Calling it Even

“Fuck ‘em up, Ren!”

“Kick his ass right now!”

My friends cheered me on, not knowing that I could only project the attitude that I could handle myself in a fight. That I could do professionally. In truth, I lose my wits in the midst of battle. What was more scary, I had to piss so bad I feared I would wet myself. Fuck fighting, I needed to get out of there, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I removed my coat from the barstool, put it on and threw the stool, legs-first at my challenger. It would have been a brilliant display of evasion had I not tripped on the threshold of the bar.

I leaped to my feet like a wounded deer and made it to the wooden steps when a beer bottle hit me hard in my lower back. My excited nerves gave me the reaction time I needed in order to break my fall with my forearms, instead of my face, in a mud puddle.

Last time I would go there, even though I liked the bar-tenders and the owner, who felt bad for me and bought my drinks sometimes. No free drinks any more, all because I spilled beer on some yuppie asshole’s suede jacket. That would have been okay between reasonable people, but I was drunk and could not, at the moment, mask my true feelings. “Fuck your jacket,” I mumbled under my breath. Someone heard it and said, “He said ‘Fuck your jacket,’ Bob.” Bob being the owner of the soiled jacket. “That’s right, fuck your bougie-ass jacket!” said of one my friends. Terror had gripped my feet and I could only watch the disaster unfold, like being forced to watch a shitty movie.

So I fell down five steps. That’s where it got worse. I think my friend Jim had went outside to take a phone call and drained his bladder in the same puddle. It smelled like grime and pissy beer. Now so did I. But no time to reflect.

Bob’s whole manner was hard and cold like a granite statue on the North Pole. His short hair-cut, rippling biceps and military tattoo spelled ass-whooping for me. His friends looked fresh from the butcher shop: pure beef, except for their thick iron skulls. It was a fair fight, but only in terms of numbers. My friends only talked about kicking asses. Bob and his steak-heads had received training on how to make short work of people like me, who compulsively avoids conflict.

My decisiveness and a short scuffle in the bar placed the real fight a few blocks away from the original incident. I felt proud of myself for getting that far. Usually, my brain stops working in these situations and all of my attention goes to keeping the shit inside my ass. This time it told me “Just cover your head…cover the head…don’t give him any money.”

The three of us were in an alleyway, a half-block from the vehicle and safety. We made a run for it, but Bob caught up to us and delivered an evil kick to the middle of my back. I covered my head and tried to pull my knees close to my torso. Bob was so drunk that he landed only a couple good kicks to my ribs before his friends pulled him away. My friends sucked the Pittsburgh smog for a breathe on their knees. They could have received worse. I also remember hearing a wet smacking sound on the sidewalk much unlike a blow with a fist. Hollywood is bullshit.

I looked up to see Bob and the steak-heads walking away in their glory. Jim stood as still as a sentinel until they turned the corner. “Get in the car right now. Hurry!”

Just outside of Oakland Jim reached into his coat pocket. “I got your wallet, motherfucker. Ha! Haaa!” he howled.

“Who pissed themselves?” asked Steve.

“I think Jim pissed me. Fell in it when that bottle hit me,” I said.

“Sorry about that,” said Jim. I was too pissed, literally and figuratively to accept their apologies.

“You need to know when to keep you mouth shut. You know I don’t fight,” I said.

“Fuck that dude,” said Steve.

“Who wants some pizza? They do! Stop at that pay-phone,” said Jim.

Not wanting to soil my karma any further, I snatched the wallet, Bob’s driver’s license, $200 cash and two credit cards. “Let’s end the stupidity now,” I said, completely disgusted.

With half of the cash, I bought a new shirt, a pair of pants and paid part of my car insurance. The rest I placed in Bob’s mailbox with an explanatory note, telling him that by my good graces, he had escaped several illegal charges to his good name. The cash, I took as asshole tax as he had no right to abuse someone obviously weaker than himself over a petty accident.

Since that evening, I have seen Bob twice. Each time, he merely raised his bottle to his lips and raised his eyebrows in understanding. In a world that seems locked in an endless cycle of violence and vengeance, it feels good to call it even.

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