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11/09/2005: "Vicious Beating, Part Deux"
Hey there Sportsfans,
Sorry it's been awhile. I have this novel deadline (actually, the initial deadline—September—is long past in the rearview; this is the overtime deadline), and am working frantically to get this novel ready to go. And Penguin can be very persuasive; oh yes, they have their...ways. The contract I signed with Penguin, down there in the fine print, it reads: "If said author does not deliver his manuscript in timely fashion, publisher [Penguin Canada] reserves the right to send emissary [read: goon] to administer one [1] punch, in the area of emissary's choosing, for each day past the agreed upon deadline." My goon is a bit of a testicle guy—he likes to work the junk—so my berries are aching.
But hey—here I am! Here to regale you with a tale of another epic beating, #2 in my ongoing series I fondly refer to as, "Those Times I Got My Lunch Handed to Me." This one is maybe not quite so volatile as the first beating I described...but hey, a beating’s a beating, am I right? Certainly that’s how I look at it; I don’t prize on beating over another, no sir! To me they’ve blended into one massive beating: a seemingly never-ending, pride-eradicating, mirth-inducing spectacle. I would like to extend my most heartfelt thanks to all those fine souls who’ve punched and kicked and mopped the floor with my face, all those who’ve so given so generously—and so often!—of their fists and feet to pound and shape me into the sniveling spineless eunuch I am today.
(For the ladies: I’m not really a eunuch.)
On that note: on with the beating!
I entitle this one: “The Mammoth 6-on-1 Beating at The Skylon Tower”
Read on...
Okay, so, I guess I’m probably sixteen or seventeen. I’m not sure if this was before the Jason Luke debacle or afterwards; I was in quite a few fights around this time in my life. An excess of testosterone swimming through the adolescent veins, I guess. Anyway, back in those days, before my buddy Ryan Newman reached perhaps the apex of his life by creating a genuine-looking Age of Majority card on the school computer, which we used to get into bars and drink criminally underage (though, to be honest, I’m sure at some of those bars we could’ve written “I am 19 years old” on a cocktail napkin and gotten past the bouncers—but I shouldn’t cheapen Ryan’s accomplishments like that), anyway, before all that we used to hang out at arcades.
One of our favorites to visit of a Friday eve was located at the base of the Skylon Tower, in Niagara Falls, Ontario. It was this hockey-rink-sized spread of games that were typical of the time: Street Fighter II, Wrestlemania, NBA Jam. Plus it had Pop-a-Shot, plus it had that old-west style robotic gunfighter dude who’d drawl, “So you think you’re pretty slick, uh, cowpoke? Well...draw!” Then he’d shoot you. Every time, he’d shoot you. I never saw anyone shoot him. I thought that was the biggest gyp in the place, a total sucker’s game (I only played it 20 or so times before figuring that out).
Let me name the cast of characters who were on hand that particular night. Some of them might read the blog, others not. If they read it, they’re welcome to come forward and give their spin on the events of that fateful night.
Shady Character 1: Adam Coles (aka: Cito, aka: Bonerack aka: Hobo Jim, aka: Cinnamon Jim, aka: Cinn-a-moso Susan). Physical characteristics: red hair, 100 pounds soaking wet, elbows and knees sharp enough to pierce a battleship’s hull. Favors Blue Jays regalia.
Shady Character 2: Riyadh Miller. (aka: Ridiyah. aka: The African Assassin.) Physical characteristics: 170 pounds, muscular from regular use of the Joe Weider Total Body Fitness System in his basement. Most Embarrassing Moment: being driven to school in his father’s minivan while his father blasted the sweet musical stylings of “The Rockets,” Cameroon’s top pop supergroup.
Shady Character 3: Steven Gibbons (aka: Gibbons). Physical characteristics: black hair, swarthy complection, Keebler-Elfish physique. Mischievous disposition. Goblin-like demeanor. If he were a Dungeons and Dragons character: Cunning +20. Courage -20. Adept at running away, finding dank dark spaces, hiding. Camouflage +15. Favors cowboy boots.
Shady Character 4: Jason Pope (aka: Pope. aka: Pope on a Rope. aka: Wigger McGee). Physical characteristics: pale Scottish skin, lanky beanpole physique. Favors Timberland boots and various football jerseys. Clumsy, accident prone. Funny as hell. Can be quite aggressive. Drives a blue Nissan Micra...poorly. Music track of choice: “Down With the King,” Run DMC.
...and, for fairness’ sake:
Shady Character 5: Craig Davidson (aka: Pat. aka: Boy. aka: Buuuuooooy!) Physical characteristics: 230 pounds. Girthy. Big-boned. Rubenesque. Okay, fat. Mop of red hair. Slovenly appearance and demeanor. Pizza Hut lunch buffet gorging champion (24 slices). Volatile disposition at times (the wrong times). Misguided. Oafish.
Okay, so we’re all in the Skylon playing video games. We’d driven down to Niagara Falls in Jason’s Micra, which really is about the right size for two people...providing the second person is a dwarf. So we’re piled in there like sardines for the drive, Lenny Kravitz blasting “Are You Gonna Go My Way,” or maybe some Rage Against the Machine. It’s like we were getting ourselves all pumped up...to go play video games.
Anyway, we found this new game we’d never seen before—and to this day I hold this game responsible for jacking my testosterone up to an unreasonable level. I forget the name of this game, but it was a punching game. There was the big red padded knob, like a punch mitt. And on the screen there was this scenario where this street thug was robbing an old lady, and you had three punches to knock him out. Each time you hit him, he’d show some signs of damage: bloody nose, chipped tooth, black eye, etc. If you knocked him out, you went onto the next stage...I never went onto the next stage. That thug was one TOUGH cookie. I didn’t get it: why didn’t the old broad just GIVE him her money—why did she need ME to drag her ass out of the fire? Give him the money, you crazy old cow, and save us all the trouble!
So we’re plugging quarters into this game, taking giant whacks at the big red knob (yeah, I meant to write it that way). We were getting quite amped up, to say the least. Those youthful juices were flowing. We got inventive: we started karate chopping at it, roundhouse kicking it, etc. Still that thug would not go DOWN. I think Jason grabbed the padded whacker from the Whack-a-Mole game and had a go with that. Nope. We couldn’t do it. Half an hour later we were thwarted and ready to go.
So we’re heading to the escalator when this group of guys comes down. Big football jock-types, the classic roaming pack. They bumped into Cito, or maybe Steve, or maybe both of them and were like, “Out of the way, pussies.” I mean, maybe they didn’t SAY that, not exactly, but that was the overall sense of it. Maybe they lipped the rest of us, too, I forget. In retrospect, I could see they were looking for a fight, and knew they’d stumbled upon a flock of pigeons—a flock of pigeons who were all riled up after punching a big red padded knob for half an hour.
Anyway, we’re heading up the escalator when the VOICE—oh dear lord, the VOICE—pipes up in my head:
THE VOICE: Who the fuck do those cheapshit motherfuckers think they are? What, they’re so rough and tough they can shove you around? I don’t THINK so! You know what you ought to do? You ought to head back there and whip on their ASSES!
And so we get to the top of the escalator and they jocks are still ragging on us, calling us pussies and what have you, insulting our burgeoning manhood...and for some dumb-ass reason I start jawing back at them. “You wanna GO?!” maybe I’m saying. “Let’s DO this!” And maybe, in my delirium, maybe I’m thinking my buddies are screaming as well, like they’re behind me, their dander’s up too...but no. It was only me.
Then I do one of the stupidest things in my life (if you know me, this is saying something):
I run DOWN the UP escalator.
That’s right: instead of just heading over to the downwards-moving escalator, I run—like a snorting, heaving, 230-pound butterball bull—down the UPWARDS-moving escalator.
THE VOICE: Yeah, YEAH! Kick some ass, baby! Like a tornado through a trailer park, you fucking monster, you!
Then I get to the bottom, heaving, out of breath...and end up feeling very much like a cow must feel led into the slaughter house. These six guys—each of them as big as me, if not bigger—standing in a ring at the bottom of the escalator. I look up to the ground floor—it seems about a million miles up; I’m like Dante staring up from the pit of Hell—and see my buddies standing up there. They look about as shit-scared as I do. I see Riyadh turn to Adam and go, “What the fuck’s he doing?” He’s saying it over and over: “What the fuck’s he doing? What the fuck’s he doing?”
By now I know I’m in trouble. I hit one of these guys, the rest are going to pound me flat—which would be total overkill, since one or two of them could get the job done. Still, lacking other options, I get up into one guy’s face. Although I don’t think I was being threatening at this point; more like outlining my grievances:
ME: Hey, man, we just came here to have a few shits and grins. Lay off, how about?
DUDE: Fuck you.
ME: Hey, man, it’s like, a free country, you know. We should, like, be able to play videogames without getting hassled.
DUDE: Fuck you.
ME: Hey, man, you make a convincing argument, I can see your point—but can you see mine? Hey, man, like, give peace a chance.
It was as though I’d turned into a beatnik. Maybe I should’ve quoted some Wavy Gravy lyrics and driven away in my psychedelic VW minibus.
This wasn’t going to turn out well, I knew it. But I figured, if I were just able to make an elegant exit, things might be okay. And then, to my great surprise, I did it: that elegant, beautiful exit.
I just...
...took a half-step back, grabbed the black escalator railing, moved smoothly onto one of the steps...and then...just started to...go upwards.
It was the most magical thing. I just...stopped talking midway through a sentence. I stepped back ever so slightly...and away I went. Goodbye, fools! You’ll never catch me! I didn’t say a word. I was still facing them but my eyes were focused upwards, like a saint in a stained-glass window. My face was peaceful, serene. The jocks just stood and stared as I moved up, up and away from them. It’s like they were watching some minor god ascending to the heavens in a golden chariot.
Goodbye! Goodbye, you turd burglars!
I got to the top of the escalator. The jocks were still down at the bottom, staring up. My buddies were all going, “What the FUCK, dude?”
I said, “Let’s roll.” Or maybe it was, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
We headed out to the parking lot. We effected that sort of mock-saunter guys assume when they’re trying to look casual but actually hauling ass. We got to the Micra. Maybe we were gonna be okay.
Then we heard the jocks barreling out the arcade doors. Their mystification at my regal exit had only lasted so long.
Jason unlocked the Micra and started it up. Riyadh, Adam, and Steve piled in like a circus clown routine. But by then the jocks were there. At this point all the fight—what little there was—had drained out of me. I expressed to the jock my disinclination to engage in a display of the fistic arts.
Amongst high school guys, this means one thing: a free shot.
Which, more or less, is what I offered. He took me up on it.
And it was a good shot, by gar! He made it count, I’ll give him that. A nice straight right hand that hit me spang on the ear. My head glanced off the roof and I fell into the driver’s side with my ear ringing and my vision all on the fritz. The jock was even nice enough to shut the door for me. My ear was already swelling up.
Jason set the car in gear and drove us out of the parking lot. The Micra’s tailpipe was shot, so the car farted and blatted all the way. All of us cowering inside like whipped dogs. An inelegant exit, to be sure, so much less satisfying than my stately elevator ascension.
When we were about five miles away, Steve piped up, “They got off lucky—I was gonna kick ‘em with my cowboy boots!”
Anyway, that’s the second beating. More to come in future.
—Craig.