150407/1916—So I’m walking along the street around the corner from my house. I’ve lived in this neighbourhood—Bathurst and 401—for ten years, and I’ve never felt even vaguely threatened or worried about walking the streets at night, much less during daylight. Possibly this feeling of security has to do with my being a big guy, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, I have a shawarma sandwich in my right hand and my cellphone in my left. I’m talking on the phone to a buddy, just walking along, when suddenly I feel a blow to the base of my skull.
“What the hell? ”
(Later my buddy, the one I was talking to on the phone, would say, “We were talking, and then all of a sudden I hear, ‘What the hell?’ and then a big clatter, and then the phone went dead. I thought you’d been hit by a car or something. It kinda freaked me out.”)
My first thought is that I just bumped my head really hard on something, because that’s how it feels. I mean, I’m seeing stars, Roman candles, whatever, that flashing-light experience inside my head, accompanied by a heavy, painful thrum reverberating through my skull. But then I realize you usually bump into things in front of you. My next thought, as I’m turning around to see what the hell’s happening behind me, is that someone recognized me from behind, and came up and slapped me across the head. And I’m about to say, “You know, that would’ve been funny, except it really hurt.”
Having turned around, I see a guy I’ve never seen before: white, mid-twenties, crew cut, wife-beater shirt, track pants. As I jam my phone into my pocket, I say, “What the hell, man? Why’d you just hit me? Who’re you?”
The guy has his fists up and a snarl on his face.
“You motherfucker,” he snarls, “why the fuck’d you do that? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”
“Dude,” I say, trying to collect my thoughts, “I don’t even know you. What is it you think I did?”
“You know exactly what you did, motherfucker,” he says, coming at me again.
He starts attacking. His fists fly, but slowly. With my free arm I easily block his punches, as though I know where they’re going. As though I’m a seasoned street-fighter. Then I realize my right hand is beginning to tense up, and I’m getting ready to hit back. Sure, why not? The guy slugged me. Suckerpunched me, for fucksake. And here he is continuing his unexplained attack. He deserves a shot or two to the head. Recompense, right? Eye for an eye.
Now let me make one thing clear: I’m not a violent guy (except when I’m pummelling myself). I’m not a seasoned street-fighter. I haven’t been in a scuffle since high school. But here I am getting ready to fight. I’m confused: What’s this guy’s problem? How have I offended him? I’m surging with adrenaline. I can feel the first awakenings of anger. Yet strangely I don’t feel threatened. As though I know that this guy, with his wild, ineffectual punches, can’t hurt me. That only I can hurt me.
As quickly as the situation is escalating, I still manage to keep my head. That is, I’m able to mentally step back and assess the situation. And I realize that if I don’t feel threatened, I needn’t counterattack. The only thing my punching back will satisfy is my anger. And anger, I have learned, never needs to be satisfied.
Amid the anger and adrenaline, a clear thought rings through my head: I don’t want to hit this guy. I don’t even know him. And maybe most oddly, a second thought, calm and rational: Protect your shawarma.
Immediately I relax my right hand, saving the sandwich from certain squishing. Instead of hitting back, I again appeal to reason.
“What’s your problem, man?” I say, still blocking his ineffectual punches. “Just tell me what I did to you.”
He stops punching and snarls, “You know what you did, motherfucker. I’m gonna kill you.” Now he’s trying to stare me down.
I want to just turn and walk away, but I don’t want another shot in the back of the head. And I don’t want him to think he’s stared me down. So casually I begin backing away. Again I say, “I don’t even know who you are. Why don’t you just tell me what I did.”
“You motherfucker,” he says, following me, “don’t look at me. Don’t even look at me.”
I’m opening up some distance between us, but I still don’t want to turn my back on him. He continues to urge me not to look at him. Then out of nowhere he says, “What, motherfucker, you want to suck my cock?” And he pulls down his track pants and flashes me.
That’s when it clicks for me: this guy is either on something or off something. He’s psychotic. Standing in the middle of the road, with his track pants around his knees, having finally stopped following me, he screams over and over, “Don’t look at me motherfucker!”
Once I feel there’s enough distance between us, I turn my back on him. But I continue to look over my shoulder, keeping an eye on him. Still standing there, he finally pulls up his pants. As I turn onto the street that leads to my street, he begins running in the other direction, away from me.
I walk briskly, frequently looking over my shoulder. I don’t want this guy following me. I don’t want him to know where I live. My hands are shaking, my heart racing as adrenaline slowly ebbs. My anger remains. Although it hasn’t progressed, it has begun to fuel self-doubt. Have I done the right thing by walking away? Or have I fled, tail between my legs? Should I have kicked the shit out of the guy? Cautiously I decide I’ve done the right thing.
My anger whines, “He suckerpunched you!”
I respond, “So?”
“How could you let him get away with that?”
“No real harm done.”
As if to verify my response, I feel the back of my head. No pain. I have a bit of a headache, though. Slightly concerned, I wonder if I’ve been concussed.
My anger won’t let it lie. “An eye for an eye! Be a man! Stand up for yourself!”
I ignore my anger, can feel it begin to fade, its blood slowly draining. As though fighting for life, it tries to goad me. Calls me wimp, wussy, coward. I think: worst case scenario, I have a concussion. Hitting the guy wouldn’t’ve changed that. Hell, had I fought back, I might be more injured. Looking over my shoulder, turning onto my street, I feel a comforting tickle of pride, of accomplishment, of turning away a potentially dangerous enemy.
By the time I arrive home and turn the key in my door’s lock, my anger has faded. I can’t wait to taste my shawarma.
~
180507/2248—Debriefing: I’ve thought about this incident several times since it occurred. In a calm, reflective, unangry state, I’ve reviewed it in many ways—how it played out, how it could’ve played out. Dozens of times I’ve pictured my adversary’s snarling, hate-filled face. I’ve walked past the spot where it happened (always looking over my shoulder), wondered where he came from and where he fled to. I’ve re-experienced my confusion and uncertainty as to his deluded motivations. I’ve stood in an otherwise empty room, replaying the crucial events in my head, ducking and blocking imagined punches. I’ve even punched back at an imagined target, landing that satisfying knockout blow. And each time I revisit the incident, I arrive at the same conclusion: By doing nothing, I did the right thing. I wasn’t hurt (i.e., no concussion). I didn’t hurt anyone or damage anything. I protected my shawarma. And most importantly, I didn’t succumb to the anger which so often in the past has gotten the best of me, and which could have exacerbated the situation in potentially gruesome ways.
I’ve also discussed the incident with several people. Interestingly, and without exception, the only ones who said I should’ve fought back are those familiar with punching walls as a solution to anger management. Which validates, in a bittersweet way, my conclusion that I did the right thing. My small victory that day has since helped me to win other battles with myself. Each act of resistance helps make the next attempt at resistance easier. The war, I well know, is never over.
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