Fisticuffs

Since I became an elementary school teacher, I have seen my share of fist fights. More than my share. The readiness some of boys, and girls, have at their disposal to stand toe to toe and throw haymakers at one another until someone separates them is astounding to me. I remember when I was in college, sitting at the campus beer bar, drowning my post-adolescent fears in a pitcher or two, when I jostled the young man sitting next to me. He took great offense, as young men with many beers in them often do. I made some snide comment which only served to escalate the situation, and he asked me if I wanted "to go outside." I didn't figure we were going anywhere to discuss anything, and I had left some of my wits a few glasses ago, so I hopped off my stool and dutifully trailed after him. He shoved the door open and strode into the hallway in a huff. The door on its compression arm as it should and locked. He was outside. I was inside. It was a fire door and as such the irritated individual was not getting back inside anytime soon. Not unless he walked all the way around the building and paid the five dollar cover charge one more time. I stood there for a moment and contemplated my options. I chose to go back to my stool and order another pitcher of beer.
Perhaps not the most honorable path, but it wasn't made in a vacuum. I had been in a couple of fights before, and I had determined that the opportunity that lay in front of me to win was mitigated by my lack of fury. This was not the case when I was much younger, and the kid down the street who I considered to be my best friend, challenged me. There was some sort of honor at stake. Perhaps I didn't fully understand the social stratification that was in place. There may have been something to this, since he was allowed and encouraged by the rest of the neighborhood it seemed to call me names and make fun of my hair, my face, my weight. There was little if any retort allowed about his relative whippet shape and his angry whine of a voice. And one day I had enough. I told him so. He let anyone who was within earshot know that he couldn't imagine why he had allowed me to tag along with him for as long as he had and that we should settle the whole matter by meeting on a lawn equidistant between our two houses and thrashing it out.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth.
At the appointed time, I came around the corner and found my ex-best friend standing, arms folded haughtily across his chest, with his minions standing to his side. My younger brother stood behind me. We had our seconds. I did not know how to begin, but it didn't matter because my opponent quickly advanced on me, using faux Kung Fu that he had imagined might work because he had seen it on TV. I got kicked a couple times, and slapped upside the head. I saw red. The next foot of his that came up off the ground was what I grabbed and I used the leverage to push him all the way to the ground. I fell on him, and suddenly all that weight that had been a source of ridicule was my advantage. I sat on him and whaled. Bloodied his nose. His spindly arms came up to try and block my blows.
I made him cry.
I got off of him. I stood over him and watch him find his way to his feet. No one said a thing.
I went home.
He went home.
I never felt good about it, exactly. By the end of the week, we were back to hanging out together. We never spoke of it. Which may be the reason I waited inside that bar while the door closed behind that angry young man so many years later.