A True Story About the Wrong Set of Rules

PRESIDENT OBAMA is being such a fair-minded gentleman. Reaching out to the GOP, whittling away the stimulus package terms to appease people who want to pound his agenda into the ground. Krugman summed up the action and calls it “the Destructive Center.” I think of it as bringing Go Fish rules to a street fight. As in “don’t look at my cards when I leave to use the bathroom, please.” 

It was 1991. Grunge rock was blowing up the world, and I had just fallen in love with Trent Reznor and Layne Staley for real. I lived on South Queen St. I was rooming in a house in a city in a structured living environment type situation with cats from all over. We had all types. We learned how to coexist but we weren’t “Buddies.” The turnover rate was a regular thing. You respected each other’s junk, you didn’t mess with each other’s junk, and you followed the rules of the house or you were voted out. We weren’t on television.

One of these cats was named—well, I”ll call him Otis. He was a black dude from Philadelphia. And he never tired of telling us how tuff his town was. He was short, good lookin’, and worried far too much about his gloss to seem much like a badass to me. But he sure  knew how to talk. So when he came running back to the house one day to shout about a fight he was starting, we were sure he was gonna whip some ass. A few of us shuffled out on the stoop to see what was going down. It wasn’t about gettin’ his back or joining a rumble. We just didn’t know each other that well and we were careful about how deeply we invested in each other. Everyone had their own story, and like I said. We weren’t buddies. We were housemates. 

Otis jogged his ass out into the street where dude was waiting. Otis, bouncing around, bobbing. Looking sort of fancy. The other cat (also black) was local. He was taller, tho not as fast or bouncy. They both scuffled, and Otis had the other guy a bit intimidated with all his snazzy moving around and noise. I think we all thought Otis was gonna clean up. Even dude. 

And then Otis did some dumb shit. I still don’t know what he was thinking. He started pulling off his sweatshirt right there in the street. While he was fighting. As if the other guy was going to be polite and  let him smooth out his clothing, let him get comfortable, let him optimize his chances of beating hell into him. 

Well, he wasn’t. And I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t have, either. That ain’t how I learned to fight, that’s for sure. Fighting is about hurting people. Or saving yourself. You may have grand reasons for winning…but you are there to win. Not to get an ettiquette award. Anyway, clearly Otis had different philosophies. And when his face was covered up by that sweatshirt as he pulled it over his head, dude skipped in and smacked his head with a fist. And then did it again. And then proceeded to beat the living shit out of Otis. It was hard to look at. At the end, dude was kicking Otis into the building’s side. Like winding back and kicking him into the foundation of the building. Me and a white kid (who really wasn’t out to do much but chill to the Grateful Dead) raised our voices a bit, sort of a “Okay, man it’s over” thing. Otis had started it, and he could have walked away, but instead he called us all out to watch his show. He kind of had it coming.

It was all over and Otis’s jazzy moves had wound up with him sitting on the stoop bleeding from the face on his nice shirt. His head was hung and he felt pretty stupid and small, you could tell. And all I could think was what the hell were you thinking, man? 

It was an odd combination of pity and disgust I felt for him. It’s not just about loving a winner. It’s about respecting the fight and those who know how to bring it. And if you don’t, then get some tips. Or don’t talk big! But whatever you do, don’t go looking for help from those you are trying to give a beating. It doesn’t make you look good. It just makes you look like you don’t know what the hell you are doing. And it sure won’t give you any edge.