Tonight I'm watching two grown men beat the snot out of each other. It’s a bit ridiculous. These guys are well into their 30s; they’re dressed professionally; they’re drinking in a fairly respectable establishment; and they’re pitching fists at each other as if it were fourth-grade recess. I’m not really sure how it started, but if I had to guess I would say it has something to do with the woman now standing in the middle of this fracas screaming, “Go fuck yourself, Tim! This has nothing to do with you!” Seems like a safe bet, wouldn’t you agree?
The fight, a pathetic tornado of poorly aimed haymakers and torn Banana Republic clothing, reminds me of my college years. As a senior, I bounced at the Palace in Saugus. Yeah, a résumé-building career highlight, for sure. I used to wear a neon-orange STAFF jacket that I wore tucked into my jeans (screw you, it was the early ’90s), and I would stand against the wall, put a scowl on my face, and do my best to look like a legitimate badass. Guess what? I’m not one. I’m about as dangerous as a cotton ball. I only took the job because I thought it would be a great way to meet girls. Lucky for me, my fellow bouncers were your more traditional North Shore doormen. I’m not sure what they enjoyed more: getting into a fight or talking about it afterward. I mean, what fun is punching a guy in the face if you can’t spend the next four hours glorifying the event to your good buddy Anthony? “Hey Ant! Did you see me punch that dude in the face? Fagettaboutit!”
Truth is, I’ve never been much of a fighter. In fact, I’ve only been in an actual bar fight once in my life. I was in Faneuil Hall (go figure) and some drunken Irish guy (go figure) was being disrespectful to the girl I was with, so I puffed up my chest, got in his face, and told him (in much more colorful language than what follows) that I’d be keeping my eye on him. Well, apparently I should have kept my eye on his friends. You see, fighting the Irish is like swatting mosquitoes. Sure, you were able to slap the one chewing on your leg, but six others just came out of nowhere and they’re most likely going to send you home covered in lumps. The sucker-punch came from my left. I never saw it coming. However, I did manage to hit one of the lads before balling up on the floor in a pool of beer and a hail-storm of Doc Martens. I was later told that the guy who hit me broke his hand. OH YEAH … THAT’S RIGHT! YOU WANT SOME MORE OF THAT SHIT? See what I mean? Total pussy.
My attention snaps back to the evening’s main event when I’m nearly knocked from my bar-stool by the aforementioned tornado of maturity. Look, if you want to bleed all over yourself in public, that’s your prerogative. Just don’t involve me! My fighting days (no matter how pathetic) are over. As I see it, violence isn’t a sign of strength; it’s a sign of weakness. Any real man knows how to walk away. But hey, maybe you disagree with me. Maybe you have a problem with what I’m saying. If so, I’m more than happy to discuss this with you further, outside.
