“Here you go, Teach.”
Everyone called him Teach. That’s what people did whenyou were a teacher, and Teach was as teachery a teacher as ever there was. Hislife was educating kids. He had never even dreamed of getting another job, noteven when his classes had swelled to forty kids per class. At five classes aday, that was 200 hundred names to memorize. It kept his brain sharp, and whilehis life was overly full during the school year, when the summer hit, theblissfully empty days more than made up for the aggravation of excessivelyinvolved parents, poorly prescribed curriculum, and kids who would simply neveramount to anything.
Teach fished a handful of dollar bills out of his pocketand handed them to the man. Brown foam floated on top of black liquid. The foamonly made up a third of the beer, so he made sure to hand the man an extraone-dollar bill as a tip. Maybe he could buy some beer-pouring lessons with themoney.
It was the last of his cash, so he stared lazily at thebeer on the counter, making it last as long as he could. Once his cash ran out,he would head home. That was his rule, and he followed it religiously. Teachwatched the foamy bubbles burst and disappear, imagining that each bubble madea barely audible pop as it burst.
He spun around on the chair, and admired the bar. Itsemptiness was vast, and the quiet was something special. The Sleazy Goat haddefinitely seen better days, although he didn’t know when. As long as he hadbeen frequenting the joint, there were only ever a handful of people sittingaround in its faded, orange vinyl seats, sipping beers at scratched, woodentables propped level with piles of matchbooks. Old beer promos covered everyinch of available space, with the exception of the bar and the tables. It wasif the owner never said "no," and never took anything down. TheCorona poster in the corner looked as if it were from the '70s.
Teach leaned back on the stool and looked at the ceiling.A stuffed goat head. the namesake of the bar, hung on the wall. It didn't looksleazy, but it definitely looked dirty. Dust covered its face and hung from itsscraggly beard. It was a sad way for an animal to end up.
Teach raised the glass of stout to his lips and sucked ina mouthful of foam. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to score some of that velvety,caramel-flavored stout the next time around. "If it ain't stout, get thefuck out," he muttered to himself.
A haggard old man walked into the bar, shot Teach ahalf-assed salute and sat down on one of the cracked, pleather stools at thebar. Teach had seen the man before. He might have even talked to him. It washard to tell. He only ever allowed himself one night at the bar a month, andhardcore alcoholics all tended to wind up looking the same after a while, ruddyfaces, excessive wrinkles, and that look in their eyes that seemed to say, “Mygod, when is the world going to end?”
Teach knew that if it weren’t for his beautiful wife andkid at home, he would probably look much the same. He supposed the people atthe bar simply didn’t have anything that great to live for.
Teach lifted his glass, and as the cool, black liquidtouched his lips, the door burst open. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the thickrefreshment of the stout. He set the glass on the bar and wiped some residualfoam off of his upper lip with the back of his hand. As he went to let out hiscustomary “ahh” of approval, a pair of feverish hands wrapped their fingersaround his throat.
Teach was wrestled off the stool. He couldn't see who wasattacking him, and somehow, this made everything worse. Teach panicked andtried to scream, but he couldn’t force enough air out of his lungs to make asound. Panic welled up in him as he tried to scream. A sharp pain shot throughhis shoulder. At first, there was a sensation of intense pressure, as if he wasbeing pinched, and then the pressure was gone, replaced by the white-hotburning of exposed nerve endings. Hot blood ran from a ragged bite wound alongthe upper part of his trapezius.
“Help him!” yelled the old man. Teach heard shattering asthe bartender vaulted over the bar, knocking pint glasses to the ground. Thebartender struggled with his attacker, and for a brief second, the hands thatwere wrapped around his throat let go, and he sucked breath through his ragged andbarely functioning windpipe. He rolled out of the way, and got to his feetunsteadily to finally lay eyes on his attacker.
It was a skinny man, unremarkable but for the chunk ofTeach’s shoulder hanging out of his mouth. Teach's stomach flipped as he watchedthe young man slowly chewing on what had formerly been a part of his body. Hewas perhaps in his twenties, clad in faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt thatmight be a little too short for him. The bartender had one arm wrapped aroundthe man’s throat. He could hear the skinny man's breath rasping in his throatas he struggled to breathe..
“Help me!” the bartender yelled, struggling to subdue theman.
Teach ran over to help the bartender. Every movement sentfire rushing along his shoulder, the nerve endings awash in pain and blood. Hehelped the bartender push the man face-first onto the ground.
“Jesus Christ,” the old man muttered. “Is he on PCP?”
“His body feels like it’s on fire,” the bartenderreplied.
The bartender put his knee on the back of the man, whoseonly response was to gnash his teeth and struggle harder.
Teach circled behind the bar, “I’m calling the cops.” Ashe reached for the phone, the young man in the jeans knocked the bartender offof him and rushed for the old man. The old man’s feeble attempt at escapemerely ended up with him on the floor,
