My Life: An Ex-Quarterback's Adventures in the Galactic Empire Read Online Free

in class, thank God. As I straightened up, I became aware of a thudding noise behind me.
    I had never noticed that a third man had been in the bathroom. Fortunately for me, the one who had been thrown out had come charging back to tackle the remaining opponent while my back was turned. He had pinned the guy against the wall and was homogenizing his face with a series of rapid, short hooks. Those were the sounds I had heard.
    “All right. Enough,” I said. “He’s done.”
    The punching stopped at that and the target slowly crumpled to the floor.
    “Guess so,” muttered my impromptu ally. Then he turned to face me and stuck out his hand. The palm was calloused, the knuckles raw.
    “Howdy. I’m Angel.”
    I shook Angel’s hand; it seemed like a good idea. “Danny Troy,” I answered back.
    “Well, Danny, I like the way you fight. I do indeed. Can I buy you a drink?”
    “Well sure,” I said, “but what about those two and what about your face?” Remarkably, the only notice anyone in the bar had taken of the altercation was to clear the space in front of the john.
    Angel looked down at the unconscious bodies as though he was seeing them for the first time. “Don’t worry about them, they’ll just toss ’em out back. We ought to go somewhere else for our drink, though. They might have friends coming.”
    “No doubt.” The prospect of tackling a gang of bikers did not thrill me.
    “Come on,” he urged me, “I know a better place up the hill.”
    Independent thought was not my strong suit just them, so I walked out with Angel. In lieu of the bathroom, I stopped at the back of the building on the way to the parking lot. From the peeling paint, and the ground devoid of grass, I gathered that this was a habit shared by many of the patrons. Angel’s wheels turned out to be a four-wheel-drive Jeep, which shocked me. I was expecting a Harley. Anyway, my car wasn’t in the lot, and I couldn’t remember where I had parked it, so we both piled into the Jeep.
    While Angel drove, I had a better opportunity to size him up than I had been given in the bar. His face was broad, with an olive complexion checkered by old acne scars. The nose had been broken at least once. He was lean and much shorter than me, but size would have been a poor way to measure this man. His tank top displayed formidable muscles along his arms and shoulders. From one car seat away, I could see that the facial slash was superficial; it had already clotted over. Angel paid no attention to it as he drove.
    The second bar was much cleaner, booth seats covered with contact vinyl and glasses that looked washed, although not so upscale that Angel looked out of place. He ushered me into a booth and returned with two beers. We toasted our health and drained them. Angel took a moment to belch, then went for two more. This time we toasted our fighting prowess and, again, drained them. By the time Angel returned with the third set, I was beginning to float.
    “Well, friend Danny,” Angel said as he lifted the beer, “what do you do?”
    I had been dreading this inevitable question ever since I’d climbed into his Jeep. From the time I had left Nat’s office, I hadn’t discussed my life with anyone. I hadn’t even talked to myself. What was I going to tell him? I hid behind my beer initially, but that only lasted so long. When I put it down, the mug was empty and Angel was still looking at me.
    “Bring another round,” I said, “and I’ll tell you.”
    He took me up on my offer, with the result that we were again looking at each other through suds. Eventually, the rising concentration of alcohol in my blood diminished my inhibitions. Once I started talking, the whole story just poured out in a rush, the whole miserable sequence of events. Even as I was speaking, it occurred to me that almost any lie would have been better than telling him the truth. Angel, with his calloused hands, scarred knuckles and dirty jeans, didn’t look like the sort to