Cheaters Tavern: One-Upmanship Night
The back room of Cheaters Tavern was thick with smoke, the smell of spilled beer, and the low rumble of Southie accents. It was one of those rare nights when the Rusty Nail crew had wandered over for a change of scenery. Brogan sat with a beer in hand, Leo beside him with his silver ponytail and a mischievous glint in his eye. Dave perched on a stack of coasters like a tiny king, and Marmalade claimed the best stool, looking regal and slightly bored.
Marmalade started it, as he often did when he wanted attention.
“You wouldn’t believe what this pigeon thought it could get away with,” he began, tail flicking. “The idiot tried to steal my chicken wing straight off the plate while I was eating. Right in front of me. I gave him one look — just one — and he actually tried to square up like he was some kind of tough guy. I swatted him so hard he flew into the next table. The look on his face when he realized he’d challenged the wrong cat…”
Dave snorted, straw cigar glowing. “That’s nothing. You don’t want to know what the chef does before the food goes out at some of these places. I once snuck into the kitchen of a fancy restaurant downtown. The guy was using the same rag to wipe the counter, his nose, and then the plates. I watched him drop a steak on the floor, pick it up, and serve it anyway. Called it ‘seasoning.’”
Brogan shook his head, chuckling. “You two are going to make me lose my appetite.”
Leo took a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes twinkling. The old firefighter had been quiet most of the night, but the competitive spark was clearly lit.
“Amateurs,” he said with a grin. “Let me tell you about the night I almost quit the job.”
The table leaned in.
“It was the end of a long shift. We were all tired, ready to go home. Then the call came in — jumper on the roof of the old bank building downtown. We raced over, set up the nets, the whole routine. But before we could even get the ladders in place, the guy jumped.
“He hit the pavement hard. Pavement pizza, as we used to say. We ran over, expecting the worst. And yeah… he was alive. Barely. Just enough left in him to hear us standing over him, complaining about the mess.
“One of the guys groaned, ‘Jesus, it’s gonna take forever to clean this up. And it’s ten minutes to end of shift.’
“Another one muttered, ‘Typical. Always happens right before we punch out.’
“The jumper — God knows how — lifted his head a couple of inches, looked us dead in the eye, and whispered:
“‘You’re all bastards…’
“Then he dropped his head and passed away.
“Thankfully, the EMS guys didn’t hear it. We just stood there in silence for a second, then one of the rookies started laughing. Couldn’t help it. Dark as hell, but funny in that gallows way only firefighters understand.”
The table went quiet for a beat, then erupted in laughter — the kind that comes from people who’ve seen too much and still choose to laugh anyway.
Marmalade flicked an ear. “Well. I suppose that beats a pigeon with delusions of grandeur.”
Dave raised his tiny glass. “To the jumper. May he rest in peace… and may his last words haunt every firefighter who complains about overtime.”
Brogan lifted his beer. “To the stories we only tell after a few drinks.”
Leo smiled, raising his glass last.
“And to the nights we get to tell them with good company.”
The clink of glasses echoed in the back room of Cheaters Tavern — four very different souls, bonded by the strange, dark, and occasionally hilarious stories that only Southie could produce.
And for one night, the weight of the world felt just a little lighter.
