who the heroes were

         
First I heard of it were his tyres tearing at the pavement, his engine howling well past where it wanted to run, and the yelling, all angry as hell. Those GM V6 engines make a particular sound, so no doubt about who it was; only one in town. Put down my drink on the bar, told my woman I was going to see. She gave me one of those looks women do, half way between pride for her man and pity for a fool. Took the work-truck, the dog, and a cricket bat, all for protection, or something, and drove down the darkened roads through the village. Drove to where I’d last heard Big G’s truck going apeshit, hoping nothing was happening. Came around the corner with my lights off, keen to see without being seen, and man did I see.          
         
In the middle of the street was his truck, sitting front on to me and down in the arse; popped back tyres for sure, lights still on, street blackened all around it from burned tyre rubber, all of it still smoking. Surrounding it, on the edge of the light, were about 15 blokes, young, most of them shirtless and carrying muscle; the local young white blokes in their usual disguise for a warm late-summer night. They were all red-faced, shoulders bunched and forward, all moving but not going anywhere. In the middle of all that, towering in his anger, railed Big G, half Tongan/half Aboringinal, drunk, bigger than any two of them glued together, shirtless too, calling them in, daring them in, willing them in. Shit looked complex.        
         
I wound down my window, decided to smoke a minute, not jump to anything. The dog was watching too, and I gave him a couple of low words, keeping him still. Big G was holding his ground, keeping his back always to his truck. You could see they wanted to kick the shit out of him, hurling abuse, a couple of beer bottles, some shit off the road, but no-one wanted to be the first man in. Sensible. All I could think was how much it looked like men facing a bear down, him rumbling and towering, promising hurt, them all keen to get in, just as soon as one of them got fool enough to rush him. I pulled the bat out and leaned it against the front passenger seat. It didn’t look like much bat now.        
         
The scene was still playing, could see lights from the surrounding houses switch on, doors open, heads poke out, then close again; no one keen to make it their problem. Knew the cops would have heard about it from them, but knew too that the local cops always have their hands full with the young kids across the river in the big town. We’d see them coming with an easy 15 minutes to spare. Always do. Kept watching. The rage played on. I decided on my plan, and I didn’t like it.        
         
The trouble with Big G, on a night like that, and his kind of angry, is that he isn’t sane. I was weighing that, weighing up coming slamming in there in the truck, flicking the door open and getting him in, then getting the fuck outta there. There were two problems. First, they’d torch his truck almost certain, and it was really his mother’s truck. She wouldn’t need to have that happen, and he wouldn’t let it. Second, more serious, more urgent; I might end up with one angry motherfucker in my truck with me, and, on some nights, for Big G, I’m just another white cunt. I decided to wait more.        
         
After about 10 minutes Big G starts thinking a bit, knows he’s exposed to heat from the law with his truck parked in the middle of the road, knows he can’t try to get in it ‘cos he’ll have to turn his back. Makes his own plan. Walks to the rear of it, shuffling around to keep facing the young blokes, turns, squats, and picks the whole back end up in a dead-lift. The crowd of young blokes go real fucking quiet. They could’ve had him then, his hands full of his truck, his back turned, but they were as stunned to still as I was. We just kept quiet and watched him do it. It must have weighed 10 men, that back end, and he lifted it high as his waist, sidestepped it to the curb, didn’t even drop it, just set it down easy. Turned back to them. “come on ya fuckin’ cunts, come onnnnnnn”. They didn’t come on. They’d seen what you see maybe never in a lifetime, when a man gets enough anger and hate and liquor and rage in him to do what can’t be done, to move worlds, to become some kind of other-place spirit, filled with things too terrible for men. I did more waiting.        
         
The young blokes had lost their wind. Still angry, sure, but if they weren’t keen to be first-in before, they weren’t keen for anyone else to be first now either. Watched the change, watched them start to turn him into something more than a man, start holding each other back, protecting each other. Big G saw it too, and it only made him angrier, saw cowardice, saw they wouldn’t give him what he needed, started to come forward away from his truck, stood, just him under the streetlight, and howled his rage at the world, all of it, sweat pouring off him, every vein on him popping with power and destruction, impotent against these yielding men. I began to crawl forward, caught up in it, wanting to see.        
         
Big G was bellowing now, every fuck/shit/cunt he could gather, and they were only withdrawing further, real fear beginning to wash through them. I kept coming, flicked on my lights, the sound of sirens could be heard echoing down the river from the highway turn-off. Big G heard it too, knew all about them cops and their guns and batons and tasers, knew the moment was lost, turned, slumped into himself, began to walk, disappeared out of the light and was gone. He’d take the back track and in there no one was going to follow. I idled through the group of men, them shaking their heads like breaking a spell, low talking, their own rage soaked into the night. Big G’s truck sat on, half on the verge, still smoking from the back.          
         
I climbed out of mine and into his, carrying my bat. I drove it forward ten feet to get its nose off the road, dragging it on its rims, climbed back in to mine and drove away passed the cops coming hurling down the road. Missed it you bastards. Pulled back into the driveway. Went back to the bar. My woman asked how I was and checked the dog was ok before I’d even had time to answer. I went back to my drink. Didn’t say much more that night. Couldn’t figure how to say it like it played. Couldn’t figure who the heroes were. Couldn’t figure why I went.