Two weeks in and a couple of the younger crew dragged him out. The cab smelled of cheap cologne and desperation as they passed around a bottle of Jim Beam and speculated on the lure of real men to college girls. Fifty miles in an old camper, a couple of hours till he saw Boston lights loom.
They crawled along JFK Street, Patch wearing his old jeans and leather boots, so faded he could not recall exactly what color they were supposed to be. In the first Irish bar a few girls smiled his way, one came over, made small talk, her hand on his chest as she tossed her hair back and laughed at something he did not recall saying.
“Shit, got to get me an eye patch,” one of the boys said, as they piled out into the street and moved on.
In a bar called the Boatman he scanned the faces of every girl inside and wondered if some stood the way she might have, smiled the way she might have. He caught the edge of conversations and heard the shape of her words, the pitch of her laugh. Grace was everywhere and nowhere.
Patch sat alone on a barstool, saw a couple of cops walk by, his fear rational but without merit. His world was small. No one knew him at all.
As he threaded his way through the throng he heard a voice a little louder than the rest, clear enough the girl was struggling. He glanced over, saw a couple having some kind of domestic, the girl tall and blonde, her back to him as the man she stood with put a hand on her ass.
She pushed at his chest firmly, but he laughed it off, pulled her closer as she tried to undo the knot of his hands.
Patch saw a couple of the guy’s friends laughing at what was playing out.
The guy was tall and broad; his light hair flopped to one side. Patch noted the signet ring, the gold watch. He was almost to them when the girl stepped back again, wresting herself free. Patch threw a hard punch.
It was over quick.
The big guy a mess on the floor, the girl still tumbling as Patch leaned forward and caught her in his arms.
It was only then that he finally saw her.
She looked up at him, her mouth slightly open.
The guy’s friends gathered.
Beside him, Patch saw his own crew, fists ready, smiling.
A bottle sailed by his head and smashed on the table beside him.
Through the chaos of a Friday night bar fight, Patch scooped Misty Meyer off her feet and carried her out into the balm of a perfect Boston evening.