Summer of 2012 passes into memory on a cool breeze, and a light fog draws in over the lowlands of the GVRD. A delicious night follows a gray, but not unpleasant day. The city does not smell of manure. Inside or outside is comfortable, though there’s some indecision over short sleeve or light sweater. I forecast the Richmond Lolitas will be wearing shorts for
weeksmonths to come. And bonus, they haven’t yet put their smiles away for the season. A few even have one to spare for an old guy like me. Ah, the summers on the Wet Coast! “Thho gut!”
But all this was the sideshow. Tonight, the main attraction was the trip home. Back to my lovely suburb.
It was the Adam’s apple. Its owner, in the back seat of the bus, a belligerent drunk, not doing anything (yet), but defying everyone to do or say something — anything, so he could have an excuse to prove how much of an asshole he could be. Late night weekend public transit users know who I’m talking about. He reminded me of me twenty years ago, in some ways, but magnitudes more an asswipe. (I’m not a belligerent drunk.) But as far as drunken white trash goes, I’ve seen plenty worse. He was special because, though probably nearly half my age and in fairly good shape for a punk-ass construction bitch, I figured I could take him in his current state.
Alcohol has a wonderfully numbing effect. On feelings. On judgement. I remember the last time I was seriously beaten while seriously inebriated. How I’d felt absolutely nothing. Until the next day. My face lacerated. My nose broken for the umpteenth time (heh, that was muh dad’s word). My entire body ached. My testicles felt like they’d been in a vise. I walked with a limp for days.
I thought how wonderful that entire experience could be for him too, and how I could make it happen for him. I think it could have been special for both of us. How much sweeter this night could have been, to have that sharing moment. To put my elbow into the nose in the center of that curiously Daniel Sedinesque face. The spray it would have made! I wonder if the old Filipina woman sitting nearby has ever seen this level of violence up close. Probably not since coming to Canada (unless she’s a hockey fan). And from that point on, because of his position, I could have easily continued undeterred with blow after blow to the face. It would have been terribly messy for the people around him, traumatic for some, I suppose. Blood. Bits of broken teeth. I think many, if not most of bystanders, would have secretly applauded me. Including the old Pinay. But I would have had to restrain myself though, because the temptation to strike that lump in the windpipe would be great, maybe too great. And there would be no coming back from that choice.
Overall, for him, I think the experience would have been — interesting. He might have said to himself (as I have in those situations), “ah, I’m being assaulted. Did I do something foolish? It’s so weird. I don’t remember now.”
Friends IRL, this is why I don’t go to clubs. Please don’t ask me. If I turn off my humanity… My desire to do harm is intense. My capacity for brutality is endless. I’m scared of myself.