Confrontations

I was offered a quick preview of travels to come when I visited my little brother in New Orleans for the St. Patrick ’s Day parade. Spring had already gone full throttle there, think muggy South with a tropical flair. Until recently, I had thought that Fall was my favorite season, gradual auburn decay and shortening daylight hours that warranted careful reflection. Now Spring, the burst of sensations, new life seemingly arising from nowhere, is my favorite time of year. Fall back, spring forward, right?

Anyway, New Orleans is a city that loves parades – I’m told that they even throw a parade for Po’ Boy sandwiches. Perhaps that’s why their roads are so shitty, parade floats and people stomping along the same patch of asphalt month after month. But the ramshackle roads and dilapidated dwellings set among modern architecture and manicured parks constitute a way to constantly jog the mind from seeing and subsequently ignoring its surroundings. Even from the causeway the city had color, houses painted pink, blue, orange with bars and restaurants set among them. And the girls there had this extra spice, a lazy, braless beauty that made me wonder at my own puritan streak.

I spent the two nights there at my little brother’s apartment, and the first night was spent drinking bourbon at a nearby bar. I’d been good about not drinking regularly and during odd hours of the day. During my recovery at home, I marveled at how a wine bottle could be opened and not be emptied until four days later. I’m starting to think my overdrinking or any substance misuse is rooted in fear, real or imagined worries that plague me and that I wish to forget. That doesn’t work: “wait, why am I so drunk again? Oh yeah, imagined fear #2. Hey, why do I feel like shit this morning? Oh, #2, I knew you’d come back.” Running from something is a great way to remind yourself about what you’re running from. It’s not that complicated. The tricky part is identifying what I’m running from and finding ways to turn the chase around.

My first night out saw me getting steadily drunk on bourbon, but I wasn’t unhappy about it. It was my first night out since being cooped up at home for over a month, and I intended to get drunk. I think there’s a difference between voluntary and involuntary drinking, and nothing was chasing me that night. My little brother and I played pool for most of the night; our shots got progressively worse as the night wore on, but we still managed to win most of our games.

One girl, tan, blonde, blue-eyed and wearing a dress that seemed set-up for a nipple slip hung around the table. She was one of those overtly flirtatious types who finds you boring if you don’t overtly flirt back but doesn’t realize that those one-dimensional approaches are boring unto themselves. I don’t think my little brother had the same qualms, since he made out with her a little bit (I asked him later what he said to start it. It was “you have the most beautiful, blue eyes.” “Really?” she asked. “Yeah,” he said. Really? Yeah.) This blonde superstar had a friend, a brunette with a heart-shaped face, huge breasts that didn’t look ridiculous on her, and this perfect, curvy butt.

She came over and spoke to me. “Sorry about her. It’s probably past her bedtime.” I shrugged, looked down at her boobs, and tried to cover for it by asking what she was drinking.

“It’s just water,” she said.

“Oh, water’s great. It can’t be underestimated. I love water. I mean, I would be the first to go in a drought. I sweat a lot, but not all the time. Yeah, water’s good,” I said.

“Well, yeah. Enjoy your drink. I’m going to get back to sitting with my friends.” She smiled. I didn’t quite feel rejected, more embarrassed that I had talked about sweating and my water fixation for my first line. When I asked my little brother about her, he told me that she went to his school, he had tried to hit on her once, and that she probably had a boyfriend. I noticed one guy sitting next to her and another guy sitting across, both not bad-looking guys, and they seemed to be able to hold a conversation.

The night wore down, and as we got ready to leave, I asked myself if there would be one thing about this first night out that I’d regret. I walked up to the brunette, still sitting next to the two guys, and said “I just wanted to let you know that you’re awesome and cute, whether or not you have a boyfriend. Thanks for being at this bar and for being cute and awesome. Have a great night.”

Her eyes widened a little before she smiled and said thanks. I turned and left. I had talked to a cute girl, one of my fears/insecurities that I want to overcome during my travels. Maybe I should have just kept it short (“You have the most beautiful, brown eyes”). I know that I’m 23 and not 12 but that had made my night.

The next morning, I went for a hungover bike ride through Audobon Park. A path tangent to the circular walkway took me to a series of Live Oaks. These are basically trees straight out of the Lion King. The nub-covered branches glide down to the ground invitingly. I stopped my bike, overcome with a desire to climb one of those trees. The Live Oak wasn’t one of those stunt trees that look perfect for climbing from far away but then turn out to be covered in territorial ants, thorns, and sap. The tree bark was gentle on my hands except for the nubs, which made great handholds. I scrabbled up the first branch and the only pain was a few inches above my crotch where some of the stitches had burst before. I also recalled my minor fear of heights when I was halfway up the branch, but the nubs guided me to the center of the tree where the great trunk diverged into two semi-trunks. I found my way around one of those semi-trunks and dared to walk along another gliding branch until I reached the ground. I had followed an M-shaped path, had climbed for less than two minutes, and had ended up on that same starting patch of ground, but that had somehow made my morning.

Making my nights and making my mornings – this realization that I want something, that I deserve it, and that I can have it. I’m not talking about owning my own Live Oak or fucking a beautiful brunette that I met in a bar until she forgets her name. Both may be future possibilities, but I’m talking about making moments and savoring their creation.

I haven’t told anyone the exact details of my second night in New Orleans. I’ve caught myself starting to do so on several occasions before changing the subject. I don’t want to hear my own voice taking on an apologetic tone, pitter-pattering around the story and making whiny, half-promises that I’m not trying to exaggerate any parts. In many ways I think I’m a better person on the page.

The second night started out much the same way as the first; my little brother and I went to a bar frequented by college kids and people under 30. I had realized that my little brother, although two years my junior, had more experience talking to girls that I did. I had asked him what made a good approach, and he said confidence, something that I’ve heard countless times before.

“Yeah, confidence, that’s great when you’re feeling it. But what if you aren’t feeling confident at the time?” I asked.

“You’re just supposed to act confident then,” he said. And that’s just it – there are points during the day where I feel self-assured, ready to take on the world, and a few hours later, I’m a lousy tool without even the illusive luxury of personal control. I don’t know how many people have similar experiences throughout the day, but it was heartening to know that others appearing to be confident merely wanted to feel confident. Before I had thought confidence was a combination of personality and biological traits, something bestowed upon alpha males that I could one day obtain through years of rigorous training in harsh environments.

There was an unspoken agreement between me and my little brother that we’d try to get me laid that night. The bar was called The Point and also had a convenient store and pizza place attached. Now, New Orleans is a paradise for anyone with alcoholic tendencies. I wasn’t aware of any open container laws, and everyone was outside drinking on the sidewalk and on picnic tables. My little brother and I sat on a curb, drank 22 oz. beers, and had a good, brotherly talk. Perhaps I just wasn’t getting as drunk as the night before, but after we went inside, I realized that my little brother could be a jerk. Maybe it was the fact that I got a glass of Wild Turkey at the bar and got him the same.

We were sitting at a table, and I pointed out this one girl jamming in a short, short black dress. She was grinding good naturedly on some guy’s lap. My little brother urged me to go over there and get her to grind on me. I laughed and said no, so he went over there and asked the guy if he was her boyfriend. He said no, so my little brother started dancing with the girl, put in a good word for me, and waved me over. It was a sweet gesture, and the girl started grinding on me as her dress rode up. She was pressed up so close against me that I had to wonder whether or not she could feel my SuperBall jiggling to the beat. We smiled at each other after the song was over, and she went back to dancing with her friend.

My little brother went to the bathroom and I worked up the nerve to approach a group of three dancing girls. That’s another fear of mine, dancing. I can talk at the bar and drink straight whiskey without making a face, but the subtler movements on the dance floor elude me. It’s as if everyone but me knows of this hidden soundtrack, so I swayed my hips experimentally, talked to the girls for a few minutes, forgot to keep “dancing”, and eventually retreated back to my table.

I still felt good about making the approach, and something I’ve started doing lately is taking three deep breaths at bars and clubs. Before the third breath is exhaled, I will talk to a girl that has caught my interest. I got this idea from the Dune series, where one of the main characters reflects on a mind mantra (“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”) Don’t worry - I’m not a big enough dork to be saying that under my breath, but the controlled breathing helps.

Anyway, my little brother had returned from the bathroom and was urging me to go back to grinding on the girl in the short, short black dress.

“Dude, she was nice. She’s dancing with her friend this time around. He seemed like a chill enough dude,” I said.

“That guy’s a faggot-bitch. He’s not even her boyfriend. Just go cut between them, so she’s dancing with you,” he said.

“Uh, I don’t think that guy’s gay or whatever you’re trying to say. Maybe I’ll go over there for the next dance,” I replied.

“Please, Robert. Come on, man, you have to do it. Please?” he asked.

“No dude, I’m not going to be a dick,” I said. My little brother strode up and did it himself. The guy dancing with her was surprised and then shrugged it off, raised his hands up, shook his head and smiled. The girl continued dancing with my little brother now, and he waved me over again. I stood there awkwardly, and after the song switched, I smiled apologetically at the group of friends. The dancing girl smiled back, but I think her eyes said something along the lines of “get your friend to behave, please.”

“Hey, man. Let’s go outside, see if anything is going on out there,” I said.

As we sat outside with a fresh pair of drinks and people-watched, my little brother kept cat-calling to people. “Hey man, you should dance with her really good, or else she’ll leave you,” he said to a guy arguing with his girlfriend along the nearby wall. “Goddamn, hey, hey slow down, baby,” he called to a pair of girls since the outline of a G-string was visible under one of their dresses. “Hey. Hey. Hey. Yeah, you. Heyyyyy,” he jeered to a group of three guys with crew cuts sitting next to their girlfriends at a picnic table.

“Dude, stop being a dumbass.” I gave my little brother a light, back-handed slap across his forehead.

“What? They don’t mind. Everyone does it,” he said. As far as I know, he was the only person outside doing that. He got up to get us more drinks from the inside bar. I approached the group of guys and girlfriends sitting at the table.

“Hey, sorry about that. He’s my little brother and drunk. He didn’t mean anything by it,” I said.

“Hey, man. No harm no foul, don’t worry about it,” a dude with a strawberry blonde crew cut said.

“These guys are Marines, you know,” one of the girls who looked like she had probably been a goth kid in high school said.

“Yeah, if it came down to it, we’d just kill him.” A shorter marine laughed.

“Well, you’d have to kill me too,” I said.

We looked at each other and laughed. One of them shook my hand as my little brother came out of the bar. We resumed our seat and had some decent, civilized conversations with a few passerby, before deciding that we should head to another bar a few blocks away, a ritzier establishment with the same owner as the current bar.

My little brother also knew some people who lived in an apartment right across the street from the bar. He hammered on their door even though the lights were out. Surprisingly, no one answered, so we went across the street to the bar. The doorman told us it was last call, and people were streaming out from the doors. I glanced inside, considering whether we should go in, and when I turned around, my little brother was gone. There were yells coming from across the street.

My little brother was back across the street, hammering at the apartment door. A large group of guys were approaching from the corner, and a few of them were screaming at him. I ran across the street to my little brother.

“What happened?” I asked. He told me he didn’t know, but I already had a good idea of what had happened. My partially blacked out little brother had probably talked shit to that passing group. I counted five guys and about 2 or 3 more hanging at the corner of the apartment building.

Three were walking towards us. I stood in front of my little brother, who was still hammering away at the apartment door. Perhaps I could have found the right apology to make them forget about us and go home and brag about how close they had come to kicking our asses. I started to take my three deep breaths and was trying to find the words when one of them spoke. Actually, he barked first.

“Arf, Arf, Arf!” As he barked, he swung his head and shoulder down toward the sidewalk repeatedly, drawn by some invisible vector that made sense to him.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“Oh, I get it you want us to cross this line, huh? Awww, if I cross this line, are you going to let us have it? OK, OK!” This came from a weasel-faced, pale kid with a backwards cap and flipped up hair. He stepped in front of his barking friend, drew a line across the sidewalk, and jumped over it a few feet away from my face.

Shit-shit-shit. Now would be the time to apologize.

I remembered that high school football game that took place at least seven years ago, the one that I was mulling over as I realized that I was a coward and that it was in my best interest to get my surgery. My little brother had probably spoken some shit even way back then to cause that guy to drive him to the asphalt and pummel him in the face. Upon passing the chain-link fence entrance and seeing the guy who had done that to him hanging out behind the bleachers, I approached him. I asked him if he had done that to my brother. He replied in the affirmative. The crowd circled us as I clenched my fists and we looked each other in the eyes. The adrenaline started from my then intact ball sac and traveled up my stomach; it became a buzzing my head, and I imagined the ringing of his fists against my face when he drove me to the ground and gave me the same treatment as my little brother. I lowered my eyes and unclenched my fists. I turned my back on the guy and walked to the bathroom. I spent the rest of the night wringing insincere apologies from him as he spat dip and talked on his cell phone; it was one of the most shameful moments of my life.

Now, in New Orleans, on a strange sidewalk filled with at least half a dozen guys willing to kick our asses, the adrenaline made a second visit. It started from my single SuperBall and traced its way along my scar, past my belly button and to my sternum. I exhaled my third breath, and it stopped at my throat.

“Get on home,” I said.

“What!? You don’t tell me what to do boy.” This came from another guy, now in my face. He was about my build, had a buzz-cut, and looked scrappier than his weasel-faced friend. I thought about it – he was basically part of a much bigger group and throwing a tantrum. I smiled at him as if to humor a cranky child. He clenched his fists and waved them up and down his torso. Maybe he was trying to make me think that he was going to hit me. Instead, it contributed to the tantrum image, a toddler who didn’t want to eat his broccoli or go to bed. I smiled wider.

The guy stormed back up the sidewalk and then jumped in place as if he were just gathering distance to charge us at full-speed. He stayed in place a little bit too long, and one of his friends took the cue and walked up to restrain him. Once that happened, he became brave again, struggled against his friend’s embrace. “Yeah, you just cross this crosswalk, you fucking pussies! We’ll be waiting,” he screamed.

His two friends remained on the sidewalk near where one of them had drawn the imaginary line, and two more guys from the corner joined them. My little brother was pounding on the apartment door now. A light came one, there was a faint outline at the door, and the light went off. Yeah, I probably wouldn’t have let us in either.

A car pulled up to the curb behind my little brother and me. Fuck, even more?

“Oh, so you were waiting for your boys to back you up!” the weasel-faced kid, quite the talker, spoke up. Phew, at least the people pulling up were a neutral third party? Weasel-face’s comment also gave me insight into the group mentality: call up all your friends to back you up, and you can be as brave as you want to be.

“No, we don’t know them. We don’t need them,” I said. Even if you’re not feeling confident, you should act it.

One of the guys got out of the car and stepped between us and the sub-group. He looked at the reinforcements waiting at the corner and then looked at me.

“You guys should find another way home. Call a taxi if you have to. I’m just saying that’s in your best interest, right?” he asked and nodded when he saw the comprehension in my eyes.

“But that’s the road that we have to take to get home,” I said.

“Find another road, man. That’s all I’m saying,” he replied. I nodded and said thanks. He got back into his car. During our conversation, the group of four had walked back to the corner to reform the larger group. Jeers and yells about not crossing their road came at us. That wasn’t their road, and now they were hooting and hollering as if it were. Millions of years of evolution, right?

“Hey, let’s get home, alright?” I said this to my little brother. He had stopped knocking at the door, and his eyes were somewhat glazed. That was when another of my fears kicked in – paranoia. If we were to turn our backs and cross over a few blocks, who’s to say that they wouldn’t follow us? Hell, it might not even be the whole group, just a handful. They might not even confront us, just follow us long enough to note the cross streets of my little brother’s apartment and come back with an even bigger group some day. Of course, that could still happen if we took “their” crosswalk.

“Walk beside me. Don’t say anything. Don’t look at them. Pretend they’re not even there,” I told my little brother. He nodded, and we walked toward the group and started taking the crosswalk.

We were halfway across when three or four guys started following us. Another group cut across the street to the side of us and made their way down the sidewalk. The two groups converged when we made it to the other side.

They pushed us back off the sidewalk, and Weasel- face started scuffling with my brother. I grabbed him by the shoulders and swung him around. I wasn’t aware of how many guys were around us any longer, so I thought it best to go one at a time. I jabbed my finger at him and started yelling in his face to back off. Either he did, or one of his friends swept him aside. Whatever happened, I was now facing a considerably bigger dude; he looked like that soldier that shot himself in Full Metal Jacket. He had the type of pecks that would inevitably become man-boobs as he aged. I’m not sure how tall he was; I just remember that I had to look up to maintain eye contact.

“You back the fuck off! You better step back or I’m going to punch you in the face. I’ll give you to the count of three,” he yelled. He cocked back his right fist as if it were a cannon, loaded and ready. Did he think that we were in a fucking movie? Also, how was I going to explain my black eye? I stood in place with my hands at my sides and stared into his angry, brown, slightly confused eyes.

“One -”

His fist cocked further back, but I held his eyes in the future tense. I will not cringe. I will not flinch. I will not falter. I will not drop my eyes like a goddamn dog.

“Two-”

Pummel me. Beat me to a pulp. You will not humiliate me. I will defeat you without swinging a single fist.

“Goddamnit! I’m serious. Why the fuck won’t you move?” he shouted in my face.

It was now safe to break eye contact. I put my arm around my little brother’s shoulders, and we walked up that sidewalk. I wish I could say that we just kept walking, but the big guy with the cannon fist kept following us for half a block while his friends lagged behind. That’s when the paranoia kicked back in, and I turned around.

“Why don’t you fight me, faggot?” he yelled. Why didn’t I? The adrenaline had finally made its way to my head, but now it was a roar instead of a buzz. I stormed back down the sidewalk.

“Stop following us!” I pushed cannon-fist in the chest with both hands. He barely budged and it hurt my left wrist when he grabbed it; he also gripped above my right elbow. There were bruises in the shape of fingertips in both places the following day. As we circled around, I kicked him in the shin with my heel. He let go, fell back, and swung his right fist in a hook punch at the same time. I ducked and pushed on his shoulder instead of his chest. His fist still grazed the top of my head, but he stumbled back this time.

I saw a person in a white shirt run across the street toward us.

“Cops! You better get out of here. Oh, too late!”

I don’t know if cannon-fist ran back down the sidewalk in time or if he was escorted off, but a white Police SUV was parked across the sidewalk. And two policemen had me and my brother against a fence. They asked for our IDs.

They wanted to know where we lived. My little brother started saying something that didn’t make much sense, and my first thought was “Oh no, please, please, please don’t talk any more shit – we don’t want to go to lock-up.” He finally told them his cross street and then kept talking. I put a hand on his chest.

“I’m visiting, and I’m his older brother,” I said.

“Fine. What happened?” the cop with dark hair asked.

“I was across the street when I heard the shouting and saw this big group of guys heading towards him. I don’t know why. You know, I don’t know why they would pick on two guys when there were so many of them,” I said.

Both of the cops were smaller guys. I wonder if they had their share of bullies growing up. I think the other cop, the blond one holding the flash light, did because he shook his head in disapproval.

“What else happened?” the blonde cop asked.

“They told us not to cross the street, but, well, this is the street we have to take home,” I said.

The dark haired cop looked like he was going to ask another question, something along the lines of “why didn’t you just take another street?”

“I don’t get why they were so angry. They were so angry. Why were they so angry?” I asked the blonde haired cop. It was an honest question; I didn’t quite see, regardless of what my little brother said, why a big group of guys would want to kick the shit out of two strangers.

“You know, it could be anything. You’re a visitor, see? Sometimes it’s just a fraternity sort of thing, or if you’re just in a different fraternity, something like that,” the blonde cop said.

I nodded as he filled in the gaps. The two cops turned out to be really decent fellows. They asked me if I was visiting for Mardi Gras and shook their heads when I said that I missed it and only caught the St. Patty’s Day parade. They gave us a ride back to my little brother’s apartment. The dark haired cop seemed intent on convincing me that New Orleans was a great city despite the occasional drunk jerks. I agreed, we shook hands, and my little brother and I made it back to the apartment in one piece.

I savored the twinge of pain on the left side of my head that came up every time I chewed the next day. I realized that I’d faced one of my fears – confrontations. I had always thought that those interactions were about who would win in the physical realm, who could take who. Maybe they still are, but I think it also has to do with how we experience fear. It’s there for a reason, but when listening to it dampens the quality of life, it’s time to face that fear, no matter the consequences. There are still many more fears to come; I intend to keep turning that chase around, starting in Miami, since I just bought my first ticket.

Back in Chicago, I’ve also realized that I used to look down at the ground when passing other people on the sidewalk. What’s so interesting down there? I try to hold my head up high, keep my gaze level, and not shy away from eye contact, because how else am I supposed to enjoy the world around me?