Then I go to the Park, I’m hanging out with the boys, telling them the story about this nut going off on me for no apparent reason. And then another stranger, this Asian college student, shows up and says: “HEY, I HAVE FOUR BOXES OF FRESH PIZZA IF ANYBODY IS HUNGRY.”
And that’s cool. But the confusing philosophical question is this: One stranger wants to fuck with me for no apparent reason. And another stranger wants to help me for no apparent reason. And neither of them makes any apparent sense. . . . Though I have to believe it all makes sense on some level. . . . I guess that’s my ultimate philosophical leap of faith: That this life makes sense. Even when it often doesn’t seem to.
* * *
Anyways, I leave the men’s room in disgust without even taking a leak. This young Latino guy in a blue Warriors jersey immediately follows me out of the men’s room, pushes his chest into mine and angrily confronts me.
“DID YOU SPLASH ME??” he said
“No, I didn’t splash you,” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“YOU SPLASHED ME IN THERE!!” he said.
I made a bee-line back upstairs. Grabbed my backpack and started organizing myself for my departure. Then I noticed through the front window that the guy with the Warriors jersey was right outside on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth and glaring at me like he’s waiting for me to come out. What the fuck. How did I get myself in the middle of this? I killed a few minutes milling around with the people at the bar, figuring the guy would get distracted (whiskey-bingers usually have the attention-span of a flea) and go off in search of some other victim. Then I darted out the front door and headed up Telegraph Avenue in the opposite direction of the asshole.
I darted up Durant Street thinking I had escaped from the asshole. Only to realize, to my dismay, that the asshole had followed me and was running towards me shouting: “YOU SPLASHED ME!!”
I turned and confronted him: “No I didn’t splash you,” I said.
“Oh. OK,” he said. “I’m a nice guy.” That seemed to placate him. He turned and started walking back towards the bar.
“All right, cool cat,” I said. Thinking we had resolved the grievance. Whatever the hell the grievance had actually been.
Instead, he turned around and shouted at me: “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME??!!”
Then he charged at me and started pummeling me with punches. I had my arms up protectimg my head, so even though he was flailing away at me, none of the punches did any damage, except for one that hit my knuckle (it was a little sore the next day). And hopefully the Asshole broke a few bones in his hands while he was flailing away.
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU??” I asked, in all sincerity.
Which seemed to strike a nerve with the Asshole. Probably because it’s a question he grapples with on a daily basis. So he turned and headed back to the bar. And the whole thing was over as quickly as it had started.
Sometimes I think there’s something a little unmanly about me. Because I generally go out of my way to avoid getting in fights. Even when someone sincerely deserves to get their fucking ass beat. I guess I feel kind of squeamish about physical violence. I find all that “macho” stuff vaguely ridiculous. Even as I’m 6-foot, about 200 pounds, and could probably do some damage if somebody really pushed me. . . Every now and then someone will push me too far, and I’ll actually start throwing punches back at the asshole. But the problem is: After a minute or two, my rage will subside and I’ll feel like a fool dancing around in public throwing punches. I’ll complete lose interest in the fight. But I have to will myself to keep fighting, because you can’t just stop at the point, because the other guy is still flailing away. You can’t just stop dancing in the middle of a dance. Once you make that commitment you’ve got to play the whole stupid thing out to it’s conclusion.
I guess my attitude, re avoiding fights, is this: “It’s a big world. And the whole point is to occupy a part of it that doesn’t include the Asshole.” That attitude seems to make sense. So I’m sticking with it until further notice.