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FIGHT CLUB, CLUB FIGHT
When lovers must be fighters
Each one of us, at least of the male variety, has imagined himself in a fight. Some of us have even been in one, or a few. I recall fighting a guy in maybe fifth grade. He was a bit bigger, and he got me in a headlock in the locker room. I cannot remember what began the fight, but I do remember that he and I were on the same gym team, so it seemed to me even at that age to be contradictory. Once he had me in the headlock, I found that I actually had the advantage -- I was low enough and close to his hips that I controlled where we moved. I moved him forcefully, repeatedly, into the lockers. To this day, I respect Masterlock for its protruding dial, where Yale locks tend to be flat-faced. I more or less won that fight, a victory made all the sweeter when this fellow went on to be a center for the University of Cincinnati football team. He is about thrice my size now. No, we do not keep in touch.
A real fight must come once testosterone has made the rounds through the body, though nowadays most of us have learned a modicum of self-control. But even those who find me rather laid-back and forgiving know that I have an illogical rage that is easily tapped. All of us have that breaking point, and we have envisioned how a fight would go. My blood was up the other night when a friend of mine felt threatened by a creepy guy. She had asked him directions to the bar where we were to meet, and he ended up showing up and checking her out for a while. He left when we did. As there was nothing concrete on which to bash him, he escaped to live another day, while I fed myself on the bitter fumes of unsatisfied fists. But I have played this potential confrontation as well as many similar ones in my head. He, of course, must initiate something offensive, and finds himself slightly surprised that I call him on it:
BRADY: (overly nice) Is there something I can help you with?
JERK: (surprised and wary) What?
BRADY: (with flashing eyes) Well, you're bothering my friend [who happens to be a woman, as really there is nothing else worth fighting over] and I was wondering if there was something I could help you with to make you stop.
Most fights end here, as the perpetrator is so unsettled by my cooling menacing presence that he leaves. Some continue, as not all people are that smart.
JERK: What the hell are you talking about?
BRADY: You're bothering us. I want you to stop.
JERK: What, do you think you're tough?
BRADY: It's best for you if you left. That's all. I have said what I need to say.
JERK: Fuck you, asshole!
BRADY: Do you kiss your sister with that mouth?
--OR-
BRADY: You're a genuine poet.
--OR-
BRADY: Wow, did you read that in a book?
I know there is something better to say here, but any time I think I find it, I forget it. But be assured it would be something witty, caustic, and demoralizing. In some cases, the remark is so pithy that my antagonist immediately realizes he is outclassed and leaves the scene.
JERK: You asked for it---
And he swings at me. I nimbly dodge, and his own velocity makes him fall to the ground. The bar patrons laugh, inciting him all the more.
BRADY: Don't be stupid. Assault easily becomes battery, and I am fully within my rights to defend myself.
He is mad beyond words and attacks. Again, I sidestep, and this time trip him up into a table. He roars at me again, and this time I duck under the oncoming punch.
From here, there are a few options, and each time I fantasize about it, it becomes a structured Choose-Your-Own-Adventure. I might punch him in the neck, throw a single, fight-ending uppercut, punch him in the ear, or twist his arm up behind his back.
Oftentimes, he has friends I must handily dispatch. This fight involves some knee-kicking, which I am not above in the event that the odds are stacked against me. The important fact is that all of my moves and blows are based in possibility -- no high-flying roundhouse kicks or that up-the-wall running I have yet to master.
There are times when a knife is involved, but do not worry -- I manage to disarm the perpetrator and sometimes give him "a taste of his own medicine." By medicine, I mean "knife."
The final influence on the outcome of the story is who is in the crowd. If there is someone I am trying to impress particularly, I often administer first aid to my vanquished foe, along the same lines that Lancelot brings his killed enemy back to life, thus garnering the adulation of the world. More often, though, I coolly finish the rest of my drink, pay my tab and leave the bar. I remain undaunted and unperturbed, ready to fight or love again another day. Or that night, depending on how late it is.
By Brady Richards
020601