Was pretty uneventful.

I tried to have a last day full of festivities. St. Patrick’s Day the night before, followed by “bar weekend St. Paddy’s Day” on the next night. Weather had other plans. We were busy during the day, but a blizzard knocked out what would have been an eventful night. A country show across the street was all we could hope for, but that didn’t lift up anyone’s spirits.

Even on a down last day, there were some bright spots. A few friends came by to say hello. Many of them unexpected.

I did increase my final ID total by three, including the last one whose name was Jonathan. A tad serendipitous, for me at least.

And this guy.

Napoleon’s Revenge

I do not know why Marinara kicked this gentleman out, but it was neither calm nor quiet. This man had to be picked up and carried out. Now, granted, Marinara is a sturdier guy, but not a towering presence, like I am.

And he still carried a man out of the bar. Was he shorter than most? Sure. But like 5-foot-7. Which, given today’s downward model of average height, is only a couple inches.

Hey, some of my favorite actors are right around that height. Bono, Kiefer Sutherland, Tom Cruise.

Short Kings, I think they’re being called. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

People always tell me it’s impressive that I’m this tall. No, not really. It’s impressive that people can create sculptures out of marble or make a video game. I just happened to be tall. I literally didn’t do anything other than eat a lot and sleep a lot. I also didn’t smoke or drink coffee, or some other old wives’ tale nonsense.

Being tall is not an accomplishment. Being tall and not turning out to be an asshole, however, definitely is.

But this story isn’t about me. Or is it?

After all, Marinara kicked Napoleon out. The height difference? Three inches, maybe four. Not staggering, by any means.

What was I doing? Standing outside, minding my own business, watching the snow dissipate (only to come back in full force several hours later).

Napoleon is angry. He’s huffing and puffing, threatening to fight everyone on the sidewalk.

Nobody is on the sidewalk, we’re all still on the patio.

He wants a fight to prove he’s the top dog. Nobody can push him around and get away with it. He points to Crash, “I’m going to kick your ass!”

Still not the one who kicked him out.

He rushes up to me, “I’m going to kick your ass!”

“I didn’t even kick you out,” I said. “What are you talking about?

Flustered, he angrily paced up and down the rail until his group came out to see what the holdup was. As more patrons came out, Marinara stepped back on the patio. Napoleon saw this and erupted.

His friend asked him why Napoleon got kicked out, before Marinara could speak, Napoleon shouted out into the night.

“I AM SICK AND TIRED OF TALL PEOPLE TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!”

Practically in tears, Napoleon kept wanting to prove his worth by challenging everyone to a fight. I wasn’t buying in, neither was Marinara nor Crash.

Napoleon walked up, pointed at my chest, and yelled, “fight me.” When I didn’t budge, he paced even harder.

“I’m gonna fight you (to Marinara)…and you (to Crash)…and…”

Finally, Pharaoh comes outside to see what’s going on. He’s tall, 6-3, black, with dreads and gold accoutrement. A real sweetheart most of the time. He strides outside hands up high on the hoodie, coming to check out why this small white boy was causing so much ruckus.

“you…no, no, not you.”

Talk about one of the quickest backtracks in history. Much like his historical counterpart at Waterloo, our Napoleon found himself directly in front of an enemy his subconscious sought immediate retreat from.

And we laughed, and laughed, and laughed.