Page 5 of Tito

2

Tito

Ireserved Sundays for anything that allowed me to escape the motorcycle club’s grasp. I spent the day grocery shopping, doing yard work, walking along one of San Diego’s many beaches, and sitting on my elderly neighbor’s porch, drinking beer.

“Hap” Rourke was a seventy-year-old widower, retired Marine war veteran, and an antagonist. What little time he didn’t spend in one of the three chairs that adorned his front porch was spent exercising.

The air of confidence that accompanied him everywhere he went—when combined with his physical stature—made him a rather intimidating figure, despite his age. He kept his snow-white hair short and his stories long.

Downsizing after his wife’s death, Hap moved next door into a small two-bedroom home. After unpacking his last box, he invited me over for a beer. As a result of his open-armed acceptance I spent a considerable amount of my time with him and his son, solving the world’s problems one issue at a time.

His son Braxton was born following Hap’s last tour in Vietnam. Interestingly, he possessed a self-professed ability to see deep into the soul of any living creature. He lived in Los Angeles but made his way to San Diego to visit his father once a week, without fail.

An intriguing man to say the least, Braxton dressed very nicely, drove an expensive SUV, and spoke very little if not spoken to. Unlike his father, he wore his salt and pepper hair long enough to style, and wore it in various fashions, depending on his mood. A slight growth of well-trimmed beard covered his jawline, giving him a rough I didn’t take time to shave this morning look. Combined with his confident gait, his looks caused warning buzzers to go off, cautioning those in his path that there was much more to him than the Armani suits he wore so well.

Nestled in the chair positioned at the center of the porch, I glanced over my right shoulder, at Hap.

We were playing a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill. The concept was simple and quite entertaining. Three celebrities were named by one of the players. The other players in the game were required to decide which of the three named celebrities they would fuck, which they would marry, and which they would kill.

“Who made this game up?” Hap asked, laughing. “This is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard of. Fun to think of, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t almost immoral.”

“Nothing immoral about fictitious fucking,” Braxton commented. “Like any of these women would fuck you anyway, Old Man.”

“Might be old, but my dick still gets as hard as a diamond,” Hap insisted.

Braxton rested the bottle of beer between his legs and gave a slow clap. “Guess I have something to look forward to when I’m seventy. Stroking my diamond-hard dick in the bathroom while I read the Tribune.”

Hap flipped Braxton the bird with his free hand while finishing his beer. When he lowered the empty bottle, he belched. “Fuck you, Son.”

Braxton brushed the wrinkles from his tailored sport coat and smirked.

Hap shifted his attention to me. His weathered face wore a look of concern. After a short moment, it faded. “Suppose I’d fuck Jennifer Anniston, kill Nicole Kidman, and marry Julia Roberts.” He pressed the heels of his palms against the arms of the chair and rose from his seat, flexing his biceps in the process. “In that exact order.”

Blindly, Braxton opened the lid to the beer cooler, reached inside, and lifted a bottle of beer toward Hap. “In that exact order? Why?”

“Wouldn’t want to cheat on Julia,” Hap responded. “Nor would I want to be murdering people after we were married, so it’s got to be in that order. Fuck Anniston, kill Kidman, and then propose to Julia Roberts.”

“Out of curiosity, why kill Nicole Kidman?” I asked, hoping to be entertained by his response.

Hap took the bottle of beer from Braxton’s grasp and paused. “My thought process on this one was simple,” he replied. “That Kidman woman closely resembles a skinny man with a bad nose job, her face looks like someone squeezed it in a vise. I can’t stand to listen to her. Every time she opens her mouth, I want to shove a rag in it. Given half an opportunity, I’d kill her just for the fun of it—”

“What if you saw her on the street? Today?” Braxton asked, interrupting Hap. “Would you go out of your way to kill her?”

“I wouldn’t kill her if I saw her at the 7-Eleven in the broad daylight,” Hap responded as if it were sheer fact. “But if she was behind the bar at midnight, I’d whack her in the head with a brick just so I wouldn’t have to see her at any more awards banquets. I’d smack her right in the schnoz. Ironic as hell that she’s included in this, because that woman annoys me more than any other person on this planet.”

“What about Anniston?” I asked. “Why not marry her?”

“Her nipples are always hard.” Hap raised his clenched fists to his chest and extended his little fingers. “Ever seen a picture of her when they’re not poking out there like a rigid pinkie finger?”

I laughed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Means her boobs are fake,” Hap said. “I’m not marrying anyone with silicone implants.” He flexed his aging bicep. “I’m all natural and I expect my spouse to be the same.”

“Put the guns away, old man.” Braxton chuckled a sarcastic laugh. “Before someone calls the cops.”

Hap gave his swollen upper arm an admiring glance before lowering it to his side. “Kid at the Starbucks cut me in line last Wednesday, thinking I wouldn’t say anything. I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked his ass away from the counter. I might be seventy, but I still got it. Made that spindly little prick apologize and go to the back of the line.”

“Damn it, Old Man,” Braxton snarled. “I don’t want to be driving down here and bailing you out of jail for smacking some college kid.”