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The town was in a quandary. One of it's native sons was in trouble - another broken victim of a lamentable war (knowing all war as lamentable), and all were disturbed by his plight. But he was making life miserable. His constant, menacing presence was intimidating to virtually all who crossed his path. He drove business away from old Tony Tarantino's restaurant, the only place in town where one could get a truly early morning breakfast. People walked in large semicircles when seeing him on the street.
Drunk and disorderly described his most quiet moments, and in this town where the County Sheriffs were seen as unwelcome intruders into it's prized autonomy, there seemed little choice but to bear his presence. He served as an ever irritating reminder that no one was exempt from the ravages of that war, and that even as "hip" and "aware" a community as Bolinas suffered casualties.
Chris had flown helicopters, and all were grimly aware of the horrors he had witnessed, and even likely inflicted; and if you didn't know this fact at first, then it would not be long before Chris himself angrily proclaimed it with a sneer planted an uncomfortable two inches from your nose.
Too many fragmented bodies and bloody limbs, was the general consensus... too many streaking missiles and burning babies and search-and-destroy missions. Now at home, Chris fought on, raging and breaking windows and laying siege to his own home town. This had been the state of things since his medical discharge now two months past.
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Patrick was all Irish, from his cocked cap, to his red handlebar mustache, to his green wool socks. Patrick was thirtyish, six feet plus, and athletic, with a no-bullsh*t attitude and a quick, cutting wit. As well regarded as anyone in Bolinas, Patrick was respected even by those few who didn't like him.
In keeping with the prevailing mores of the town, he was known to enjoy an occasional pint at the pub, as it were, and here he could be found on an average Saturday night, shooting pool, playing his squeeze box, playing jigs on his harmonica, and otherwise acting every bit the part of the town Mick.
Saturday night it was, and Smiley's Schooner Saloon was going full bore. The jukebox was blasting out Buck Owens' 'Rollin' In My Sweet Baby's Arms" for the fifth time this hour. The rough laughter of old Bobby Jean D'accardo penetrated the thrum of voices and clacking pool balls, like an agitated duck with a megaphone. A Saturday night good time was being had by all.
And then, like a squall coming up at sea, it suddenly turned tense, chilled by the mere appearance of Chris at Smiley's door. Like a scene from a bad western when the black-hat busts through the saloon door spoilin' for a gunfight, the collective heads of all present turned, eyes wary. Sure as if it were scripted he took center stage, glaring at every eye that would not avert, spitting obscenities like used up chew. Advancing on the pool table, he picked up the cue ball and launched it at the wall, as the startled crowd parted like Alfalfa's hair in it's path.
Patrick to this point had been sitting bleary eyed at the bar, with a fixed, grim expression, eyes directed through but not at the bar. Upon the launching of the cue ball he sprang to life as if he were air bursting in to fill a broken vacuum.
"THAT'S ABOUT ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT!! " he erupted.
As if releasing the pent up anxiety of the entire town with this outburst, the bar went up in a collective cheer.
Chris looked for a moment as if he had been caught in an ambush. Quickly regaining himself he took up the challenge with that time honored question kept at the ready in the arsenal of all self-respecting bullies everywhere.
"So what are you gonna' do about it?" came the requisite response.
As if on a predetermined queue, the pool table was instantly cleared as bets were slapped down like mouthy children. It is amazing how a peace loving, aquarian, counter cultural group of highly evolved ‘adults' such as this can quickly degenerate when a good ass kickin' is determined to be the best available remedy.
Now, normally when a fight loomed imminent in her establishment, bar owner Sue Bradley was quick to protect her licenses by immediately summoning the Sheriff's Department (the only form of law enforcement available, based in Point Reyes - thirteen winding, narrow miles to the north). However, being an astute businesswoman, Sue recognized that first; a thorn in her (and everyone else's) side stood to be potentially removed if Patrick was up to the task, and second; that here was an opportunity to keep the taps open and the libations flowing freely for the duration of the night. Thus she left the phone on the hook, instead positioning herself between the square-jawed protagonists where she informed them that the only way they were going to have it out was after hours.
Again a cheer went up, and as usual, all proceeded to get roundly drunk.
Mary, the bartender, lived in the apartment directly above the bar. This was certainly not the quietest location in town, but from out her living room window one could egress onto the overhang above the bar's front door. It was from this vantage point that I opted to view the big fight, together with a few more friends than should have been standing on this time wearied platform.
The hour had come. Two o'clock bar time (1:40 a.m. for those who are lacking in experience with this mode of time keeping). The bar emptied out onto Wharf Road, and immediately a large ring of eggers-on was formed. Somehow the crowd organized itself into rooting sections according to who had wagered on whom. The smell of blood was nigh, and all were spoiling for a good fight.
Patrick and Chris took up their positions in the center of the circle, shirts off, fists raised. The crowd was giddy except for a small few women who stood on the periphery lamenting the violence, but staying near just the same. No one was sober enough to notice that neither man was exactly steady on his feet as the two warily circled. Both men had quaffed a few too many pints, and now neither was at his fittest for the contest.
A fist slashed out, not connecting. The crowd cheered anyway. Another fist darted forth purposelessly. The crowd cheered again. Then suddenly both men fell drunkenly into a clinch, wrestling to the ground.
This was not what the crowd had in mind. Someone from one faction reached in to pull the two apart. Angrily, others from the other faction reached in to pull at the pullers. the scene quickly became a street brawl, with life-long friends wrestling brainlessly in the street.
We on the veranda watched with amazement and amusement as painters and poets wrestled with gardeners and writers in a giant display of pugilistic incompetence. After about ten minutes of this lunacy, all fell exhausted into each others sweaty arms, seeming to have gotten the absurd picture of themselves. The group began to disintegrate, small bands wandering off together into the night.
Finally, three Marin County Sheriff's cars pulled up to the scene, lights whirling intrusively, as Patrick and Chris staggered off together, arm in arm, singing an Irish ballad into the dark distance.
Dawn rose quietly that morning and for most thereafter, as Chris took up working with the water board crew, and life around town slipped back into it's lower levels of normal abnormality.
Something cleansing happened there in the middle of Wharf Road that night. Something as powerful as lithium or Prozac took hold in the the boozy, rowdy catharsis of that harmless donnybrook.
What salve could be found in the errant swings of bearded, besotted dilettante's fists?
Who can say why; but Chris seemed to settle into a quiet life after that night, never howling in the streets again.
So goes the telling of the worst brawl in Bolinas' modern times.
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