Obsession

Chris parked in the jammed lot and led us to a long, long line which led up what seemed like a twenty step staircase, around a deck and into what one would only call an "order area" where you bark your order, get a number, step back and wait or pick up your drink at the ten foot wide bar. When your platter of undersea goodies is announced you gather all your wares and seek a picnic type table and bench somewhere along the wraparound deck for the view, or indoors on the street side if it’s raining or cold. All of this we did while waiting for Berney to show up. It was all pretty much as I remembered it. Chris did a double order, anticipating his early arrival and thinking to spare him the line ordeal. We settled into a spot that had water, parking lot and street equally in view so we could wave him in.

About ten after six, Berney’s Ford truck began to work it’s way into the burgeoning lot, waiting with others for someone to leave and create an opening. Clumsy as it appeared with no discernable system, there always seemed to be such a turnover that openings for parking miraculously appeared just in time to avoid complete gridlock. As Berney slowly rolled along to what looked like a promising departure of a parked SUV, an old rusty van gunned itself backward toward his truck. It looked like a minimal fender bender, at least so far as the pickup was concerned since it’s substantive bumper was well positioned to take the hit. The van, however, saw its left hindquarter, already weakened by rust, fairly well plowed in. The driver, who leaped out with loud invectives cracking the air, was enormous at what I estimated to be 6’8" and 300 pounds.

Berney looked bleakly at the damage and was reaching into his pocket for his wallet when the guy struck. I was over the railing and sliding down the banister in a flash but as I ran for the parking lot the man picked Berney up and body slammed him to the cement, just like you see on TV wrestling shows. Berney did not move. The man was about to begin the obligatory kicking regimen as I stepped in between. He sneered at me, a crack of a smile wrinkling his oft-broken nose as he moved to club me to the ground. He didn’t say a word or waste a second so there was no reasoning with him. His mind was bent on mayhem and he would play it out as long as his adrenaline lasted. While I did not relish this stupid, pointless street fighting, I could not allow the hyped up jerk to finish his appointed rounds, especially since Berney might need medical help. Fool that I am, I stood for his roundhouse blow, ducked under, grabbing wrist and arm and using his own momentum with some help from my hip to flip him. He did soar into the air a bit but my firm wrist grip arrested his flight and slammed him properly into the cement. He did not really know how to fall or it was so unexpected that he forgot. Hurt though he was, he attempted to rise to attack further. I advised him to relax and stay put or I would be forced to injure him. He believed that I was more lucky than lethal and positioned his legs like a down lineman, made the fatal thrust toward me. I seem to recall that it was then that I broke his fingers, his wrist and his arm. It was all a matter of leverage and positioning with a little timing thrown in. He ended on his knees with a howl. I released him and he writhed in pain as he swiftly made his way back to his van . He whipped it around with his remaining arm and gunned it down Sand Hill Cove Road five or so minutes before the first policeman arrived.

I vaguely remember looking up toward Chris before rushing to Berney and was aghast at what appeared to be the bleachers at a Red Sox game with people on the decks of both restaurants cheering and waving their hats as they held their beers in the air. This was a terrible episode, I thought later, for if nothing else this labeled me as the "muscle" hired by Berney to cover his ass. Not a pretty picture nor a role I envisioned for myself. But it wasn’t the three or four hundred onlookers that mattered in this instance. It was the two dozen locals who spread the word everywhere within twenty four hours. By the time Berney was examined at South County Hospital and found to have a concussion and strained back, I was marked as either hero or hit man in the eyes of everyone in South County. All the police knew, not having grabbed the guy in the van, was that an upright local citizen had been brutalized by an act of road rage and saved by me. My fans in the gallery embellished the story so that the police saw me as Berney’s savior, albeit horning in on their territory, so they let me off with a warning to call them in the future rather than taking the law into my own hands. I suggested that I would carry my cell phone to the cemetery which didn’t win them over, but I was a little pissed myself.