I was right in the middle of a late-night rush in the deli when Jeffers, one of our regulars, came slamming in like a lion late for a feeding. Most of our regulars are a pain to be sure, but Jeffers is in his own category. He’s hairy all over with this crazy-looking, giant beard and long, black, wiry hair. He looks like Sasquatch’s bastard son, except the mother must have been a midget because he stands no taller than five and a half feet. Customers turned and stared wide-eyed.

The problem was that Jeffers had called in his order a half hour before, but I hadn’t made it yet because of an argument I’d had with my dad. I knew Jeffers would jump down my throat as soon as he realized his grinder wasn’t ready. So I started frenziedly stacking a club for the guy at the head of the line.

“I want oil and vinegar dripping down my elbows,” Jeffers was saying. I didn’t know who the hell he was talking to because he was standing in line behind the club sandwich guy and some poor woman who was so scared she looked like she might stroke out.

Then he started laughing. That troubled me even more. We have these Polaroids of customers’ pets wearing goofy sunglasses and clothes decorating the paneled wall across from the register, and he was reading the idiotic captions people feel compelled to scrawl in that white space underneath the image. “Roger’s A Star,” “Buckley Love’s His Nick’s Deli T-Shirt,” things like that.  His laugh wobbled out like he was drunk. The club-sandwich guy told me to keep the change probably just so he could get the hell away from Jeffers that much faster. The woman was scared enough that she decided no sandwich was worth this and scooted out the opposite door. So basically, his drunken, hairball-from-hell act had scared off one customer and would probably convince any poor soul who wandered in right about then to just turn around and find another place for their late-night snack. I probably should have been mad, but mostly I just wanted this night to be over. It was almost closing time.

I prepared myself for the onslaught I knew was coming. Putting on my best customer-friendly voice I said, “Evening, Mr. Jeffers. Your sandwich is coming right up.” But I turned to start his order with a knot between my shoulder blades, half expecting a bag of chips to be thrown at my head.

“You’re Nick’s kid right?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” I turned to smile at him over my shoulder.

“I called in this order thirty minutes ago. I call in orders so they’ll be ready when I get here.”

If he’d known I was arguing with my dad instead of making his sandwich he’d of lost it right then and there, so I didn’t tell him that. I told him I’d gotten a bunch of customers right when he’d called. “I’ll have it right up,” I said.

He leaned in against the tall, display-case counter, forearms flat on the top, chin resting on his hands. “Extra oil and vinegar.” As I worked on the sandwich, he started to lose patience and began pacing. Then he peeked around the corner of the counter just as I was squeezing on the vinegar. “That’s not enough, boy. Dripping down my elbows!” I choked the vinegar bottle until nothing more came out. This sandwich would drip. Jeffers was pacing and shuffling and mumbling and the next thing I knew he’d somehow lost his balance and fallen backwards into the chip rack. Half a dozen purple potato chip bags from the top tumbled onto his head. Perfect.

“What the hell’s on this floor?” he shouted. “It’s slippery as shit. Get out here and clean it up!”

I just ignored him, figuring the sooner his sandwich was done, the sooner he was out the door. He was like a four-year-old child throwing a tantrum. I finished his sandwich and brought it up on the counter to cut it in half with the big bread knife, hands greased with oil and vinegar. My dad hated it when I cut the sandwiches on top of the counter and not the cutting board, but I was careful not to scratch the stupid countertop.

“I said get out here and clean this shit up!”

I was about to make a smart-ass remark I knew I’d regret, but as I finished cutting the sandwich, the knife sort of squirted out of my grip, sliding perfectly off the top of the counter so that it landed on the floor right at Jeffers’ feet.

For about a full second he stared at it. The he exploded. “What the hell are you doing with that knife?”

With that I heard the unmistakable squeak of my father’s chair being shoved back from his desk. He had been sequestered in his closet-like office where he sips at his Maker’s Mark and crunches numbers, trying to make red look black.

I should mention, my dad’s kind of a burly man with broad shoulders. He has a well-trimmed beard that’s graying around the edges. It gives him an intimidating look. His snap temper complements his physical presence perfectly. My mom used to say he was like a bad firecracker: If you were too close when he blew up, it could hurt, but his explosions were more likely to be duds. She was always making excuses for him.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Jeffers?” My father asked, bumping me aside on the way to the register.

“Shit yeah, there’s a problem,” Jeffers said. “Your boy here was twiddling his dick again instead of getting my sandwich ready.”

My father’s canary yellow golf shirt made him look a little bit ridiculous. The pocket had “Nick’s Deli” printed on it in old English lettering. When I’d told him that we weren’t running “Ye Olde Deli Shoppe,” he hadn’t found it very funny. “Nicholas, is Mr. Jeffers’ sandwich ready?”

“Yes it is. Jesus Christ!”

I got a look promising a price to be paid for the Jesus Christ crack. “How about we give you a couple extra stamps towards that free combo, hmm?”

I’m always amazed how he never loses it with a customer. His self-control is pitch perfect at the deli. I hated it when he sucked up to a customer, like we were in some fancy restaurant or something. Why not just throw Jeffers out? Why not just say, “Here’s your sandwich, now shut up and leave.”

My father did try his hand at a respectable restaurant once. The deli was doing well at the time. He started making these funny radio commercials, starring as himself (we started calling him “the voice”) with cute little tag lines like, “Friends don’t let friends eat in the subway” or “Low on bread? We’ve got plenty.” He got so full of himself that he decided to buy The Oven Bistro-this fancy little restaurant up the block. He didn’t have a clue how to run a nice restaurant, but he bulled his way into it like he always does. When things turned south he started showing up drunk during the dinner hour berating waiters and generally making an ass of himself. My friend Jerry waited tables there and gave me weekly reports. The old couple that sold the place were suspicious of my father from the get go, so they put a subtle little clause in the contract that said they could take their pride and joy back within three months if they didn’t like the way he was running things. It was not a big surprise when they exercised that option.

With his extra stamp and a free Coke to boot, Jeffers finally shambled out the door, muttering, oil-dripping sandwich in hand. I grabbed a broom and started sweeping. My father stood at the register staring at the door. After I had returned the purple chip bags to the rack-one row purple (oil and vinegar), one row blue (sour cream and onion), one row yellow (regular)-I turned to him. “What is it with that guy, anyway?”

He was picking at his fingernails. “I don’t know,” he said. “Some people are just assholes. You’re going to have to learn that one day. And you’re going to have to learn to watch your mouth around customers.”

“Why are you always giving him free stuff?”

“I’ve got a business to run. He’s a good customer. Just get back to work, will you?” He started closing out the register, the tape machine grinding out tiny numbers. I knew I wasn’t going to get a better answer, so I finished my sweeping and went into the back closet to get the mop and bucket.

When I came out my dad was locking the doors and turning off the outside sign. He had developed the habit of locking the doors right after closing out the register because of the night we almost got robbed. That night I had been cleaning the bathrooms and my dad was back in the office. I came out and this skatepunk-looking kid, he couldn’t have been more than fifteen, was scooping the cash from the register into a paper bag. I yelled something and tried to cut off his getaway. I beat him to the door, but when I got there I skidded and banged my shoulder against the wall. I was off balance, so when he shoved me I fell down. By then my dad had come out, and without any hesitation at all he decked the kid-knocked him out cold with one punch. By the time the police came, the poor guy was conscious, but a big goose egg was already forming on the side of his face. The contents of his paper bag added up to exactly seventeen dollars and twenty-two cents.

Anyway, when Dad came out to lock up, I told him I was going to take off after I finished the floors. He headed back to his office saying not to forget to clean the toilets. That’s how a lot of our conversations end. You didn’t do this or that. This isn’t clean. You didn’t order the extra lettuce. I never say anything back, and I didn’t this time either.

I cleaned the toilets as fast as I could and got the place ready for opening the next morning, and then I shouted a goodbye to his yellow-shirted back and headed for the door.

As soon as I stepped outside I saw this crappy Dodge Dart sitting right between my little Accord and my dad’s prized, silver Toyota Tundra in the back corner of the parking lot, and there was Jeffers sitting on the trunk eating his greasy sandwich. I tried to look casual.

“Come here, boy,” he said taking a pull from a dimpled, metal flask.

I didn’t like what I saw. My first instinct was to turn around and go right back inside the deli. But I resisted. I just couldn’t see how running to daddy would accomplish anything. I could hear the words “suck it up” in my head already. “You’ve got to learn how to deal with the assholes of the world,” he’d say. Or maybe, “You can’t avoid confrontation your whole life.”

“How’s the sandwich?” I asked.

He spit something onto the pavement and slid off the trunk wadding up the deli paper that once held his grinder. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“I don’t even know you,” I said. I’d never given a second thought to why he acted like he did. I’d never given him a second thought at all. Get him out the door. That was my first and only thought every time he came in.

“You think I don’t know I’m a pain in the ass?” He squinted at me through some stray hair. I couldn’t tell if he expected an answer or not, so I just stood there. The dim yellow vapor lamps gave him a jaundiced look.

Then he spat again and said, “You, all smug with your cushy job, your daddy always right there when you get your finger stuck up your nose. Standing back there waiting for great things to happen. Well guess what, boy?”

He didn’t finish. He started pacing around, kind of circling me. I tried not to panic. Then he abruptly hopped back onto the trunk of his car and cracked this little grin, like he’d thought of something funny.

“I got fired tonight,” he said.

I’m not sure what I said, something about how sorry I was. He went on smiling and said, “You gonna give me another stamp toward a free sandwich?” Then he took another pull from his flask. “I had this crappy job bundling newspapers, putting in the inserts, that kind of shit. And I got fired tonight.”

It was then that the knife seemed to just appear in his hand. He started using this eight-inch, sharp-as-hell, bread knife to pick at his fingernails.

“I tell you what,” he said. “Let’s you and me spare the both of us the pity crap.”

The fear I’d felt when I first walked out the door came back in a head-buzzing rush. I jammed my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking, and then I told him I had to go.

“No you don’t.”

I took out my keys, but that somehow seemed like a threatening gesture so I put them back in my pocket.

“You ever been in a fight?” he asked.

I almost made a break for the deli, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. I looked at his eyes trying to figure out what it was he was getting at. “Not really.”

“C’mon. No fights at all? I bet you fight with that daddy of yours all the time. I bet he knocks you around a little. He ever beat you up?”

That question took me off guard. I didn’t answer for a minute. I had jumped in the middle of a few fights he and Mom had gotten into. I mean, I’d taken a punch or two. But beaten up? Not really. “No,” I said finally.

“Bullshit,” he said and slid down off the trunk again and stared me down for what seemed like minutes. I figured he was sizing me up. I was taller, but I bet he outweighed me by thirty pounds. He took a step toward me and stood so close that I could smell bourbon. I was trying to keep track of where the knife was. It hit me right then that he just wanted to fight someone, anyone, and he’d picked me because he thought I’d be no match. I considered kneeing him in the balls, but right about then his eyes softened and he let out a muted laugh.

“I’ll tell you, kid. I had it in mind to scare the crap out of you tonight, I really did. Thought I’d have myself a little fun.” He produced his flask from somewhere and drained the last of its contents. “Had you goin’ though, huh?” He started waving the bread knife around in mock attacking posture, jumping and parrying like he was on the high school fencing team, making whooping noises.

Just as I exhaled and smiled a little in spite of myself, I caught a glimpse of canary yellow coming out of the deli. My dad was hauling the trash I’d forgotten to take out. He got half way to the dumpster before he caught sight of us. Jeffers had his back to the deli and hadn’t seen him. He was still dancing around, lunging at invisible enemies.

Then my dad shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

Jeffers turned to face Dad, continuing his fencing act, bread knife flailing. I saw my dad’s posture sharpen, and I knew he wasn’t kidding around.

“He’s just playing, Dad. Really.” I said.

But before I finished the sentence he had come half way across the lot and was closing fast on Jeffers, who had stopped dancing long enough to do a little half-lunge in my dad’s direction. He wasn’t familiar with the warning signs. My dad walked up to him like he was going to shake his hand or something, but instead he sucker punched Jeffers right in the gut and knocked him violently to the ground, jarring the knife loose. Then he straddled him and started beating the sides of his head with his fists. He was like a crazed animal. Jeffers tried to cover his face with his arms, too stunned to say anything but, “What the fuck? What the fuck?” But by then my dad was completely out of control. He punched him like five or six times, and then he grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head off the ground to set up a roundhouse right. Jeffers’ face was smeared with blood. That’s when I jumped into things. I just acted without thinking and barreled into my dad with my shoulder, knocking him onto the pavement. He caught himself with his hands.

“You’ll kill him!” I yelled, standing over him. “He was just kidding around!”

In an instant, my dad was back on his feet and had me by the throat, pushing me up against Jeffers’ car. I’d seen that look in his eyes before, when he was flailing around the house breaking shit-my mom screaming and me crying. Right then with his hand on my throat, pushed up against Jeffers’ crappy Dodge Dart, my eyes started to well up. I wanted to take a swing at him, kick him, something. But all I could manage to do was stare back at him through watery eyes. He stared at me for a few seconds with his arm cocked back like he was going to bust open my face. But then he let me go and just stood there huffing for breath.

That’s when Jeffers laughed just once, like a dog’s bark. He’d gotten up. You could see where the blood was coming from now. It leaked out the corner of his mouth and from somewhere under his scalp. The yellow lighting made it look orange. He spat at my dad’s feet.

“Asshole.”

Dad wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go on, get out of here. And don’t bother coming back anymore either.”

“Are you insane?” I shouted. “He was just goofing around. He didn’t do anything.”

“Shut your mouth, Nicholas.” He paused and seemed to be surveying the situation. “You forgot the trash again.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was fuming. “Jesus Christ, Dad! Have you completely lost your mind? The trash? That’s what you’re saying to me!”

He took a threatening step toward me and I stumbled backward. But then he just shook his head and turned around, walking back toward the deli. He pointed to the abandoned trash bags and shouted over his shoulder, “dumpster!”

Jeffers wiped his mouth with his sleeve, examining the blood on the shirt. Then he got into his car, spitting again just before the door slammed closed. He backed out, nearly running over my toes. The driver’s side window was down and I leaned in, thinking to say something or other, but Jeffers put up a hand, effectively shutting me up.

“I pity you, boy. I really do,” he said before squealing his way out of the parking lot.

I could hear the sound of Jeffers’ car trail off-one more distant squeal of tires. I stretched my neck and looked up. The sky was perfectly clear and there was just a hint of a breeze. Then I looked down and noticed the bread knife that must have made it’s way under Jeffers’ car during the struggle. I picked it up quickly, scraping my knuckles on the pavement, enough to make them bleed just a little. It stung. I examined the knife’s serrated edge. Still sharp. As the breeze picked up, I walked over to Dad’s Tundra and bent down by the right rear tire. I started sawing at the air nozzle. It didn’t go easy, but I kept at it until I began to hear a satisfying hiss, then I stood back and watched the corner of the truck start sinking slowly. I watched until the tire sunk as low as it was going to go. Then I did the other three.

About R. Neal Bonser

R. Neal Bonser is currently an MFA student at Antioch University Los Angeles. His stories have appeared in The Potomac and The Oklahoma Review. He lives in Tucson with his wife and two children. He spends most of his time chasing around his kids, keeping them out of trouble. In his spare time, he gets himself in and out of trouble by playing guitar in the rock band, Fourkiller Flats.