Jimmy Franks stabbed me in the leg last year. It was a Friday night and we were both at Reno’s Icehouse, this bar on the outskirts of Newell, because a mutual friend of ours, Becky Fielder, was singing there. She does cover songs, mostly old country stuff—Loretta, Dolly, Jessi. Becky’s not the best singer in the world, but she does a good job, and she usually would draw 30, 40 people when she played there, which was a lot for a place that small. Made it really cramped, which is why I got stabbed.

I hadn’t even wanted to go out that night. It’d been a long day at the plant and all I really wanted to do was crack open a Coors and watch the Astros on the couch. But Shelley really wanted to go, and Reno’s wasn’t the kind of place you went alone. Lot of bikers there. Usually would be a fight every other weekend.

We got there a little after 8, so we missed Becky’s first few songs. That was fine though, because she usually played all the good ones twice. She was halfway through Kitty Wells’ “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels” when we sat down at the bar and ordered a pitcher of beer. For the next two hours, we drank and listened to her sing and we drank some more, and when she came over on her break, she drank some with us too.

Fast forward to 10:30 or so, when Shelley and I thought we’d pop outside for a quick smoke. Like I said, it was a crowded night at Reno’s, and as we were making our way toward the door, I bumped into Jimmy Franks. And when I say “bumped,” I don’t just mean that I saw him. I mean I physically bumped into him, which knocked the beer bottle out of his hands, shattering it across the floor. It wasn’t on purpose, but Jimmy Franks is a real piece of shit, so I’m not sorry it happened either. If I was gonna break anyone’s beer bottle, I’m glad it was his. Well, in the abstract, at least.

See, what happened next was Jimmy pulled a knife out of his pocket and lunged at me. We’d had a few issues in the past—I used to date one of his exes, like 25 years ago—but I didn’t think they were the kind of issues you get stabbed over. But there the motherfucker was, coming at me with a knife, yelling, “I’ll kill you, Larry.” I put my leg up to try kicking him away and he plunged the blade right into my shin. Hard, too—it got stuck in there. The whole bar screamed and everyone cleared out. Cops showed up and took Jimmy in for the night, but I told ‘em the next morning I didn’t want to press charges, so they let him out. He’d been plastered when it happened and I guess I technically started it, so whatever—I didn’t have time to go testify in court, and Jimmy had kids to feed.

But I kept the knife. It was a really good knife—the handle was made from camel bone and it had Jimmy grandfather’s initials carved into it. Same knife that I used to remember the old man whittling with back when we were kids, when I’d hang out with the Frank boys on occasion. It was a family heirloom, and that was why I kept it, because I figured that if you’re gonna get stabbed, you might as well get something out of it.

Anyway, that’s not the story here. The story’s what happened two nights ago when I ran into Jimmy’s brother Arnold at the new Buffalo Wild Wings out in Boonestra. It was Boneless Thursday, which meant buy-one-get-one-free boneless wings, so Shelley and I went down there since we both love a good deal, even though a 30-minute drive for dinner’s a bit of a hike these days. I’ve mostly stopped going out since the stabbing. I was really paranoid for a while about not wanting to get stabbed again, since that shit hurt.

Ever since that night, I’d kept the knife with me—a memento, a badge of honor, something. It was always in my front pocket and I never planned to use it or anything, but it just felt better, having it with me.

We were getting ready to pay our tab when Arnold Franks walked in the door. He got seated right beside us. I don’t know Arnold like I knew Jimmy, but we knew who each other were, so I kicked Shelley’s leg and mouthed “let’s get going.” But it was too late: Arnold had turned his chair around to face me the moment he sat down.

“Where’s the knife?” he asked. Straight to the point.

“One your brother got me with?” I said. “Right here.” I dramatically pat my leg.

“That’s easy enough. Can I get it back?”

“No way. It’s mine now.”

“Man, that’s got sentimental value. Paw-Paw had it custom-made like 60 years ago.”

“If your brother hadn’t pulled it on me, he’d still have it.”

“Jimmy was having a bad night.”

“Yeah, well I had a pretty bad night myself after that.”

“Do we have to do this the hard way?”

“What do you mean? You going to stab me too.”

“No, but we can go outside and settle this with our fists.”

“I could have put your goddamn brother in the slammer if I wanted to. I’m the one in the right here.”

“I don’t care who’s right. I just want my Paw-Paw’s knife.”

I lifted up my pant leg and pointed to the scar, which took up most of my shin. “Maybe if this ever goes away, I’ll think about giving it back.”

“Shit, Jimmy didn’t say it was that bad. Okay, forget the whole fighting shit. But it’s still sentimental, man.”

“If you really wanted the knife back, y’all’ve known this whole time how to reach me. Hard to believe you’re sincere when you accost me and my wife in a fucking B-Dubs.”

“Jesus, man. I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s an heirloom and I don’t think my brother being a dumb ass should make the rest of the family suffer.”

“How ‘bout I will it to you when you die. Or your kid, if you’re dead by then.”

“You really ain’t giving me the knife?”

“I really ain’t giving you the knife.”

Arnold Franks looked like he was about to cry, which is weird to see because no one’s ever seen a Franks cry. They all have this tough guy demeanor. I started to think that maybe the right thing to do was to forgive. Let him have the knife back. It wasn’t Arnold who stabbed me. I put my hand in my jeans for a second, hovering over the knife, about to pull it out, give it back, end this whole damn mess. But just as my hand touched the handle, I saw a smile come across Arnold’s face, like he knew he was about to get one over on me. I pulled my hand back out. The waitress brought my credit card back and then, without a word, I stood up. Shelley followed, and without a word, we walked out of Buffalo Wild Wings. I didn’t look back to see what Arnold Franks was doing.