Fisticuffs never get old
Outside of family members, different from the women I spent more than one night with, the number of close friends in my life is a three count. One is dead, another I've haven't seen in more than a year and the third I don't see enough of. Two spent time behind bars, one for murder, the other for drug dealing. The third is a combat Marine vet.
Not that other friends don't matter or that they, too, were sagacious in living their lives. But nothing hones the senses for life and death, and cogitates the mind for the expected or unexpected, like knowing urban streets, a prison yard or warfare in the jungle. Knowing specifics about their lives didn't draw me to them or cause me to call them a friend. And whether they considered me a friend as much as I them didn't matter. Friendship is never a yardstick of knowing that much about a person. It's a matter of feeling, an ethereal kind of thing, unspoken but conceded in conversation, over a drink, when sharing a dub or explaining or not explaining anger.
The anger comes not so much as to what happened to oneself — rough experiences help that hindrance be overcome — but from what happens to others, to ideals shared and to breaches of loyalty. Backing away means different than backing down. What is always retained is the fearlessness of know the difference between the two. I'm still learning that.
Tonight, at work, I was ready to engage in fisticuffs with another. A visitor to the condo complex had promised me twice to bring me a verification of his stay so I could complete what is required of my job. I let him slide for a while but when I saw him again, I asked a third time. His condescending response and belittling tone lit my fire. To contain myself, I told him I would be calling the cops.
When they arrived, they tried their best at peacemaking. I was just doing my job I said. The man kept on with his version, not really countering my remembrances. I pressed my point in front of the cops and he started to attack my version of the conversations we had. At some point — I can't remember his exact words — I took what he was saying as calling me a liar. I can't recall what words I let forth, but I stepped toward him fuming, ready to rumble. A pudgy cop stepped in front me blocking any run at the guy I might take.
"You don't want to do this now, it ain't worth it," said the cop.
I took a breath, looked around him and said to the guy, "Maybe next time." The cops then let him walk away.
The three cops stood there awhile with one acting as a mediator telling me that "I know you don't get paid that much" — 'Like us,' another cop chimed in — "so deal with it tomorrow with whomever is in charge."
They were right. I apologized for taking up their time. But on the golf cart ride back to the gate house, I told myself I could have handled myself with this guy but at 72 for how long is the question. Once you gain fearlessness in life, I guess it never leaves. My three close friends would agree.