Back in the late seventies I drove a lunch truck commonly called a roach coach. I always carried a change bag and a changer that contained about sixty dollars. After I was through with work I would go to the Y.M.C.A. and lift weights. I went every day and parked on the street basically the same spot. Now I was a trusting person and slid my change under the seat for safe keeping. People that road in my car and people that I worked with knew this. My coworkers did the same thing. After I left the Y I would sometimes pick up my girlfriend, and we would go to my place. The next morning when I got to work I reached for the changer and bag. It appeared it was gone! I couldn’t believe it at first but after tearing my car apart sure enough it wasn’t there. I didn’t want to believe someone actuality stole the thing, figuring it must be at home, but I never took it inside with me before. It’s home was under the seat of my car. I had to ask my boss for another changer so I could do my route, and after work I raced home to look for it, and of course it wasn’t there. I finally realized it was stolen out of my car. But were and when was the question? The answer would come a few weeks later.                                                                                 It was a Saturday night at a local disco bar called the Show Bar. It was last call so I ordered up an Alabama Slammer, when I turned away from the bar some girl approached me and said; “Terry told me to tell you to meet her outside the all night disco about two fifteen” I said; “Ok so what’s up.” “She knows who took your changer and where it was.” Wow a break in the case so to speak. I downed my drink hopped in my heap and wheeled over there. I drove a beat up sixty six Impala, baby shit green, but it took me where I wanted to go.                                                                                       When I got to the door sure enough there she was like the girl said. I walked up to her and gave her a kiss, and then she said; “Your changer is at this dude house named Jim, I was at a party there, and when I looked in the cabinet for a glass I saw it in there. They say a girl named Deb took it, and as far as I know she’s still there.” At the time, there weren’t many things I was afraid of, and I always fought my own battles. By that age I was in over a hundred fights, both in and out of the gym. I lost some but the saying goes …. (You got to take a good beating to give a beating.) “Oh I didn’t tell you,” she said; “They have a gun.”                                                                                                                    His house was about a block away from the disco so we walked. It wasn’t long and terry said there’s the door. I could hear the noise of a lively party going on inside, so I didn’t bother to knock. No one noticed us at first, until I confronted Deb about the money and changer. She denied it at first but Terry went to the cabinet and got it. This got the attention Jim, the owner of the apparent. He was a stocky fat Italian guy with long greasy hair, and stubbly dark five O clock shadow. He reminded me of a wrestler named Bruno San Martino. Well, I had my changer and an empty change bag, and I wasn’t going to get my money back that night. No sense pissing anybody off, so we turned to leave. We got as far as the door, when Jim’s beer muscles kicked in. I turned to see him charging at me full blast, he caught me off guard, and if it wasn’t for the door I probably would have went down with him on top of me. He came at me again but this time I was ready for him. I grabbed him by his shirt and using his momentum I spun him towards a window, and sure enough his upper body went right through it with a crash of breaking glass. By now everybody in the room was in shock, and if they weren’t me pulling back in the room did the trick. His head face and chest was covered in blood!  Now he really looked like Bruno after rough match. This didn’t end it for him. He wanted more! A wild telegraphed swing came at me and I side kicked him in the chest and down he went like a sack of potatoes. I dropped to one knee and got a hand on his throat, he grabbed my arm in a poor attempt to stop what was coming next. I squeezed with all my might. It didn’t take long until I felt the grip he had on me go limp, I realized it was lights out for him, and I could kill him right there on that dirty floor if I wanted. I was trained not go any further then I had to defend myself. I released my grip and watched the color return to his face. I stood up and held my hand out to him to help him up. By now he was apologizing to me for getting in my business, and not letting well enough alone. Realizing the wear and tear he got wasn’t as bad as dying, he even shook my hand.  I left before he had a chance to go for the gun.                                                                                                                  Terry and I headed back to my car, hopped in and fired it up. We rolled around the block and cruised by Jim’s, when I said; “ Check this guy out” He was walking up the sidewalk a quarter block from Jim’s, swinging a tire iron in his right hand and yelling his head off (pissed). Jim was on his porch still all bloody and the rest of the party joined him. They were so caught up in the moment they didn’t even see us drive by. Terry said with a laugh, “That’s his best friend Curt, with the tire iron.”  Most likely going to avenge his buddy, Jim, I thought.                                                                                                    The next day my friend Ray called me, and told me. “Get in here and pick me up right away! What the hell did you do last night?” “Why, what did you here?” I sad like I didn’t have a clue.  “Just get your ass in here and I’ll show you!” I could wait so I took Terry home I went right to his place. He was waiting outside for me when I arrived. He jumped in and handed me a beer, looking at me with a big concerned smile on his face. He then told me. “Now drive down Ninth St. I want to show you something!”                Near the all night disco on Ninth, parked in a space out in front was a green sixty five Impala. It sure could have passed for my car to a T. Surrounding the car on all sides was broken glass. Who ever went to work on it knocked every window, mirror, taillight, and headlight out of it. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out. Tire iron Curt and his handiwork. But as if that wasn’t enough I was told Curt was at the door of the disco, yelling for me to come out and fight like a man. When the first poor guy walked out the door he leveled him with the tire iron and broke his jaw. He never knew what hit him! When the cops came and saw the guy crawling around the sidewalk they took him in for public drunkenness. God only knows how long it took the cops to figure it out but while the cops had him down town, Curt had plenty of time to work on the poor woman’s Chevy. She never knew where, why, or what for, this guy had it in for her car.                I was told about a week later, Curt and Jim were running there mouth’s off at a local pool hall called the Bank Shot. So I though I’d pay them a visit, maybe knock there heads together, if need be. When I walked in by myself as always, you could have heard a pin drop. I said “If you still got a problem with me lets settle right now boys!”  “No problems from us.” They mumbled. Well that is the end of that story. Oh by the way it took Deb a couple of months to pay me back, but I got every penny back. Now that’s the whole story.