Nothing says “sorry” like a fist.
***
Lauren told me about the guy before:
They had met at work and hung out all the time. She was still living at home and whenever she stayed out, she would say she was staying at her friend’s. Nobody knew she was with him; and even though they were always together they never called each other boyfriend and girlfriend.
He told her that when he was younger, he had loved a girl and they had even been engaged, but the girl had called it off; she broke his heart. And since then, he said, he messed with girls.
I wasn’t sure what that meant. And I asked Lauren if he had “messed” with her.
Lauren looked down at the floor and said, “He would do this thing where he would act like he was going to hit me.”
♦◊♦
In public school I never flinched at the false blows guys throw to show that they are in control, that they could follow through, that they had power. I knew if you didn’t flinch, then that was supposed to show you weren’t afraid. But I didn’t flinch because I thought the game was stupid.
In addition to not flinching, I developed a no-fucking-around stare after I got in one fight back in seventh grade. I had held a kid in a headlock and made him apologize to me. Once, I shared this fight story with a guy in my high school debate class because I wanted to seem macho after he had told me about beating up kids for no reason.
That guy had said he would hit the soft parts of a kid’s body: nose, eyeballs, throat, anywhere on the face; so the kid couldn’t hide from his friends that he just had his ass kicked. I didn’t ask, but I believe because the guy thought I was a fighter he felt he could tell me how to do it: “Hit hard. Hit him as hard as you can at the beginning and just keep hitting, homey. Whale on that motherfucker.”
♦◊♦
I don’t know the guy before’s name or even what he looks like. Lauren never told me. If I knew, then I’d imagine:
I would come out of nowhere. His survival instinct would kick in and he’d try his hardest to fight or escape, but I would be ready with my glasses already off and my running sneakers on. I’d catch him if I had to and I’d beat the soft parts of his face: nose, eyeballs, throat. I would keep whaling on that motherfucker until he crumpled and then I would stand over the puddle of what he once was. He would have to know that I didn’t have any mercy for him, so instead of pleading, in between his gargles for breath, he would ask, “Why?”
In that moment, his question to me would also be my question to myself. I would answer:
“I don’t want you to say you’re sorry; I want you to be sorry.”
Read more in Cameron Conaway’s series, “What’s Your Fight?” on The Good Life.
Standing at the bottom of the short staircase, I saw the belch of fire, felt the burn as my head swung to the side. Wetness trickled down my temple as I turned to run. I thought I’d been hit; it was just the powder; I had been grazed across the top of my head. This was the aftermath of me beating this dudes ass, running him off the block, humiliating this dude and letting him live. I’ve got major hands they say in my hood, but this night taught me much. Dudes ain’t just taking ass whoopings no more.
Dunno, man. I was 17 or so in the same type of situation. Had this girl I liked talking about how her ex (a friend of mine) was a real dickhead and would push her around, that he was stalking her. I wasn’t dating her but it kind of got at me in a visceral way. I found the guy (wasn’t hard he was a friend) and decided I was going to show him how I felt about it. So I saw him sitting in his truck and walked up saying ‘hey man, blah blah blah’ then shot a couple… Read more »
The hulk of a man with a beer in his hand looked like a drunk old fool, And I knew that if I hit him right, I could knock him off that stool. But everybody said, “Watch out — that’s Tiger Man McCool. He’s had a whole lot of fights, and he always come out the winner. Yeah, he’s a winner.” But I’d had myself about five too many, and I walked up tall and proud, I faced his back and I faced the fact that he’d never stooped or bowed. I said, “Tiger Man, you’re a pussycat,” and a… Read more »