Metro Pulse/Snarls/Lunachick Park

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A Farewell to Arms that embraced me

by Scott McNutt

Sadly, Luna and I are no longer an item. A fundamental difference of opinion that all too often separates couples came between us: whether the toilet paper should come off the top or the bottom of the roll. No, really, some basic issues divided us, things we are helpless to change. So we have parted, with much sorrow.

It would have been easier for Luna if I were a spouse-abuser, drug addict, or guy who wears white socks and black shoes with Bermuda shorts pulled up to his chest. Instead, I am a hard-drinking, misanthropic curmudgeon. With all that going for me, Luna found it difficult to leave. But the deed was at last done, without animosity, only sadness and love yet lingering.

This column is intended to be a tribute to Luna, to all her exoticism, her sense of adventure, her playfulness, and to her cute butt. It's meant to acknowledge that she was, and is, a wonderful, intelligent, passionate woman who made life exciting and sex possible. Regrettably, there's nothing inherently funny in that. So instead, this column will be about how, on the night Luna left, I got punched in the jaw by a biker.

On the Sunday night Luna moved out, I made myself scarce. I ended up at a place on the Strip. It will remain nameless, but it's a good place to go if you want to drink alone and brood in silence and become ever more annoyed at the inane conversation going on among the four other patrons in the place. Eventually, though, my friends Eric and Ian came in, and after an hour I was having an intoxicatingly good time.

What a mistake that was. Suddenly, a battle erupted! Stools were overturning, bodies were flying around, bottles were breaking, and tragically, beer was being wasted. A couple of brawlers skidded to a stop against the foosball table, practically at my feet. One guy had the other in a half-nelson and was punching him repeatedly. I bent toward them and said, "Hey, whoa, fellas, no need for that..."

Scott's First Rule of Breaking Up Barroom Brawls: Don't be too buzzed when the fighting starts. This can cause you to miss important details, such as the arrival of a gang of bikers, including the squat, burly fellow wearing the vest with, seriously, "Probationary Outlaw" emblazoned on it, the same fellow who also happens to have all the big, shiny gold rings on the fingers of a tightly clenched fist that's hurtling towards your outstretched jaw. Yep, I missed that detail completely. Unfortunately, his fist didn't miss my jaw.

The punch didn't knock me down, or senseless. Just the opposite: It stood me bolt upright and made me fully aware of my senses, senses that were crying out, "Hey. Ow. That hurt. Don't let that happen again." I couldn't argue with this logic. Or that fist. So I backed away. My companions reacted similarly.

Besides the combatants, my friends and I were the only people remaining in the bar. Our sympathies were with the barflies, but we're basically cowards. So when the biker leader said, "Get out or get killed," we got out. Eric fetched the police, the bikers fled, the bar closed, and we decided we needed another drink.

Bruised and battered, we staggered off to Ian's place to find one. In a blessedly drunken post-assault analysis, we speculated on how we might have won the battle, hypothesizing, for instance: If we'd had flame-throwers, could we have triumphed? No, we concluded, the bikers would have punched us and taken them while we were searching for our teeth. We also agreed that what hurt most wasn't the physical beating; no, what hurt most was our feeling of helplessness.

Typically, endearingly, when Luna heard what had occurred, she came by and tearfully exclaimed that it was all her fault, that this wouldn't have happened if she hadn't moved out. I couldn't argue with this logic. Or Luna's fist, once I told her I agreed. No, no, just kidding. At first taken aback, Luna quickly realized I was joking, and we shared a laugh about our foibles. But now, because of issues beyond our control, she is gone. And what hurts most is my feeling of helplessness.