Fight low-light #1

Well, Lou’s been fighting too. You know, rockn’roll is just a metaphor beating someone up, or for being beaten up by someone. Some say it means to have sex, but it ain’t true. It is about punching somebody in the face or kicking somebody’s guts out. And hey, have I not experienced the first? Oh yes. But a long time ago, long time ago. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I have hit someone since I fought that Iranian dude, Arash, in junior high. Back then, I was a pretty good fighter, fearless, having been schooled by a brother two years stronger and two times more aggressive.

Anyhow, since then, it’s been downhill all the way. All the way, I have been beaten up.

First time was in high school, at this party in a shabby old house down by the docks. I think I was seventeen, maybe sixteen. The house was home to a ‘motor’ club and it was rented cheaply to one of its members, who threw a party attracting, like a destructive magnet, all kinds of thugs and youngsters too young to drink in legal bars. This night I had prepared in style, sucking on a glass bottle with more than half a litre of homemade vodka. It tasted like piss. Come to think of it, there probably was piss in that bottle. Lou’s friend, MN, had brewed this toxic juice in his parents’ house, having devised a small-scale, secret distillery on the two upper floors of the church-like building. Anyhow, it tasted like shit. I remember standing by this industrial fence and trying to avoid puking from the sheer taste of it.

Bloody toxic avenger! It worked. I got drunk. Maybe I even got happy. That I don’t remember.

I remember dancing on a bike shed. I remember that the girls were ugly. And I remember finding a rusty screwdriver on the upper floor, inside the house. MN, always resourceful, put this in his pocket, “for safety”.

Then, I remember getting hit, in the back of my head. Once, twice, three times. I am standing on the dancefloor. Well, standing, I am trying to stand on the dancefloor. And then I am running towards the door. I get out, a little surprised, stand among the ugly girls. Wow, that was rockn’roll, wasn’t it.

A few seconds later comes MN, mouth bleeding. As a matter of fact, he is gurgling blood. Floff floff. Two of his front teeth are hanging from his braces. It looks terrible. I remember reflecting on how fucking long those teeth were, their roots all naked like that. “Thseyysh punsschhett myy teesthchh asuut, Lou, thseyysh punsschhett myy teesthchh asuut”.

Then, we go to the hospital. His parents show up. I take the screwdriver from MN’s pocket. I remember sitting in the waiting area, reading a book about birds, not realizing that it was upside down until several minutes had passed.

As I said, for Lou, it has been downhill all the way since fighting that Iranian dude, Arash.