The Future of America

This story is one hundred percent true.

Some bullshit ass bar on the Oregon Coast. Seaside, if it really matters. June 13th at 12:06am if ya wanna get technical about it.

He looked like an average rural white kid. Fit. Handsome. Well mannered at first.

He was wearing the standard garb you’d expect from a kid that lives in Corpus Christie, Texas. Trucker hat. Flannel shirt.

After a few drinks, he says he’s a firefighter. We talk. He says he has a great life. He’s not yet 30.  He seems like the polar opposite of the urban beta male pack that the cities are so full of  these days.

I tell him, “Hey, bro, this next shot’s for you. You’re the future of America.”

I really fucking hope I was wrong about that.

After the shot, he makes an Italian joke, assuming that I am Italian. Everyone named Tony MUST be Italian, you know?   I jokingly tell him I’d rather be a Somalian than an Italian.  At this, he tells me that “people are just people, and the world is changing.  We should “WELCOME AFRICAN MIGRANTS WITH OPEN ARMS.”
Whoa. Where is this coming from?

I thought he was a blue collar, working class, TEXAS kinda guy.

After that little statement, I tell him 3/5s of a joke, just to see if he’s serious or not

Like an ugly woman who knows you had lunch with her for the very last time, he gets kinda serious.

He gets to punching me. In the ribs. The chest. What he thinks are the weak spots.  Sort of how an old buddy would punch you.  Expect he wasn’t an old buddy

He tells me he’s half Irish, half Mexican. Lucky me. How he loves to fight. How crazy he gets when he drinks. How he’s pretty much a bad ass. Laying it on thick.

He keeps punching me at the bar, where we’re both seated. I’m waxing stoic, and he keeps trying to punch me harder. Kind of joking, but kind of not. Testing me.

I say, “Hey. You ever been inside a boxing gym?”

He says “No.”

This dude is almost 15 years younger than my old out of shape ass.

I tell him, “Let’s arm wrestle.”

Right about then,
I swear on my honor,

he started calling me a bully.

Started saying it loud.

Asking for help.

Looking like a mommas boy who’s trying to hide behind his mother’s apron strings.

He showed me his true colors.

This person (I won’t call him a man) started calling out for help.
Proclaiming me a bully.
Playing the victim.
Sounding like a bitch ass south east Portland faggot.

Except he was a firefighter from Corpus Christie, Texas, named Alejandro. (goes by AJ.)

The barkeep came over.

He told her I was a threat.

I was told to leave.

I was wrong about the future of America.

9 thoughts on “The Future of America

  1. I have a bar friend – you know, the kind friend you make at a bar, and you see them every now and then – he’s country as all hell, Deep South accent and everything. Lives in Florida as a construction worker.

    I see him at a watering hole one day helping a fellow inebriated customer change a tire on his tiny car. As he’s finishing up, the beneficiary of my friend’s service thanks him, and blurts out “White power!” , I guess as a way of demonstrating that white people do empower each other every now and then, or something.

    My friend takes grievous offense to this and yells at him, “I’m Egyptian, motherfucker!”

    Strange fucking times, my friend.


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