Ain't That a Punch in the Face

It started out as such a fun night. Stacy and I parked behind Tear-EZ around 7:00 and had one drink in the bar. Then we walked up Main Street to the Civic Theater. It’s probably not even half a mile, but any distance feels like an accomplishment with Stacy. Her stamina for physical activity is seriously low after a year and a half of chemo, steroids, radiation and wasting away on the couch. Some days, though, she seems quite energetic.

This was one of those days. The walk was pleasant though slow, and we arrived just in time to miss the crowds but still get good seats. We were seeing Susan Westenhoefer, a lesbian comedienne that Stacy had seen before. They had the audience seated on the stage, making the already interesting venue seem intimate and cozy. Though we arrived mere minutes before the general-admission show started, an usher took us right up to a pair of seats in the center of the second row.

So many times, it seems, when I’m with Stacy we get rock-star treatment: great parking, good seats, cheap drinks.

The show was fun and long with a singer/songwriter playing guitar as an opening act. Afterward, we strolled back up Main Street to Tear-EZ, which was our plan from the beginning.

As midnight neared, the bar got crowded like it usually does. It’s always a good mix of over-30 men and some women with all sizes, shapes and colors represented. The weekly drag show got underway, and I noticed a short-ish black guy in an enormous knit hat with his taller girlfriend. She was noticeable for the bright pink weave in her hair. They sat atop one another on a barstool next to the tiny stage, which was directly across from us.

Stacy and I and our friend, Dave—a short-of-stature 70-year-old with glasses—occupied three stools along the bar. Eventually, Dave got up to go the restroom. Almost immediately, the short black guy and his pink-haired girlfriend came across the narrow bar and sat on Dave’s barstool.

Stacy said, “Hey you can’t sit there; our friend is coming back. I mean, you can sit there for a minute, but you gotta move when he comes back.”

I saw him nod at Stacy; Stacy says she remembers him saying some version of “okay.”

From this point forward, there are significant gaps in my memory, as well as Stacy’s and Dave’s. We’ve pieced together most of it, and I hear there is video from a bartender’s phone that the police now have. I hope to see it one day and fill in those gaps.

Here’s our collective idea of what happened:

Dave came back from the restroom and said to Shorty (over the din of whatever disco song the drag queen was lip-syncing), “Excuse me, sir, but that’s my seat.”

Dave says Shorty replied with, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Dave’s answer? “I’m talking to you.”

The next thing I saw was Shorty landing a thunderous right and then a left on the two sides of Dave’s head. I saw his shiny black forearms pump up and down as his body pivoted slightly.

Stacy and I were both almost immediately yelling for the guy to stop. Stacy says I moved past her toward Shorty to intervene.

I must have. My next memory is of standing close to the stage with my glasses in my left hand, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face. All I could see was Stacy on the stage on top of Shorty.

I do not recall getting hit. However, an angry purple V shape blossomed very quickly under my right eye, attesting to it.

None of us knows how Shorty exited the bar, but the cops showed up lickety-split. In my mind only a second or two passed between seeing Stacy on top of Shorty and finding a short, slightly Hispanic-looking police officer in front of me. He asked my social security number and address then snapped a photo of my face with his cell phone.

At the moment, I didn’t really understand why. My mind had great difficulty processing what had just happened. It’s like the morning last summer when I came down to the garage to find my Jeep door slightly ajar and the glove box and console open. I truly could not understand what I was seeing for several minutes. I kept thinking, why did I leave my door open and everything so messy? Eventually I realized someone had tried to burgle it.

The same process moved slowly through my mind last Saturday night at the bar. The cop asked me something like what happened, and I remember shouting, “He fucking hit four people!”

The cop asked me if I would come to the station to press charges. I said—or more accurately yelled; I had had several drinks before all of this—a resounding yes. The cop repeated the yes under his breath while almost imperceptibly pumping his fist the way one does after a strike in bowling.

I’m pretty sure I cried more after that. I think I asked Stacy over and over again if she was okay. I have no idea how long the whole incident took.

Stacy asked the cop if he would give us all a ride to the police station to press charges. Stacy really doesn’t like to walk; the station is only about four blocks from the bar. But the cop said okay.

The three of us went out the front door of the bar to find the street awash in red and blue flashing lights. The girlfriend with the pink hair stood against the storefront next to Tear-EZ with some other girls. As we started into the street to get into the squad car, we overheard Pink Hair asking the cops whether “he gonna be able to come home tonight.”

I know I shouted back, but I’m uncertain about exactly what. It was something along the lines of “No he isn’t, not if I have anything to do with it.”

The short, slightly Hispanic cop immediately admonished us to get into the car and that he didn’t want to hear another peep out of us. I believe he actually used the word ‘peep.’

The back seat of the squad car was incredibly uncomfortable. It was hard plastic with a raised place in the middle where an armrest would be in another car. Stacy sat atop that hard rise with me on her left and Dave on her right. She had to keep her head bent against the low ceiling.

We read and signed paperwork to charge Shorty with assault. We also signed restraining orders in case he got released and tried to come after any of us. That was probably the scariest moment for me: realizing that this violent man might try to find us and hurt us again. The woman behind the counter said it was just a precaution and that we probably weren’t in any danger.

As we walked the few blocks back to the bar, we shouted and vented our adrenaline into the nearly deserted streets.

We received a lot of free drinks and pats on the back and sympathetic looks for the rest of the night. Monday morning, we all showed up in court for Shorty’s arraignment.

I didn’t recognize him. And he was even shorter than I had remembered. Judge Micheal placed him on $20,000/10% bond. He said he was unemployed.

I really don’t know how to feel about all of this. I’m conflicted. On the one hand, I’m kind of proud that I was able to take a hard punch to the face and not pass out or drop to the floor. On the other hand, I am shocked and saddened to have been involved with such senseless violence.

What set him off? What convinces a young man—the judge said he was 28—to just haul off and start punching strangers? I suppose we could have been intimidating, but I really don’t see how. A five-foot-nothing 70-year-old man and two small-framed dykes does not seem like a group that could easily stimulate the fight-or-flight response of this guy.

He’s got a record of assaults and robbery, which is why his bond was so high. I spent a day or two after the incident trying to imagine what his circumstance was and why he was so short-fused. Maybe he was an abused child, raised in poverty where violence was his only role model. Maybe he was on drugs. Maybe he had been to prison and wanted to go back. I’ve heard about people becoming institutionalized and being unable to adapt to life on the outside.

I even imagined a scenario where he was terribly homophobic but his girlfriend really wanted to go to the gay bar. Maybe she fetishized gay people or just liked the music selections. Maybe she was testing him, knew he was homophobic and wanted to push his buttons for her own reasons. Then she gets him into Tear-Ez, and he’s already on edge. He doesn’t want to be there, tells himself that if any homos touch him he’ll beat them to a pulp. Then Dave comes back from the restroom and wants his bar stool back. Snap!

The truth is that I need to stop imagining his situation. The truth is that violence is never the correct reaction to a social situation. The truth is that it is not okay to go into a public place and wreak violence on peaceful people and expect to get away with it.

The truth is that I am proud of myself for standing up and stepping in when my friend was being hurt. That is always the kind of person I want to be, the kind that risks getting hurt in order to help someone else.

My shiner will fade, as will Stacy’s and Dave’s. But Shorty’s going to be cooling his heels in jail for a long time.

New Attitude

I’ve had a lot of time away from the office these past couple of weeks. The holidays falling on Mondays made for long weekends, and I capitalized on that as much as possible. I find that my attitude at work is, shall we say, less eager of late.

My new editor and I are getting along very well. We discuss strategies for future stories, and she asks my opinion on treatments and angles. We’ve read and edited each other’s work by now, as well, so we understand each other’s skill level much better.

As great as that is, I am acutely aware of the precarious nature of print publication in terms of economic viability. I realize that I cannot depend on that job for long-term security. So I don’t.

The freelance work is really ramping up. If the flow continues as it has, I could make the transition to full-time freelancing — which would support at least considering letting the office job go. That will be a difficult decision, but I need to leave some mental space for it. After all, letting the university job go turned out to be much easier than anticipated. All I had to do was change my attitude.

My attitude at the office job has pivoted toward self-interest. For example: Rather than ask if I could have extra time off over the holidays, I told my bosses when I could come in. This may sound like a small thing, but it’s a big step for me. I am accustomed to being an employee who asks permission and fulfills expectations.

An acquaintance recently talked to me about his job in this way. He was tired of putting in more effort than required and feeling like his time was being wasted. His solution was to make his job work for him, rather than him always working for his job. I like that.

Something I’ve long struggled with is valuing my work, my abilities, my time. The tiny step of telling my bosses that I was not coming in certain days – and seeing them simply accept it as fact – felt huge.

I am beginning to believe that I can make my life exactly how I want it to be.

As I round the corner on a full year of being on my own, I am finally beginning to trust myself a bit more. I recently decided to pass on a cheaper apartment that came onto my radar unexpectedly. The prospect of lower monthly bills could not eclipse my attachment to my present cozy place. And, more importantly, that decision entails the inherent belief that I am going to be able to earn enough income to cover all my bills without the university gig. It used to be very difficult for me to have that much faith in myself.

My relationship with Stacy helps. She seems to have incredible faith in my abilities and sees no reason why I shouldn’t have exactly the life I want. Her steadfast, solid support makes it easier for me to believe, as well.

No one can see the future until it becomes the present. The trick is to make the most of the present so you’re ready for whatever the future brings. A tricky trick indeed. The other tricky part is letting the past go to make room for the future. I’m closing in on this one more easily than I thought I would. All it takes is practice and a new attitude.

The Future Tense

2017 has been a year of new: new apartment, new relationships, new attitude. It was also a year of firsts: first dates, first bus trips, first experiences alone, first attempts at independence.

2018 promises to be just as exciting and terrifying in its own way. After jumping feet first into the deep end of the unknown, I have surfaced and learned to swim. I practice honesty and self-care, I don’t deny myself pleasure, and I’m beginning to believe that I really do deserve ice cream, sex and happiness.

This year feels like another clean slate. Turning the page on the calendar brings an opportunity to start fresh and embrace change. I don’t make new year’s resolutions, but I believe in the power of accountability. The future tense always implies a promise: I will. It’s a pledge to fulfill the promise of one’s words.

This year, I will be my best self, living my best life. I will be honest with myself and others; I will be kind to myself and others; I will see the beauty and joy in myself and others.

I will work hard and leave my work behind on a regular basis to focus on the people I love. I will let myself be creative and not hide my creativity from others. I will be brave. I will fail and begin again however often I need to.

I will love freely and without expectation of reward or return. I will accept love and respect from others because I deserve them both. I will give the benefit of the doubt to those who seem to hurt me. I will forgive.

2017 saw good and bad for me, though the scales tipped toward the former in the last few months of the year. I stumbled in the spring, mostly because I clung to old ideas that kept me from embracing change. Once I got the hang of honesty, it became a beneficial habit, like flossing.

2018 holds great promise on many fronts. Work, friends, love, health: I don’t want to jinx it, but all systems are running smoothly at the moment. I’m gonna leap confidently into the great void of my future and expect the net to appear. It always has before.