Pat is a good friend. He’s a tech executive, and he flagged an opportunity he thought I might want to pursue. He’d been in contact with some bright students at Auburn-Montgomery, who had developed a very intriguing piece of cybersecurity software that cleverly and quietly leads an illegal interloper into revealing himself. It wasn’t exactly his own company’s thing, but Pat thought I might want to look into raising financing for technology transfer to launch a company. 

For no compensation beyond travel expenses, Pat offered to fly with me to Alabama, make introductions, and see if he could midwife a business agreement. What kind of guy does that? Pat does. 

Pat and I have a lot in common. We’re the same age, share a similar worldview, and like a lot of the same things, including football. Which explained why we were spending a Sunday afternoon at a sports bar outside Montgomery. I was flirting lightly with the pretty barmaid with the ponytail and the cute accent. The Giants were trying very hard to lose to the winless Dolphins. 

Our partisanship did not go unnoticed. While Pat and I sat at the bar hooting encouragement at Eli Manning, who was having a pretty good game, equally loud Miami-boosting issued from a table of four men behind us. When a third-quarter field goal gave Miami a seven point lead, I raised my beer bottle in acknowledgment and gave a wink to the Miami fans in jeans, T-shirts and trucker caps. That didn’t go over well with at least one of their number. 

Pat and I heard the words “New York”, “pussies” and a term that rhymes with “punts”, but refers unflatteringly to female genitalia.  

But the game claimed our attention. It got more exciting in the last quarter, when the Giants notched a field goal. Then, with five minutes left, Manning connected with Cruz for a touchdown. Hands in the air, a high five and another round for me and Pat. 

In the quiet of the replay on the big screen, we heard “cocksuckers” spat at our backs. Pat and I swiveled our bar stools around to consider the source. It was a red-faced man, about 40, with broad shoulders and a belly straining his shirt. He’d pushed his chair back from the table of Miami supporters. 

“You a couple of New York cocksuckers?” he asked, sounding like he hadn’t stopped when he'd drunk his fill. 

I’ve never seen Pat back down from anything. He answered for us. “Yes, actually,” he said evenly. “I’m from New York, and I’m gay.” 

Red Face swayed to his feet, while his buddies glanced at each other. He gestured at me with the beer mug in his large fist. “You his wife or something?” 

I thought for a moment. “I’m going to say yes,” I nodded.

Red Face took a couple of steps toward us, smiling unpleasantly. “Couple a fairies, huh?” he said. Pat and I stood. The three other men at Red Face’s table stood.   I heard the barmaid behind me say, “Oh, Jim, just don’t.” 

Now, it’s a regrettable fact that there’s a certain part of every man that lies silent and dormant… until. Until the strange logic that lives deep in the ancient parts of our brains says, “Oh, yes, let’s do this.” I call that part of a man the beast. Pat’s beast, and mine, were growling happily, rattling the doors of their cages. They wanted to be let out.  

I was feeling switched-on and good, making calculations and plans. Thinking of some ways to handle the basic math of four-on-two. I've had some coaching on how to do that math. 

And then the math changed. 

A big hand grasped Red Face’s big arm from behind. “Jim, you just shut the fuck up, willya?” said one of his buddies in an Auburn Tigers cap. Another, even larger, man with a beard gave Red Face a forceful shove backwards. “Siddown and drink your beer,” he said. 

Tigers Cap approached me and Pat. “Look, sorry about that,” he said. “Jim is… anyway, I hope y’all don’t get the wrong impression.” 

“No worries,” said Pat, shaking the man’s hand. 

“I’m buying wings,” I said, shaking the hand of Tigers Cap in turn. “How hot do you guys like them?” 

“Can you handle suicide hot?” Tigers Cap grinned. 

“Just watch us,” I grinned back. 

And soon, at the bar and at a table, there was much sweating and swearing and sniffling and blowing of noses. Those wings were seriously hot.  

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