Author: Phillip Traum

A sleazy bar in the South End. Rickety tables, stools that love dumping drunks. I claim one and order a beer and a ball. The bartender leans into my face and says, “The guy at the end of the bar—don’t look—he’s a mugger and will mug you when you step outside.” I look anyway. A gnarly little fellow with an evil eye. The handle of a kitchen knife protrudes from his jacket pocket. I down the whiskey, sip the beer. “Hey, let me buy you one,” I shout to the mugger. “Thanks,” he says, “but it won’t stop me from mugging you.” The bartender leans into me again. “He’ll drink your beer, but he isn’t sentimental. Don’t buy him more than one or he might get frisky with that knife.” I move down the bar and settle next to the mugger. He looks disdainful. “Don’t mistake yourself for a tough guy,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m too intimidated by your knife. Let’s just sit here and drink, and you can mug me later.” “Okay,” he smiles, but he doesn’t notice that I’ve slipped the knife from his pocket. We talk about football. Will the Pats make it to the Superbowl? We agree that they probably won’t. When we’ve each had a couple of beers and whiskeys we step outside. He reaches for his knife, but I’ve got it, the blade whispering in the streetlight glare. I’ve never mugged anyone before. This is going to be fun.