My therapist tells me I need to start making amends. Instead, I post to Facebook.<\/p>\n
Anyone who has been wronged or offended by my past actions is welcome to fight me tomorrow at the Applebee\u2019s on Route 30.<\/p>\n
I provide the details. Starting at noon, I will be in the Applebee’s parking lot all day, waiting for willing combatants. There will be no cost. All ages are welcome to attend but to fight you must be 18 plus. Facebook asks if I\u2019d like to add a photo for my event, so I include a picture of me all fucked up and grinning in my Warped Tour t-shirt, two beer bottle caps draped over my eyes like those coins the Greeks used to pay the dead.<\/p>\n
The picture is blurry and I look like an asshole, which is good because I am one.<\/p>\n
The next morning, I get to Applebees early. There are a few cars here for the lunch special, but otherwise, the place is pretty desolate. I like this Applebee\u2019s. It has history. One time the cook ran naked through the restaurant on a dare and another time my ex-girlfriend turned down my marriage proposal over chicken wings.<\/p>\n
Besides my fists, the only item I\u2019ve brought is a bag of essentials. Gatorade. Ice packs. Bandaids. Gauze. I want to be prepared in case one of my challengers rips a jagged hole in my cheek or punches my kidneys so hard that blood shoots from my pee hole. Considering my current situation\u2013 jobless, no savings or healthcare\u2013\u00a0I can hardly afford an ambulance.<\/p>\n
The first guy to show up is my old roommate. When I was drinking heavily, I borrowed his car to run a few errands. Backing out of the driveway, I hit a fence post, a mailbox, and the neighbor\u2019s dog. The dog was fine, barely a scratch, but the car was fucked. I never paid that back. And I skipped out on three months’ rent while he was at the movies. It was his fault for seeing Twilight. One of the sequels, I think.<\/p>\n
Now he\u2019s standing before me, looking equal parts pissed off and unsure.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow’s this work? So what? I just hit you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can try,\u201d I say, feeling a bit like Morpheus from The Matrix.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you quoting The Matrix?\u201d He asks.<\/p>\n
\u201cJust go for it,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
He goes for it. I give him a good pop on the mouth and send him to the curb.<\/p>\n
Fists clenched, he lies on the pavement, motionless. When he opens his eyes, I hand him a napkin and he uses it to wipe the blood from his chin. He glares at me and his face is the face of a child who has lost their toy boat down the storm drain. I can tell he thought this would go differently. But that\u2019s not my problem.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t be mad,\u201d I say. \u201cYou lost. That\u2019s the deal.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFine,\u201d he says, crawling to his car. \u201cFine. Fine. Fine.\u201d<\/p>\n
Next up is some tall dude I don\u2019t recognize.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s your deal?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
The tall dude says I\u2019ve been liking his girlfriend’s photos on Facebook. Holidays. Weekends. All hours of the night. It\u2019s inappropriate, he says. Disrespectful. He\u2019s wanted to confront me for months, but his girlfriend put a stop to it. Apparently, she doesn\u2019t believe in possessive definitions of love.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo she\u2019s a polygamist?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, she just gets mad when I act jealous.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, okay.\u201d<\/p>\n
We fight. He hits me and I hit him. We hit each other. I\u2019ve been in dozens of fights in my life, most of them wasted, if not blackout drunk, and getting punched in my newfound sobriety is a fresh experience. It hurts. I mean, really fucking hurts. Like you wouldn\u2019t believe. But it\u2019s also redemptive. I can tell while he\u2019s hitting me, he\u2019s really saying\u2013\u00a0it\u2019s okay, I forgive you.<\/p>\n
After the first few challengers, they arrive in droves. The girl whose uggs I pissed on at a party. The hippie who I sold bad magic mushrooms and then he had diarrhea at the Phish concert. I know most of my opponents, and they\u2019re right to hate me, but when my elementary school teacher pulls up in his old station wagon, I have to say I\u2019m surprised.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Richards?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he says. And he tells me about the time I wrote a play on JFK\u2019s assassination in second grade. The thing he liked most about the play, he said, was that it didn\u2019t actually have to do with the logistics of the shooting\u2013 the convertible or the grassy knoll. Rather, it was a romantic vision of JFK and Jackie O\u2019s last night together, the two of them looking out over the Dallas skyline, discussing their plans for the future.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could have gotten out of this town,\u201d Mr. Richard says. \u201cEven at eight years old, you had a vision. You could have been anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cInstead I ended up being me,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d he says, and karate chops me in the jugular.<\/p>\n
Just when I think I can\u2019t take anymore, my ex’s new husband rolls up in his Escalade. He\u2019s some sort of big shot. He works in the city, buying and flipping real estate for cheap. The last time we spoke, I told him that he might be better than me in nearly all facets of existence, but my ex loved me first and that’s something he\u2019ll have to deal with forever.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho are you here for?\u201d I ask. \u201cHer or you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her, meaning my ex.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think both of us,\u201d he says. \u201cIs that okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s just get this over with.\u201d<\/p>\n
The guy looks like your average square, medium-sized and doughy, but he’s fast like a mongoose. I barely register movement\u2013 a blur of tailored suit and quaffed hair\u2013 and then I\u2019m entangled in his grip. He\u2019s got me in a rear-naked chokehold, my feet scrabbling at the blacktop.<\/p>\n
\u201cTap out.\u201d He whispers. \u201cTap out. Tap out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNever,\u201d I grunt.<\/p>\n
He cinches his arms tighter and I see the birth of the entire universe.<\/p>\n
\u201cTap out,\u201d he says again. And I tap out. Of course.<\/p>\n
Afterward, he cradles me like a newborn, the two of us panting, too exhausted to move.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did you learn to fight?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy work pays for Jujitsu lessons,\u201d he says, then gets in his stupid expensive car and drives away, blasting \u201cBreak Stuff\u201d by Limp Bizkit.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s almost five o clock now. Happy Hour. The smell of fried tenders and cooking burgers wafts through the dusky air. Inside Applebee\u2019s, the wait staff is switching out the menus and placemats for dinner. The big apple sign glows overhead like a radioactive heart, casting pale arcs of light across everything. I close my eyes and pray for death, thinking\u2013 at least mom and dad didn\u2019t show up.<\/p>\n
When I open them, there\u2019s a girl in an Applebee\u2019s polo staring down at me. The teenage hostess. I vaguely remember hitting on her back when I was drinking. She must not hold a grudge, because she hands me a water bottle and a cold compress from my first aid bag.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are you doing this?\u201d She asks.<\/p>\n
Where to start? I could tell her about the booze and cheating and ripping people off for no reason whatsoever. I could describe what it\u2019s like to wake up in a field or a jail cell or with everyone in your life mad at you. I could say that everything I\u2019ve done, all the good and the bad and the in-between, has only been a temporary relief, a jetty to hold back the wave that\u2019s always crashing down on me. Finally, I say, \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, whatever. But the night manager is making me call the cops. The daytime guy didn\u2019t care that you were out here but the night guy wants you gone.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pulls out her phone and shows it to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cOk-ay,\u201d she says in a sing-song voice. \u201cI\u2019m call-ing the cops now.\u201d<\/p>\n
She dials the phone and holds it to her ear. With the last of my strength, I pull my broken, beaten body to its feet and look down the highway to where the sunset is bleeding into the bank of black trees and fluorescent green hills. What\u2019s out there for me? Salvation? Forgiveness? More of the same?<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll give you a ten-second head start,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s all I need.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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