This was a tag team fight, couple versus couple,
ex-lover versus new lover. On our side was Helen Crabgrass, a white
girl, a petite little snapper from a bad home. She must have been
about 16. Her partner, my buddy Mark, another white boy, was an
upper-middle-working class kid known more for his sharp wit than his
hard hit. Helen's opponent was a young lady by the name of Bobby-Joe
Burbank. Bobby stood about 5-11, a big girl who looked oriental
but was supposedly part Cherokee. She too was from a bad background,
a singular trailer that she'd grown up in with daddy, down next to
the metal scrap-yard near the Kellogg-Post's Housing Projects.
Bobby-Joe's boyfriend and tag team partner was Helen's ex. His name
was Richard Townsend. He was short and stocky and had an eye twitch,
but I did not know this yet; the fight was such a sudden blur, and
Richard and I were yet to become friends. I only knew then
that his cousin was Michael Mills, a kid whom I'd beaten on
repeatedly all through elementary and middle school but was now
impressively scared of because he knew how to look mean and lived in
a scary neighborhood.
I recall feeling mean and cocky
too, before the fight. I had an axe handle stashed next to me as I
stood behind the open door of my buddy's old Toyota. We all had
weapons. In reality we were a swim team, attracted to a nasty scene,
excusing ourselves from a parentally hosted swim party to go watch
our captain kick ass. In the darkness of the park we saw an old
Thunderbird slowly creep our way. No headlights, and then the wheels
squealed, smoking towards us. We braced as the tires shrieked and
the car stopped before us. Two men lay atop the massive hood of the
car. Their fedora hats were tilted over their sunglasses and they
casually leaned upon their elbows whilst puffing on the cigs coolly
hanging off their lips.
We must have had three
seconds to take in their entrance. I did not know which fight to
watch. The tag-teams moved to the center simultaneously. Above Helen
loomed the massive figure of Bobby-Joe, junkyard devil. Before Mark,
the squat figure of Richard, who roared out a war whoop before
nailing Mark dead in the groin. Mark had danced a bit and attempted
a feeble jab, but Rich was not one for warm-ups. He pulled Bill's
coat over his head while repeatedly kneeing him in the testicles.
Mark released an agonized squeal and fell crumpled at the victor's
feet, a disposable puppet. I trembled behind my car door wondering
what to do. The other swimmers seemed frozen. I noticed their heads
were all turned toward the girls.
Helen had Bobby by
the hair. Bobby's head was lowered and Helen was kneeing her in the
face and groin, thrusting up the force of her entire body with each
knee-jab. Bobby-Joe too, collapsed at her master's feet. Whilst
Helen dragged Bobby-Joe along the pavement, Rich kicked Mark in the
stomach. Mark continued to squeal and I may have tried to recover
his remains. Then again maybe I did not. But I do recall, that at
about the same moment Rich was dragging Mark towards a dark corner
between cars, my eyes were frozen to Helen and Bobby. Helen had
placed Bobby's face on a tall concrete curb. Then she stomped upon
her face for quite some time. The noise of Helen's cussing was
overwhelming and, recalling it now, I wonder if I'd the urge to wet
myself.
After Helen's attempted murder, the rest was a
blur. We pulled Mark out of the grass somewhere in the dark and
drove off. He lay whimpering in the back seat as his beloved Helen
cursed and growled and gnawed on empty beer cans while beating her
head against the door.
The next day I saw Billy Joe
Burbank at a shopping mall. Her face was scabbed over and purple.
Her head swelled up like a pumpkin and of course one eye was sealed
shut. I did not see defeat, but a woman whom absolutely terrified
me. Her loss had made her look even meaner.
The one
particular scene of Helen bashing Bobby's head into a concrete
corner did not truly strike my conscious recollections until I saw
the skinhead in "American History X" murder the black guy in the
same way. Maybe I'd placed it far into the back of my mind in safe
denial. Maybe I'd really just forgotten because, really, from that
particular fight I'd learned quite a bit. The approach used by Helen
and Richard; swift, direct and merciless, has not yet failed to save
me in a tight spot. That night was the beginning. I was addicted to
the rush, the spectacle of the Saturday night fight club. I recall
my buddy Bobby Walsh, a nice guy really, who carried a lock on
his belt, strapped loosely about his hips like a gunfighter's belt.
I saw him use it on Jack Jeffers one day at lunch next to the school
tennis courts, pulling Jack's jacket over his head! and whipping him
silly with that bludgeon belt. Later Bob was arrested for numerous
armed robberies. Crack habit. Initially he'd used a brick on his
victims' heads, but later he'd seen me carrying pepper spray for
protection and switched to robbing people with pepper spray until
some hard-ass shook off his assault and drilled Bobby to the floor
with an ax handle. He's been in prison since 1990, was supposed to
get out in '97 but after beating on some guards is now in until
2015. I wonder if he will ever get out.
The list goes
affectionately on. My closest chum Juan; family man partial to
wooden softball bats; a massive Mexican brawler from Denver, a man
with the power to pick his opponents up over his head and shake them
silly. Simultaneously, Juan dotes upon his friends like a concerned
nursemaid when in hostile situations. He is not unlike a Great Dane,
a wonderful and patient playmate guarding friends and family with
concerned affection and with the potential to rip any trespasser
throat out. I always feel safe with Juan and I always know he cares.
Yet I have not learned much about fighting from Juan. His victories
come solely from power and skill whereas mine come from a pragmatic
desire to come out of a fight unscathed. I still count my
blessings.
As a family man Juan is retired from fight
club, but I did see him fight once. His fourteen-year old brother
Mario was tossed through a plate glass window by a 26 year-old
ex-cop from Boston. Mario had warned the guy, "if you hurt me my big
brother will kick your ass". Juan and his buddy Ricky destroyed five
tough guys. All of them were cops and all were on probation for
excessive violence. Juan saved me from two of them by breaking an ax
handle on one's back. They were smashing my head into a wall when
Juan jumped in swinging the ax handle. He pulled me out, telling me
to get in the car and behave. His buddy Ricky, a stocky little
gymnast weighing max 150, sent another ex-cop literally skidding
across the dirt from one strike to the chin with a brick. In the end
it was the cops on probation that had to call the local cops. The
local cops were all regulars at Juan's Tex-Mex restaurant. All
innocent victims denied seeing any weapons in Juan's hands. Still,
the next day rumors wandered about my university that some Mexicans
had started a fight.
Now I am in Korea. Here I can
sleep on the streets, even in the Russian sailor's district, and
wake up the next morning unharmed. Everyday I read about or listen
to foreigners claiming Korean men are so much more violent towards
their wive's and children than Western men. I suspect it's a crock
of shit. I paddle my own children and Koreans are shocked. The whole
concept of physical discipline before age 12 seems nonexistent. In
the West I've seen kids black and blue from dad's drunkenness. I
recall it from classmates in school and later from students in the
same schools. One of my neighbors used to stab her husband with a
kitchen knife, it seemed, once every month. We could here the fights
from our house across the street. Now the oldest daughter of this
family takes beatings from her second husband, just as she did from
her first. My mother, a teacher, tells me about kids with cigar
burns and hair lice. No doubt it exists here as well, but I have yet
to see so much of it. Maybe they hide it better.
The
ultimate irony is that somehow I recollect all of these little
stories with twisted affection, like memories of Pulp Fiction or
Reservoir Dogs. I suspect many normal Americans would say the same
thing. We all have our impressive fight stories that we share over
beers. And now I want to raise my children back there, in America. I
want them to experience Americana. Hmm . . .
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