Hockey jerseys block the
ceiling like a checker board. Old teams mixed with new: the Minnesota North Stars, the Anaheim Ducks, the Colorado Rockies (yes, the Rockies played hockey before baseball). The sweaters are carefully linked together with black metal binder clips to pinch, not puncture, the material - like a dirty defender trying to keep his opponent in check.
They'd swing,
but all they hit was 'staaaaache.
The multiple flat screens throughout
the bar are devoted to hockey games, pretty much any hockey game,
with the Colorado Avalanche infecting multiple sets if they’re playing. This is
SoBo 151, a Czech hockey bar in Denver that serves up healthy portions of delicious food
and beer from the motherland. And I love it. It’s the place I go on occasion to watch my Minnesota Wild, and if the
Wild are playing the Avs, it’s a sure bet that if I'm not at the game I'm watching it at Sobo151. It’s also the place, on a cold
December night, that my life was threatened. Twice.
“Do you ever go into an
establishment of a particular ethnicity and see someone who looks like they’re
of the more seedy section of that ethnicity,” I ask my friend, whom I shall call Ricky. “Like they’re in that country's mafia?”
“Yup.”
We’re looking right at him.
He’s tall and stacked. His square face, prominent chin, and cheekbones
scream eastern European. He’s wearing a loose leather jacket, which implies he
has money and he might be concealing a carry.
“Let’s stay the fuck away
from him.”
We’re not there to watch a
hockey game, because right now the owners and players (but mostly the
owners) are still locking the fans out of our beloved game. Luckily, however,
this bar’s TVs have the ability to show other sports games and the Denver
Nuggets are playing on 5 screens. We’re 2 Czech lagers deep when the party in
my bladder threatens to poor into the room. I stroll into the loo and hesitate
for a second. The giant Czech is squeezed into one of the two urinals.
Shit.
I check the stall, hoping to fake a shit while I wait for him to leave, but shit! It’s occupied.
He looks back at me and I’m forced, by the code of awkward, to take the urinal
next to him.
Not quite, butt close.
“Tell me,” he says in the
thickest, drunkest Eastern European accent I’ve ever heard. I’m playing it cool
but ready at any moment to pinch off the flow for an exposing escape from the
bar. “Why Obama?”
“Sorry?” Fuck! Don't apologize. It's a sign of weakness. Stupid! So stupid!
He tries asking me again,
but I’m still not understanding what about Obama he’s trying to figure out. We
finish, I wash up, and we head back into the bar’s main area.
Relieved to be in public, I make a formal introduction, forcing myself to shake his unwashed hand, which unintentionally leads to me imagining how big Czech penises are. Long? Short? Fat? Pencil? He is “Radek" and he actually seems like a nice guy. Circumcised? Small? Shit. What if he's a big guy with a small penis? He buys me a
drink and stumbles a little, but what am I gonna do? Refuse his drink whilst telling him he's had enough? Come on, people. He could be the most dangerous of all creatures: a big drunk man with a small penis.
“Why American for Obama?”
Shhiiiiiiiit. I got this. I
take a sip of my beer and dust off my Obama organizer hat. Step one, ask a
question:
“What don’t you like about
him?”
“My money is my money.” He
mentions he works in the transportation industry and that he works hard. “And
Obama want my money.”
Step
two, empathise:
“Yeah, that’s definitely a
concern a lot of people have.”
Sip of beer, pivot to
answer:
“The way I see it, Radek, is the U.S. economy is set up right now in a way that doesn’t benefit
everyone who works really hard like you and me, it only benefits those at the very
top, the richest of the rich. So Obama basically wants to even the playing
field, tax the people at the top the same percentage that people making less
money pay, and maybe a little more, in order to invest in a system that works for
everybody and gives everybody a chance to succeed.”
I've started carrying this around, just in case.
I’m not really sure he
understands me. He wobbles a bit, mostly from the booze but possibly from the
weight of my words (Please? Please let me think that?). He rests his hand on my shoulder. I
take note of this, but I’m not concerned, maybe because he has me convinced
he’s a nice guy or maybe it’s a worry that his giant nose can smell fear. He
begins chatting with a woman who was wandering by and it seems I’m in the
clear, netting a free beer along the way. I thank him for the drink and am
about to step back to my safe zone when he grabs me with his bear claw, steadies
himself, and brings me in closer. I keep my cool and take another sip.
“What’s up?”
“I tell everybody: anyone who messes with me, anyone, I take them out.”
Oh. Fuck.
“Anyone.”
“Alright. Alright,” I say
with a smile and a few nods, acknowledging his comment without conveying a drop of fear. “I
got it. Well, it was nice to meet you Radek and thanks again for the beer.”
“No problem.” His attention
is elsewhere so I make my escape.
“We should leave,” I tell Ricky. “I think that guy just threatened to kill me.”
“The big dude? You seemed to
be getting along.”
I bring Ricky up to speed and
he concurs. “You should probably finish that beer first.”
I pay my tab and my seal-broken
bladder rings the silent alarm once more. I scoot past Radek to the bathroom, do my business,
and make my way back. I catch his eye.
Oh shit.
“Hey, Radek.”
“Hey.” He’s clearly
forgotten my name and I’d like to keep it that way. He engages me in some more friendly conversation and convinces me, yet again, that he’s a nice guy. Maybe I just
misunderstood what he said. Maybe I’m drunker than I thought. But just as I
think the conversation is going well, he grabs me again and says, “Anyone, ANYONE,
messes with me, I fucking kill them.”
There’s an urgency in me
now, but I keep my cool long enough for a clean escape.
“We gotta get the fuck outta
here. Now.”
“Finish your beer.”
I chug, we coat, and we’re
out the front door to see none other than Radek, chatting it up with some
fellow cig smokers. He gives me a smile, I give him a “Thanks again,” and he
gives me a look both Ricky and I infer as, “You don’t buy me beer? Well, I kill
you now.” But to my surprise our momentum scoots us past with no confrontation. We
walk to a place out of earshot and fill the night sky with anxiety giggles that
break us free from terror.
“Holy shit,” Ricky says.
“RIGHT?!”
Click here to read my "Bar Character #1" blahg entry. It's less scary and probably funnier. Trust me.
