talking and acting big and getting the hell out of dodge when necessary has served me well over the years, but nevertheless i recently got into a bit of trouble i would rather forget. if circumstances let me, that is.
it was on a recent sunday that i went with friends on an exceedingly pleasant early-springtime walk through some regional vineyard hills. man, it was good to enjoy the sun after a cold and long winter, and it felt just right to head for a rustic eatery after the sun went down. sometimes things are just right and you've got enough oxygen in your system and good food and wine and conversation and you never want to stop. after a few rounds we drove back to town -- most of our friends having to get up early the next day -- but me, my best drinking buddy kenorbi and his girlfriend carla felt it was too early to call it a weekend.
so we headed for my comfortable office where, i have to admit, i usually have a stash of something or other. as it turned out, there was this great bottle of single malt that was just asking for our attention, and attend to it we did.
the bottle emptied, my fridge plundered: what to do? kenorbi suggested we go to his place for some smokes. by this time it was 2 AM and ii should have known better. but i figured, in the wack logic i tend to arrive at when i am drunk, since i had to get up at 7 the next morning, getting some thc in my system would assure a sound sleep.
perhaps i should mention that not only was i drunk, but that carla and kenorbi were well over the hill as well.
perhaps i should also mention that kenorbi had found a nice looking walking stick in the vineyards and that now, as we had left my comfortable office, he was waving it and prancing like a truly drunken idiot.
in any case you should know that in my home town taxi drivers are maniacs and are unsafe at any time of the day, but especially at 2 AM. thus, when crossing the street outside of my comfortable office, we nearly got run down by a speeding taxi. kenorbi was quick enough to jump out of the way but was stupid enough to bang his stick against the taxi's rear bumper in protest.
i don't know why -- these things happen, don't they? -- but the taxi stopped and this guy got out from the back seat. he looked rather normal, actually kind of good looking, like some kind of athletic actor, but pretty well pissed and pretty much pissed off. the guy walked right up to kenorbi, knocked the stick out of his hand, grabbed kenorbi by the lapels, shaked him and shouted in his face:
"what do you think you're doing, stupid fuck"
kenorbi was too drunk and surprised to respond, but something just snapped in me, and i walked up to mr. taxi passenger and gave him a poke in the ribs. he punched me, i punched him back, and then something unexpected happened.
did you ever get a too-close whiff of somebody's hair, like when you have unexpected physical contact in the subway? you feel the fluffy softness and smell the body presence, the unwanted humanity...
and unwanted humanity is exactly what i got. as if in slow motion, i saw this forehead go down towards me, i saw the hair on top of his head, and then the next thing i knew i was lying on the ground.
a fucken head butt! motherfucker hit me in the face with his forehead! luckily i had turned my face a few degrees sideways, in a reflex, otherwise he would have smashed my nose.
i got up with this warm wet feeling on my face. i was bleeding very sloppily. by now mr. taxi passenger's girlfriend had gotten out of the cab and was shouting
"jurgen, jurgen, stop it, lets go! stop it jurgen!"
to which i said,
"yeah fucket jurgen mama's calling"
which of course proves you never think of something smart to say whenever you really need to.
we had another small tussle but i think jurgen didn't want to get his clothes all bloody and his girlfriend was really screaming by now. so he gave me a dirty look and got back into the cab (and what was the cab driver doing during all this? fuck nothing!)
so there we were, 2 AM, all three of us drunk and me very bloody. kenorbi was incredulous.
"i can't believe this, you took a head butt for me? fucken hell! man, a friend who takes a head butt for me! i won't ever forget that."
"ye blub rechh blub"
"what's that you said martino"
i spit the blood out of my mouth and repeated,
"yeah kenorbi well i think i won't be forgetting this anytime soon either".
perhaps i should have mentioned that carla has this slightly weird side, and was exclaiming:
"wow look at all the blood! this is so cool! look at all the blood!"
so we went to kenorbi's place, carla wiped my face with some horribly stingy stuff, but first she said
"kenorbi take a picture! comon take a photo, this is gonna look so cool!"
which it didn't: i just looked gormless, like drunk people usually do.
i drove home and slept fitfully for a few hours. when i woke my face and my pillow were wet and bloody. i checked in at work but then called my buddy dr val.
"listen doc, i got this big wound in my face that doesn't want to stop bleeding, i think i need some medical attention."
"well can you drive or are you still drunk? ha!, just guessing.... just come right over anyway".
upon my arrival, he looked at my wound and said:
"holy fuck, you shouldn't fight people who are wielding baseball bats. a head butt? jesus, that guy musta had a hard head. you should really start acting your age for chrissakes. i am gonna take an x-ray of your face first to make sure you didn't break your cheek bone, just as a precaution, and then i am gonna take a needle and put five stitches in your face in a way you won't forget."
after a few days, the black bruise marks around my eye and chin had turned to yellow and i felt well enough to be seen in public.
soon however i regretted having a public face -- at least, a face that anybody saw fit to comment on. i could handle the "holy cow, technicolor?" comments on the subway, but, for an example, there were these serbian guys at the corner shop who spoke to me.
"you are man, no? why you let you wife hit you?"
"aww, why don't you mind your own business."
"no, next time she get her frying pan, you hit her first!"
"fer chrissakes, it wasn't my wife. listen, it was this drunk guy late at night, he gave me a head butt"
"a head butt? holy vladislav. he was english right? the english, they are swine, they give head butts"
"no he wasn't english."
"ah so then he was french. the french are dirty fighters, cowards, pigs."
of course, some people are more helpful. a week later i am visiting my friendly auto mechanic, and he says (and this is a really soft, sweet guy and a gifted mechanic to boot):
"mr martino, i am your friend, so let me tell you this: you are an idiot. next time",
and at this point he got real close to me, just two or three inches,
"next time you are confronted with an asshole look him in the eyes, don't flinch, get real close, and then give him a quick knee to the balls before he can even hit you."
equally nice was the pretty waitress at my coffee hangout who made my day when she said,
"are you ok now? that wound looked nasty but now i think you have a pretty sexy looking scar. i bet it came from a fight about women, didn't it?"
by now, i indeed have a two-inch scar below my cheekbone and a reminder, every time i look into the mirror, to stop acting like an idiot. so in some crooked way i might consider this episode to be a blessing except this morning, when i walked past the corner shop the serbian guy said,
"give my regards to your wife, hahaha! just don't forget to duck next time!"
