have to. I'd prefer it if you just went home -- or anywhere other than here."
"Afraid to fight me, faggot?"
"Buddy, I was an MP in the Army. I know how to break every fucking bone in your body four ways. You want to get down with me, you're going to get hurt." It was a corny speech and a load of grade A shit, but it sounded TV-tough, like something Van Damme would've come out with. Of course I was out of shape, out of practice, and running on a thin mix of caffeine and adrenaline at the moment, but maybe I'd be lucky and the bastard would scare easy.
He didn't.
He came at me fast, hunched over like the high school football linebacker I'm betting he once was. The impact knocked the air out of me and lifted my feet a good foot or so off the ground. I went down, hard on my ass, embedding crushed rock in my backside. Larry came down on top of me, and the son of a bitch must have weighed close to two hundred and thirty pounds and not a bit of it soft.
His breath was hot and foul in my face and he smelled like a brewery. I've never liked fighting with drunks. They're unpredictable as hell, and worse they don't feel pain. Well, they do, but not until it's too late to do you any good. The alcohol forms a nice protective barrier around their gray matter, and by the time the pain batters its way through, it's too late. Somebody's usually bleeding.
I brought a knee up and got him in the side. It didn't hurt him, but he rolled off me with a loud sigh, and I scrambled to my feet. I risked a glance behind me, and saw lights on in two of the four apartments.
.He came in again, and threw a wild left at my face. I blocked it, but it was a feint. His right fist came in under it, and connected solidly with my stomach. I bent over, and hotcakes, sausage, bacon and scrambled eggs the original Denny's Grand Slam boiled up my esophagus and erupted from my mouth, splattering my sneakers and his leather boots. My throat burned from bile, and then the smell hit me.
He jumped back. "Son of a bitch!"
.I dropped to my knees. My head was spinning, and I retched again dry, this time. You'd think he'd be satisfied, what with me on my knees, wracked with pain and heaving my guts out, but no; he stepped up and kicked me in the ribs.
And sure enough, his boots were steel-toed.
.I went over on my side, and he kicked me again. I felt something give and knew that he'd done some serious damage; bruised or cracked a rib, probably.
He hopped back, laughing, after a final, glancing blow to my head that sent fireworks exploding behind my eyes.
.If he'd left it at that, it would have been all over. But he was having fun now, and wanted more. He stepped forward, bent over me, and grabbed the front of my shirt. The son of a bitch was going to pull me to my feet just so he could knock me down again.Well, fuck that.
I'm not proud of what I did next, but fair play's an overrated commodity in my book; no doubt that's part of the reason my knightly armor had lost most of its sheen. With him bending over me, I had a clear shot at his balls, and I took it.
I kicked upwards with a Nike-shorn foot and connected solidly with his crotch. I had no leverage to speak of, so there wasn't much force behind the kick, but sometimes it doesn't take much. You connect right, and there isn't a man alive who won't go down.
He went down.
I scrambled away from him, but rising to my feet was out of the question. The pain in my side was overwhelming, and I was having trouble keeping my eyes focused. Larry was on the ground a few feet away, curled up into a ball, hands clutching his inflamed genitals, moaning loudly.
We made a hell of a pair, Larry and me.
.I heard distant voices, and saw flashing lights. Blue. Red. White. Shadowy figures surrounded me as the pain from my battered ribcage finally succeeded in pummeling me unconscious.
* * * *
I don't remember much about my trip to the emergency room. I came out of the mess with two cracked ribs, a mild -- their description -- concussion, and a lot of bruises. Larry spent the night in Cumberland County jail, and then went back to his sister's place in Saco. I didn't press charges.
Diane and I spoke a couple times over the next month and a half, but aside from one brief visit to Gino's where she'd thanked me for my help, I haven't seen her again.
Well, that's not entirely true. A few weeks ago, I was walking back to my parked Mustang after picking up a couple of Husker Du CDs at the Record Town in the Maine Mall, when I saw Diane and her daughter walking towards the row of cars one over from mine, carrying bags from J.C. Penny's and Kay-Bee Toys. I thought about approaching them, but they weren't alone. Carrying a large cardboard box containing a household appliance of some kind, was Larry.
The three of them were smiling in the bright sunlight; the little girl almost skipping, chattering away excitedly.
.As they were loading their packages into the bed of a Mazda pick-up truck with a dented fender and about five gallons of primer haphazardly applied over spreading rust, Diane turned in my direction. She was wearing sunglasses that didn't quite cover the bruise around her left eye.
I don't know if she saw me, but at that point, I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out. I headed for the hotel, feeling a dull, phantom ache in my side.
That night, Tony called and asked me to sit in with his band again, one last time before I headed back to LA.
I passed.