Warren Ellis, �Planetary: All Over the World and Other Stories�
I was not planning on going out.
I had already dealt with relatives for a special banquet dinner and I worked all day the next day. I was done with people. I had been sociable.
Then I got the e-mail about the Unit Breed show. I went home at seven, found out that all my roommates were going, and a friend from LA was up visiting his mother, and was planning on going to the show as well.
What the hell, I thought. I�ll go.
See, lately, The Caravan hasn�t really been a place for me to go because I like it, but more out of some sense of having to do something social. I may like my room, full of books and video games and the like � I could easily spend most my time there � but for some reason, I feel the need to go out at least once a week. Not that I enjoy myself when I do, but I feel I need to make the effort to be somewhat social, just so I don�t completely forget how to interact with people.
As it turned out, I was having a good time. For some reason, I always missed my friend�s band, Black Tiger, whenever they played, and they were good now that I finally got to see them. Plus, for the first time in a long time, The Caravan reminded me why I went there in the first place. There were a lot of people I knew there, and they were people I actually liked, which almost never happens.
Joe gave me one of his beers. I kept messing with Angie, who was supposed to watch over Unit Breed merchandise, so I would sneak up behind her and steal the entire case full of Unit Breed booty and hide around the corner. It was a nice, fun, pleasant time being had by most.
What happened next I suppose I can blame on cigarettes. I decided I wanted one, and California being the stupid place that it is, won�t let me have one inside. So out I go, just talking with some friends out in the street, when I hear some commotion near the front door. My friend who was at my house earlier, the one from LA, was thrown out the door and into the street.
Actually, that didn�t surprise me at all. In fact, I�ve seen this happen to this particular gentleman numerous times at this same bar. So I went back to my conversation with my friends. But the commotion didn�t end, and I looked back again. My friend was still on the ground, but now there were two people standing over him, kicking their boots with full force into his face.
I already said this was a friend of mine. That doesn�t matter. If I saw that happening to anybody, I would have done the same thing, which was to run toward the fight, pull one of the attackers away, and hope somebody else would help.
Somebody did, and I let go of the kicker, walking away. If there�s one thing lamer than a bar brawl, it�s the after effects where the �victor� starts yelling at the guy about how �That�s what you get!� Besides, I didn�t know what happened. I didn�t care. All I knew is there were two people who were beating up one person who was already on the ground, and that�s not right. Now that it was over, I just wanted to get back inside away from the drama.
But as I entered, there was a tiny girl who was practically jumping up and down in total glee over what just happened. I glanced back at the guy who just had his face kicked in, and it was a bloody pulpy mess. Frankly, I was horrified and disgusted that this girl thought it was so great and I guess it showed, as the girl saw my face.
�Are you giving me a dirty look?!?� she said.
�If you�re going to take that much pleasure in seeing somebody beaten up,� I said, �then yeah, I�m giving you a dirty look.� I went back inside.
If you wanted to know how the time transpired during this time, I�m not sure I could tell you. The Unit Breed had not finished. I watched the rest of the set, continued to talk with people, and kept up my game of �Stealing The Unit Breed�s stuff.� Eventually, they finished playing and most of the people that I knew had slipped away either to The Blank Club or home, and I realized Caravan would be closing very soon. I headed for the front door.
The girl who didn�t like the look on my face was there, and she demanded to know what I meant by that look. I can�t quote what I said precisely, but it was along these lines: �Look, I don�t know what happened inside,� I said, �and I don�t know what the situation was. All I saw were two guys kicking a guy in the face who was on the ground, and that�s not cool.�
�So what does that have to do with me?� she said.
�Because apparently, you thought it was cool.�
The two of us stood there as the bartenders screamed for us to get out and me, in my stupid male with too much liquid bravado mode talking, actually flirted with this girl. And she flirted back. We introduced ourselves and shook hands, vowing to talk at another time under better circumstances.
Finally, one of the bartenders addressed me by name. �I�m going, I�m going, sorry,� I said. I said goodbye one last time to the girl and headed out the front door.
For those of you who aren�t familiar with the layout of The Caravan, the front door snakes down the left side, passing a small alcove of bricks before you turn right to face the street. I went passed these bricks and turned right.
And that�s when my face exploded.
There�s the impulse in cheesy superhero graphic novels like this, and in literature, to outline each and every punch that happens. Right fist: �Craaaack!� Left fist: �Pow!� And so on. Truth is, all I could feel in a very short amount of time, were three blows hitting me in the face, the third one landing even as I was falling backward.
Then I was on the ground, and that�s when I could feel the boots kicking.
I�m not trying to sound like a tough guy. In fact, I am not a tough guy. It�s been a long time since I�ve punched anybody. And I�m not trying to sound tough here either, but even though I�m not much of a fighter, I do know how to defend myself. I took a lot of classes when I was younger, classes that didn�t so much teach you how to fight, but taught you how to break somebody�s arm, which, in most cases, will end the fight.
This has helped me before (though I haven�t broken anybody�s arm). But I quickly realized how worthless this training was when you�re trapped in a doorway and on the ground. I tucked my head and tried to guard things that were important as the boots continued to land, hoping there were still some people who had the same sense of morality that I had earlier.
Some people did have that same sense, apparently, as I heard my attacker get dragged away. I don�t remember if I was helped up, or got up on my own. I looked, for the first time, at the victor.
It was a guy I�ve never seen before in my life, wearing over-alls and a white T-shirt. Obviously this guy hasn�t been watching that Queer Eye for the Straight Guy show. Not that I looked any more stylish while I was getting my ass kicked. (And I mean that literally, as I have a bruise on my ass, which must have come from being kicked.)
Ask anybody who knows me fairly well. I fucking hate over-alls. If somebody wears them in my presence, I can�t seem to stop making jokes about them until they finally change. Despite everything that had just happened in the last two minutes, the image seemed so absurd that I started laughing. And I swear, I said this.
�All right, Jethro. You want to tell me what the hell that was about?�
�Dat�s wot joo git fer givin� gurls dirty looks!� he spat at me.
Holy Christ! Chivalry isn�t dead after all!
One of the bartenders, apparently already flustered from berating Joe, ran outside and began berating this guy. �What the hell are you doing!� she said. �This guy is the mellowest guy I�ve ever seen! He reads books in the bar for Christ sake!�
The girl who was on the receiving end of my look came running out as well, and started yelling at Jethro. �We already talked about it! We�re cool! What the fuck are you doing?�
Jethro looked down at his shoes, which I at least hope I dented with my skull. �Sorry,� he mumbled.
�Don�t say it to me, say it to him!�
Jethro looked at me, more pissed off now that two girls were yelling at him. �Sorry,� he mumbled again, in total insincerity.
I could feel that my lip was busted. My face felt like it was swelling up. And for some reason, I was still chuckling. The bartender went back inside, along with the other girl. Jethro looked at me again.
�I ain�t that sorry. You better stop looking at me and get out of here before I do it again.�
I thought about mentioning that he can�t suckerpunch me out here. I didn�t. Instead, I unlocked my bike and rode slowly away.
And so now I have a busted lip, my hip is bruised up to the point where I have to sleep at weird angles so as not to aggravate it, and my jaw is swollen up so much that while I can still eat, I�m not going to get any super burritos for a while. And while I was laughing about it, I do know that when I woke up the next day, the first thought that ran through my head was that I needed to go to the flea market and get a tazer gun.
You know you�re going to have a crappy day at work when that�s the first thought in your head.
You�re supposed to learn things from these experiences, but I�m at a loss to figure out what I�ve learned. I wouldn�t have changed my actions before I got my ass kicked � I would still pull two guys off a defenseless person lying on the ground. I would still show my revulsion at somebody who thought that kind of situation was cool. � Maybe from now on I�ll leave out the back door, which shows a straight shot of the street.
Still, perhaps I should stop spending all my time reading these books and learn how to actually defend myself rather than hoping the situation allows me to remember training that I had over 15 years ago.
Or perhaps I should just fortify my room into some sort of compound and get those tazers after all.
And some guns.
