Losing is the new Winning!

  He wanted a drink, and he wanted one badly.

   He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, there was a pain he detected there as well, and he just KNEW with one drink, maybe one beer(?!), it would go away.   The anxiety?   He could vanish that shit lickety-split.   He recognized the signals his body was sending him:   Please Add Alcohol.

  It had been a few months already though, and a promise IS a promise, at least as long as you are still speaking to the person you made the promise to, as far as he was concerned.   As bad as he wanted that drink, he was also a little worried about what it could do to him.   This last year was a good example of what a drink or two could lead to, and it was not a pretty year, not as it unfolded, and was not likely to ever become pretty, even in hindsight.  It wasn't all the fault of a failure of willpower, but it seems most of the times he got in trouble he had been imbibing.

   He needed to do SOMETHING though, that was the problem.  He couldn't keep pacing around the building from room to room worrying about the pain in his chest, he needed a release,  and he couldn't buy anymore doors or sheetrock.   The cops confiscated and destroyed his gun this last summer, so he couldn't cut the tension with a few sharp satisfying muzzle flashes into the night either.    He had no extra cars to skid around in and wreck, none that were his, anyway.

   He promised not to drink, he thought,  he promised he would not drink...  and there was an implied promise of not ruining future plans, there was no extra money now for violation fees or bail,  but there had been no discussion of a little fight.    If he was careful?   He knew if he could engage out in the street, outside of an established business, the police would probably not be called.

   It had been almost a year since his knuckles had greeted whiskered cheeks, or his own cheeks suffered the knuckles of another stumbling, slurring man.   It was true he had been drinking every other time he had engaged in such activity, but that did not mean he HAD to drink in order to fight, did it?   In fact, he wanted to hit people quite often when perfectly sober.    He was now puzzled as to why this idea did not occur to him sooner - Why did he have to drink in order to get in a fight?

   There was a time when he would avoid fights.   When he was younger and softer, afraid of pain and scars and manly behavior and bearded baseball-hat wearing men, men who just-got-off-work and were manly men, men who did not look away first,  men who would mutter insults at him when drinking beer,  he feared these men and their confidence.    They must be sure of themselves for a reason, he reckoned.

  Well, this man, the man in our story here,  he grew up eventually, and learned that these bearded men with their Carharts and plaid shirts and motorcycle boots and tattoos were mainly a lot of hot air.  Our Man, the man we are discussing here in our story, he learned that if he kept looking, these other men would look away first.   Those rare times the other man did not look away first?   Words may be exchanged, and if push came to shove, he learned not to stand and box, but to tackle instead, momentum became his friend, and he would quickly be on top of the offending party and force them to do or say something humiliating  in order to be released.    If they would not, or if resistance was maintained,  he would be forced to resort to punching.   He also learned to be aware of his blind spots and not mount the offensive party in such a way as to expose his back to any portion of the patronage or potential cohorts of the party in question.  The Real Deal here boiled down to a couple simple questions: Can you punch someone in the face real hard?   Are you willing to be punched in the face real hard?  It looks easy in movies, but gathering the nerve to hit someone in the face, hard, is no simple effort.   If you are a civilized person (and this man certainly was one), the idea may cause you worry at first.  But. Once you do it the first time though?   You never go back.   Like buying good socks.   There was an evolution.

   He enjoyed these times.   Even when he 'lost', he felt he still won.   His confidence in such matters soared, and he learned a new trick or two every now and then.    These were good times!   The police were rarely scrambled into duty, and he displayed a certain charm that kept him out of serious trouble, even when confronted by the law.

   So, on this certain evening that this particular man we are talking about here wanted a drink real bad,  he decided that maybe he did not have to have a drink, but maybe he could just get into a fight with some poor bastard out there in the real world?  SUUUUUuuuuuure.     Even if he were to get knocked out, he enjoyed pain, did not fear it, (but did not enjoy the humiliation so much) and would still consider himself 'ahead' of this chest-pain-thing and the pacing.

   He made up his mind.   It was seven o'clock in the evening on a weekday.   Prime Mantime out in Barworld. He went to his room and put on a pair of not-favorite-jeans,  some steel-toed boots (if it came to kicking, he wanted to be prepared), his 'Obama Rocks!' t-shirt and did some stretches,  popped his knuckles a few times,  smoothed his hair over to one side, and  got into the medicine cabinet in the bathroom  and applied some of Her mascara to his eyelashes until he looked like Amy Winehouse. The he got into his car and headed  out to a bar NOT in the immediate area, but instead a bar where  he would not be recognized, in case the police were called.   He could not risk any more fines this year.   He had plans in the upcoming months and he had to be careful.  He had things to look forward to.