Bar Fight

Nobody’s looking for a fight. Ok, that’s not entirely true; there’s always some fucker from the Bronx or from Red Hook looking to prove to the bimbo in the ripped jean jacket and black skirt that he’s not some “little bitch” just because he cried when she dumped him last week. That guy is taking his friends to all the clubs where the trendy college kids hang out and they’re going to spill their beer on you and me and try to get our cockles raised. They are going to get right in our faces, totally forgetting that Brittney or Lindsey or even Marline can’t see them get all pumped and angry, raging with the same testosterone they felt they lacked when they were on all fours begging their (now absent) sport fuck not to leave. These thugs are taking off their jackets showing off their tight wife-beaters and gold chains while their smaller friends jump up and down behind them saying words of encouragement like:

“Oh you gonna fuck him UP, Tony!”

“Teach this little bitch, Evan! You teach HIM!”

So he’s half naked, his beer is spilt, his friends are ready and he’s jumping up and down with his head cocked slightly to the right. Now prepare to get hit.
The first hit can tell you a lot about your assailant. If it’s to the chest or arm, or softly to the side of the head, he isn’t into this. He is just trying to be the big man in front of his dumb ass buddies and it’s too late to back down. Act tough, stand your ground and look to your friends and you can diffuse the situation before he feels really cornered and starts to fight hard. If you push the issue he’ll turn mean and get his friends to help beat on you. It’s never worth it. Apologize for whatever transgression he assumed you committed, and then buy him a beer. He’ll go away feeling like he won.

If he goes to tackle you, it’s even worse. This type of guy REALLY doesn’t want to fight. He is depressed and needs a hug. The physical contact of his victim is the biggest rush for him. You’ll often see these guys crying before you’ve landed a hit. Careful, because they are often really drunk and might just take this tender moment and ruin it by puking on you. Call him a cab.

Some guys aim for the stomach or face first. These jerks are dangerous. They really want to fight and you just happen to be the guy in the way. They might even want YOU to throw the first punch, just to show you that they can take it. They’ll goad you with insults and racial slurs; they try to emasculate. If you break, you will throw something like an obvious right-hook and he’ll block it (or take it) and level you with a straight shot to your mouth. When you hit the ground he’ll kick you and try to get you back up for gut shots and kidney hits. If he’s European he might even head-butt you. Soccer fans love that… can’t explain it. Prepare for some bruises and scratches. Cover your head and you should stay out of the hospital if he doesn’t have a bottle or stool in his hand that is. I hate this guy.

But other than these sad sacks, nobody is looking for a fight. But they happen. We are social animals that use drugs. What a combination. You’re going to get drunk and piss off another drunk and sometimes things can’t be solved with slurred words. Nothing can verbalize a punch. You can’t talk to a kick. Most chokeholds refuse to listen. Don’t worry. You might even be friends after. I promise. It’s a release. It’s not changing the world. It’s only a broken knuckle, wrist or nose. A cracked smile and a story to tell. You got into a fight.

My first fight in a bar started innocently enough. I was drunk. My ex, Sarah, was celebrating some promotion or big case closing or something with co-workers. I didn’t care. It was free drinks and I was invited. If the drinks were free, I would drink on the surface of the moon (or even Brighton Beach). This was a bar called the Shallow Well in the West Village, so the treat tonight was watered down expensive drinks for free. I was drinking Johnny Walker Black on the rocks. Well, it was on water on the rocks. Whatever. It was free.

As with most fancy dress affairs, she was schmoozing. Talking to all her friends and people of influence. She always had this fake smile and even faker laugh when with her “working” friends. Every once and awhile she would glance my way with her steel blue eyes and flash me the “don’t get too drunk, you’ll embarrass me” look. The drinks had more chlorine than alcohol in them so there was little chance of that. But I was giving it the college try.

I only really started downing them when she began entertaining one of her platinum-haired, 50-something, overly tanned bosses. Her hand on his lap, her black dress looked even shorter when next to this older man she fawned over. They share a laugh, he gets her another drink and I wince and turn away. Back to the watery whiskey and the hole it’s slowly filling. Forget misery; jealousy is the emotional demon that really enjoys company. I scanned the room for the first half-drunk twit secretary that was moderately alone.

Karen, receptionist, shoe with a broken heel. Perfect.

I made my way over to the mousey girl stirring her drink while starring off into the distance. The dialogue was as watery as my drink. Nice weather, good job, neat place, feeling kinda tipsy, how was your day? Nothing but mindless light words, but the booze lubricated the conversation into a more physical association. I swing my arm around her and she giggles and puts an unsteady hand on my knee. Gotcha! I look over to see if I can’t get the attention of my girlfriend and the silver fox she was eye fucking, but she’s alone. She’s looking at me with a glass of white wine in her hand and a look of disgusted amazement on her face.

I politely excuse myself from Karen’s drunken company and half run to Sarah at the bar. She is so furious she can barely look at me and is speaking in half stutter snarls.

“So you… fuck … you having a good time? A nice time with that slut?” She lingers on that last word for like 5 seconds too long. She downs the glass of wine and nearly breaks the stem slamming it on the bar. I try to settle her down with a cup of honesty.

“What can you possibly have to be mad about? We didn’t do anything and I KNOW I saw you cuddling up to that stuffed suit.” Turnabout is a bitch, but she’s drunk enough to be indignant.

“What are you talking about? Carl is a FRIEND and we were just talking.”

“You were talking while he was setting you up for a night of carnal bliss. Oh, and you looked REAL repulsed.”

“Fuck you! What the fuck do you know?” She’s now waving her glass at me and it’s about an inch from my face. She smells like wine, lip-gloss and sweat and she’s about twice as drunk as me. I guess I should have stuck with the wine.

As I am settling down this crazy woman and thinking of changing my drink order, a figure comes up behind Sarah and puts a hand on her shoulder. It’s her “friend” Carl.

“So I took care of the business with the accounting guys. You wanna take off? Find a place with a few less people?” His tone is confident and his voice is like gravel over smooth leather. And he’s not talking to me.

Sarah looks honestly embarrassed. The white skin turns scarlet from her nearly exposed chest and spreads to her worried face. My crimson color change begins in the corners of my eyes and on the knuckles of each fist. I let him know he’s not wanted and this is a private conversation.

“Back off you ancient fuck. She’s with me, grandpa.” It’s important to maintain a sense of dominance over an opponent. Belittle their prominent traits and give them a wide berth to back down. Claim your prize, tell the rival he needs to leave and make fun of his height if he’s short, looks if he’s ugly, clothes if they’re cheap or age if it suits him. This jerk has a foot on me and he looked like Remington Steele’s father, so I went with age. As expected he took offense, but he took the supposed high road.

“Sarah, darling, is the asshole bothering you?” The condescending prick. As I reel back and begin my approach I can feel my drunk settle into my stomach. I want blood. I raise my hands to his chest and give him a quick shove. The energy rises. The air is electric as he gives me a stare of pure hate. His drunk is almost as strong as mine and he wears is just as well. His tone switches from smooth foppishness to sticky acid.

“You little punk. You bit off more than you can handle son.” He is used to speaking down to people and it oozes from his every pore. He is the boss, the check signer and the Alpha Dog. He worked for a living and he would be damned if some tie-less hipster from Brooklyn will stand in the way of his good time. It’s an old story and one I am intimately familiar with.

He was just like my least favorite bully from back in high school. He never let me forget that he was older, wiser and stronger. And he never let me have an even break. It was his boot in my face and if I ever dared to step out of line he would drop a quick right cross into my cheek. This felt so familiar. Jump ahead thirty years and Carl could have been the same guy. It wouldn’t surprise me. And from that I can almost feel his next move. He drops his shoulder, raises his arm and sends me a quick email about where the hit is coming from. Even as drunk as I am, I am ready for it. I take a quick step back and let him continue his foolish swing, totally planning to slam the exposed side of his head.

But I couldn’t. Oh, it wasn’t my abhorrence of violence or anything (this guy was ripe for a beating). It was just that Sarah happened to block Carl’s punch with her left eye… and it kind of killed the mood.

I must admit she could take a hit. She buckled on the bar stool, but didn’t topple. Tears shrink-wrapping her unblinking eyes, she let out the most pathetic whimper. I’m still not sure which of the three was more shocked at this point. I just stood there like an exhausted tourist waiting for the bus. Carl looked like he wanted to run, but it was Sarah that grabbed her bag and went for the door. We both make several weak attempts to stop her, just to see if she’s okay. But she won’t be halted by any half-measures. Inconsolable, she is out the door and halfway down the block in a matter of seconds. The insanity unfolded before me, and it was too unbelievable to react to. Madness on drunkenness on violence, but the situation seemed more orderly than it did a minute earlier.

Both Carl and I stood there for what seemed like eons before I managed to break the thick, uncomfortable silence.

“Buy you a drink?”