THE HECKLEBURGER INCIDENT

In my younger days, my friend Bob and I went fishing in and around the Pinnebog River. We wore burlap sacks across our shoulders, held five-prong spears in our hands, and took turns carrying a kerosene lantern. We moved slowly, our waders pushing against the current, our legs occasionally getting thumped as we stabbed at the murky shadows until our spears came to life. There’s nothing more thrilling than having a large fish, mainly suckers, violently thrashing about on those five-prong spears.

Once our burlap sacks became too heavy to carry, we called it quits, throwing our equipment and the fish into the trunk of my car. It was time for a Heckleburger, fries, and a beer, or two, or three … at Heck’s Bar in Pinnebog.

As we sat at the bar scarfing down our food, I noticed fish eggs all over Bob’s clothes. “You’re just as bad,” he said, pointing to a smeary slime on my sweatshirt. It must have oozed through the burlap. None of the locals seemed to mind, including the bartender. We ended up closing the place.

A few years later, we grabbed our fishing poles and tackle boxes and headed for Caseville. We traveled Van Dyke Road, more commonly known as M53—it splits Michigan’s thumb right down the middle, a semi-straight line except for one left turn at an intersection in Bad Axe, before continuing all the way to the tip. But we weren't heading for Port Austin, so we veered onto Pinnebog Road just before entering Bad Axe. Pinnebog Road has plenty of twists and turns, however, it ends at Kinde Road, and more conveniently, the parking lot of Heck’s Bar.

During our two-hour drive, Bob kept telling me that the Heckleburger had to be the best damned burger in Michigan. “Can we stop there?” he asked.

“Yeah, I suppose.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him Heck’s Bar purchases their hamburger patties from the McDonald’s in Bad Axe. Instead, I told him, “You like the Heckleburger because it’s cooked.” He knew I was referring to kibbe, a Lebanese dish of raw meat I tried at his parent’s home once.

When we entered Heck’s we couldn’t belly up to the bar, too many locals, so we sat near the billiards table instead.

“Hey canary bird,” one of the locals started yelling. “Hey canary bird.” He was referring to the bright yellow shirt Bob had on.

We laughed at first. “Just ignore him,” I said.

“Hey canary bird, canary bird,” he repeated, his buddy making a silly cooing noise as they picked up some cue sticks off the wall rack.

"He's really annoying," Bob said, "and this burger taste like shit, not like they used to."

"We were drunk the last time we ate them," I explained.

"Hey canary bird," the man continued, facing us, his cue stick resting diagonally across his body. His buddy behind him, waiting, the butt of his cue stick touching the floor.

It was fairly obvious we were out of towners and these clowns wanted to fight. I was more concerned about Bob then myself on account of his Middle Eastern descent. “Okay guys, “ I said, “knock it off!”

“Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?” the first heckler said.

I tensed up. I told him the only thing that might save us—my last name.

“Are you LeRoy’s boy?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I lied. LeRoy was my dad’s cousin. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since my dad broke his nose during a fishing outing, the family tree permanently splintered. I had become my second cousin that night, a farm boy from Marlette, and Bob and I made it out of there unharmed.