I asked Rob about his old friend Herb whom I had met once at Rob’s house over twenty years ago. I was 19 and Rob was 24 at that time.
Rob smiled and said, “Herb. I was on probation for breaking into a real estate office to steal stamps. Fortunately, he had compassion and allowed me to go to the local business to make calls to my probation officer. Fortunately, the closest business was a dive biker bar. Barely the size of a small apartment. Reeking of piss and cheap beer. With a warped pool table, I shot a few. Put my dollar in the Juke Box. Played Stevie Ray Vaughn. And continued swill the local brew. By this time around 6 pm, a light shone through the entrance door, walked a tall thin blonde statue of a man wearing a karate gee. I thought here comes trouble. As this questionable figure preceded to play pool, I thought I’d intervene. Put my quarters on the table, and said you must be brave. He asked what do you mean by that. I said, do you realize you are in a biker bar. I’m thinking this guy is asking for trouble coming to my biker bar in his karate outfit.”
I stopped typing and chuckled, then Rob continued his story:
“He was a better pool player than I. I guess he must have felt bad because he offered to buy me a beer. As the night grew on, we decided to stop paying the bartender and getting our own beer. So we rode to Otranto rode in North Charleston. I can’t remember the beer we bought but there was a case of it. We headed back to my duplex and started to drink.”
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