VRONK!*

I like watching action movies. I like watching martial-arts movies, which could be a subset of the former or its own unique genre, depending on how you look at it. I think about fighting all of the time when I daydream. However, I have the ability to realize the difference between real life and make believe. I would like to say I learned this the hard way, but I didn't. I've never really been in a fight. Not really.

During the summer between 8th and 9th grade, I was welcomed into the unjust world of mistaken identity. I was walking along the sidewalk across from our small town's Junior High during the long, arduous trek of less than one mile from my mom's house to my dad's house. Actually, it was the middle of the day so I was going over to my friend's house who lived across the street from my dad. But there I was, without a care in the world, yet with my wits about me.

I sensed an unease as I heard a vehicle pull up behind me. To be honest, it wasn't really my powerful sensing ability, but rather the fact that the pickup truck screeched to a halt as its driver belatedly realized that his unsuspecting victim was ripe for an engagement with the bully fairy. Can a high school-aged boy be called a bully? Or is he simply a dick-face? What happened next is clear in my mind, even now, sixteen years later. But it probably only lasted about sixteen seconds.

The compact pickup truck screeched to a halt. Two youths popped out of the bed onto the sidewalk behind me. The driver and a passenger also exited with haste and came up on my side. At this point I was still walking, but turning to my left to face the road and gather my situation. When the girl who was riding in the middle seat screamed, "No, [someone's name I couldn't make out], NO!" I began to realize the gravity of this little scenario. They weren't poor, lost travelers looking for directions. They were ruffians looking for someone to rough up. The fact that three out of the four were shirtless nailed the case shut. [Shirtless guys in trucks=bad news.]

When I halted and tried my best to act like, Hey guys, what's up? You need something?, the leader of the pack actually looked kind of nice. He said in a charming, but rushed, tone, "Yo Tim, we need to talk with you." Before I could protest that I wasn't this Tim fellow, one of the guys from behind let fly one of his fists, which, due to its position at my six, connected on the back side of my right jaw. I felt it coming even though I couldn't see it.

Immediately, I fell to the ground and curled up like a roly poly. I was sure they were going to kick the shit out of me, so I used my two arms to protect my head and my belly. As clear as this all is in my head, I can't remember if they did any kicking or not. If they did, it was quick and half-hearted. Because a second or two after I hit the deck they were jumping for their truck and took off with a screeching of tires. As soon as that happened, I popped up and hauled ass back to my mom's house, which was only two blocks away. I smoked down that street. I'm not sure I've ran as hard in my life, and I wasn't winded at all.

From the moment I sensed something amiss to the moment I hit my mom's front porch, I felt very little. The punch, the ground, the running; they were all far in the background, as my adrenaline was thickly coursing through my veins. It is here that my memory stops. I can't remember if I made it to my friend's house later that day. I'm sure that I regaled him and my mom the story. I'm sure my mom was super hot and wanted to hire a bodyguard for me. But I was fine. Nothing had actually happened.

This was the smallest scuff with a rough crowd that anyone encountered as a child. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't an attack. It was just some hooligans who wanted to scare a smaller kid. I still think that they mistook me for another kid in my class named Tim Cox. I mentioned it to him when school started up. He laughed and said, "Sorry about that." He wasn't surprised that such kids might want to visit harm upon him, but he certainly wasn't worried about it. Maybe they just saw an opportunity to bully and Tim was the first name that popped into the driver's head.

Because I don't really count that as a fight, I don't really know what a real scrape feels like. I've been to parties, heard some stories, and they all sound like scary messes that I would just as likely avoid. Most people end up unnecessarily hurt. I've done some thinking over the years as to the honor of the situation. Should I have stood and fought back? Should I not have run home but continued on my way? I really can't answer those questions because I wasn't thinking about it at the time. My reactions were completely involuntary. Maybe my mind consciously acted, but if so, it was instinct.

I've heard some stories about trained fighters who have been in a situation or two. They talk about instinct and training, too. They mention that all of these things escalate and happen so quickly that a person doesn't have time to think it through. It usually just happens, and then you are left with the consequences. One person told me that in his mind a fight is to the death, that he must be prepared to defend his life up to and including taking someone else's, because you never know what someone else knows or can do or is willing to do. Which is why he said he has never gotten in a fight. He has always walked away before something could happen.

Having described my little incident during my youth, I don't want anyone to think that my town was a hot bed of lawless thugs. That's just the west side.

* For more onomatopeyas