Just a story

So I had a special, special evening with my brother-in-law Bouve a few years ago. Many of my best campfire stories involve Bouve in one form or another. This is one.

We had a nice Christmas celebration in beautiful, downtown New Beffa with the in-laws. Bouve & I only snuck across the street to the bar twice, leaving the women to fend for themselves. You know the drill. 47 women, 2 men. We become ghosts, or drunk & obnoxious. Drunk & obnoxious doesn’t sit well at the Christmas meal, so we fled.

Things wrapped up, and Bouve says “Hey, my Army Buddy owns a bar, let’s go see him, and L” (another army buddy, one of his closest friends, a plus fifty, 5 foot 1 Filipino who loves the USA more than orgasms; his name is withheld to protect the guilty as hell)

It’s a Saturday night, family night is over, and we hadn’t hung out in months, so of course I said yes. We drive over to Providence, and walk into this tiny, dark, dank bar. The first thing I notice is the ceilings are about 3 inches over my head. And greasy.

The second thing I notice is L, head down on the bar, asleep.

There is some sort of party going on in the back room, so we belly up to the bar. Bouve is in his element, and we start pounding drinks. His buddy, the owner, gives Bouve a job to do.

Apparently one of the regulars is a complete douche bag, and about 4 years behind on child support. Bouve is an MP in the RI National Guard, just back from Iraq about 5 minutes, as is the owner. L had gone to the First Iraq war. They all look the part. I look like me.

Bouve’s job is to tell the A-hole that he is RI State Police, and he is being arrested for child support violations. My job is to get his back. Everybody else’s job is apparently to watch and laugh.

A-hole has 2 buddies, his brother, and some other guy.

Long story short, Bouve rides him like a drill sergeant till he cries. No shit. He tells him we are state police, his kid’s eating generic saltines for Christmas while he’s out drinking, and a lot more effective stuff, and the guy eventually cries. I stand there and give his buddies the stink eye, and tell them that there’s nothing for them to do here, and they should go concern themselves with something else while my partner discusses the situation with him.

The upshot of this story, other than don’t ever get into a psyche-war with Bouve, is that half the bar now knows I am RI State Police. Which, of course, I'm not.

The rest of this soon