Within walking distance of the hotel we had a Chuck-E-Cheese and a country bar called “Chances R”. While Chances R was totally unappealing and slightly frightening, it was deemed our destination for the night.
Frankly, I can’t let go of my childhood fears of Chuck-E-Cheese and wasn’t ready in my 30 year old form to confront them. Look, you can’t judge me. That’s a scary and slightly over-stimulating place for a small child. I vaguely remember, at my 5th birthday party, dancing on a stage holding a Care Bear’s Care-mobile when a giant mouse approached me. My pudgy little belly stuck out of a well intended shirt and trembled dangerously as I screamed and cried as though I was being attacked. Traumatized for life, I feel like I’m lucky I didn’t turn out as a stripper: my future could have easily echoed that pudgy bellied girl dancing on a stage over-run by mice.
Yet I digress. We set off for Chances R. The quickest route seemed to involve trudging across a half acre field and running across a fairly busy street. Of course, once we were too far into our journey to turn back, we realized the field was muddy and primed with stickers just waiting for humans (and human clothing) to cling to. Being ever brave, we soldiered on. It was not the first time cowboy boots had been handy, a worthwhile investment.
Finally, across the local highway we ran to our destination. Chances R. It was all it promised to be. Still a little early, the place wasn’t particularly crowded but we had to do a little re-arranging with the locals to secure seats. The dance floor was just beginning to fill with the boot clad loyal of Lubbock. It was such a fine establishment that we immediately took a shot before settling in.
As is tradition in every away city we visit, we were faithfully wearing our burnt orange. And, as is tradition in every away city we visit, we were told repeatedly that we were going to lose, that we could go back to Austin (though we’re from Dallas) and that we could stick it. Though we very rarely get involved in pre-game trash talk (especially this season, 2010) people often don’t realize we’re not arguing with them.
It’s funny, on the road. It seems everyone just hates the Longhorns. We got an earful from some Georgia Tech fans and a gator about how awful Texas is. Often to taunt them in a clandestine way, we will sing their fight songs with utter sincerity and smiles. This confuses the fan. Generally enough so we can spin them around a few times and send them off in the opposite direction.
Though we’d each taken a few laps around the dance floor, two-steppin’ to the tunes of the house band, mostly we were in the mood to chill out and relax. On this particular night before the game, we wanted to prepare for the next day of Longhorn Lovin’ and bask in the success of having procured a hotel room. Chances R had other ideas.
While the band crooned on about trains and lost love, I spotted unusual movement from the corner of my eye. In a split second Debra and I (we are trained to recognize situations which will cause us distress) and scooped our belongings off the table and sheltered ourselves and Kacie from the fight that had just broken out.
Apparently, much like in a country song, someone had done somebody wrong. And, much like in a gangsta-rap song, somebody was going to get the crap beaten out of them. Or, much like in a song prisoners sing, somebody was going to be murdered, just for the Hell of it.
Debra and I felt immediate fear when we realized what was happening. There were two guys “Bubba” and “Jr.” Bubba, having felt some personal affront from Jr., sucker punched him from behind and pushed him to the ground. While Jr. lay stunned on the ground, Bubba began to kick him. In the face. With his boot.
Now, I’m not an expert on bar fights or anything, but to me, it appeared Bubba was legitimately trying to kill Jr. I can’t speak to anyone’s state of mind at any particular time, but I can tell you that if you’re kicking someone in the face/head repeatedly with your cowboy boot, you’re not just trying to explain that you’re angry. YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL THEM.
Now, time was moving very slowly as we watched blood spill out from Jr.’s head, but I would say that this went on for a good forty-five seconds before someone stopped it. This seemed like a really long time to me. Like an accomplice to murder amount of time.
A bouncer finally wrangled Bubba away from his victim and hauled him off. I stared at the lifeless form of Jr., who must surely be dead, having just been kicked in the face and head for barely under a minute while putting up absolutely no defense.
Then the most amazing thing happened: Jr. got up! He sprang to his feet like a frog while spitting out three teeth in one fluid motion. And let me tell you this: Jr. had a murderous thirst in his eyes. He wanted to kill Bubba. Kill him dead. And so he tried.
Jr. chased after Bubba and started to punch him in the back of the head as the bouncers escorted him out. It was a sight to see. More bouncers got involved and in the fray of each man’s posse trying to save their leader from the arrest that awaited them, an innocent passerbyer had his hat knocked from his head.
Of course, now the hatless man was very mad and looking to fight. Though he out-aged the man who ended up holding his hat by a good 62 years, this did not stop him from trying to absolutely clobber him. More bouncers got involved…luckily, the police were already on their way!
Kacie, Debra and I know when we’ve overstayed our welcome. We also have a firm rule of leaving places where there are fights and we are wearing hostile colors. We paid our tab and ran out the front door, carefully trying to camouflage ourselves into F-250s in the parking lot to avoid being seen by the myriad of people who had tried to kill each other and were now chatting with police.
Across the busy street and through the muddy field, our feet had wings…sadly we were not even able to stop and enjoy the barbeque station that had sprung up in the parking lot since our arrival at the bar. Amazing, what changes in an hour.
Back in the room, we pulled the stickers from our boots, clothes and skin while replaying the events of the last 24 minutes. As we brushed our teeth and said our prayers, we noted we were glad to be alive.
All said and done, we might've taken our chances with the terrifying giant mice. Chances R I'll never venture in to a bar in Lubbock without my boots on.
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