… it was an eerily familiar scene, though he had never before been in this particular bar. He stood there, face to face with a man standing at least 6 inches taller than he, dumb-founded. How had this happened? Merely three weeks ago he was a wildly successful stock trader with a loving girlfriend, friends left and right, and a family living just a few miles away. He had been in possession of it all. He tried in the moment to pin point where it all went wrong. What had changed? Was it the bad investment that lead to the toppling destruction of his life or had it been the death of Hinkley – his girlfriend’s cat? The realization that any one thing could have caused everything to fall apart as though his life was being balanced on the top of an equilateral triangle caused him to smirk. “Funny? Really?” said the taller man. It really wasn’t funny, he thought, but he couldn’t help it. What else are you supposed to feel when a man you don’t know has just smashed you over the head with an empty beer bottle as though you were in a theatrical movie?
Okay, so none of that happened. Or maybe it did (who knows what happens in the whole wide world?), but the above is my one and only venture into fiction that’s only purpose is to lead into my telling you that I got smashed over the head with a bottle.
And it wasn’t empty.
And it wasn’t a beer bottle.
And I wasn’t at a bar.
What the ever loving fuck are you telling me, Debbie?
This past weekend, while at Purdue, I found out how useful I’d be in a bar fight.
I opened the fridge door to get at a Corona when something big and heavy fell on my head. I froze in place – which is kind of a weird reaction since you’d expect that I’d move or freak out or put my hands on my head or something. Instead I froze and noticed something heavy was now pushing down on my neck right above my shoulder blades.
When the thing fell on my head it made almost a solid glass on metal sound. It reverberated in my ears for a few seconds that seemed to last for eons.
At this point, the other people in the room – having heard, apparently, the solid glass on metal sound – came over to lift the weight off my neck/shoulder blades where the mass had come to a complete and utter state of rest.
I stood up at this point and felt a twinge of pain when I touched the top of my head, but otherwise felt absolutely fine. A minute or so later, the twinge disappeared and I was able to correctly understand what had happened.
When I had opened the door to the refrigerator, a full bottle of red wine that had been sitting atop it fell off, landed on my head and then rolled to a final resting place of my neck/shoulder blades. Had I moved at all when this occurred, the bottle would have most certainly dropped to the floor and shattered.
Had that happened, I most certainly would have been littered with shards of glass and the delicious nectar of the gods.
Had that happened, I probably would have tried to save all the wine, licking it off the floor, risking more slices and cuts from the deep green stabby glass pieces.
Because, you know… me and wine.
That actually assumes you know about me and wine. It’s my biggest vice, probably. I’m not a vice person. I can’t think of a thing that I can’t live without, but if I was going to make a list, it’d go (1) wine, (2) wine, (3) wine… well you get the idea. I’m the real life, less bad-ass, cheaper version of Olivia Pope.
Luckily, my freezing in place kept the bottle safe from the floor and my tongue/body safe from glass shards.
I did however get smashed over the head with a full bottle of wine.
And aside from a slight discomfort when touching it for a day or two, I came out of it entirely unscathed.
So basically, you really really want me on your side in a bar fight because I’m resilient as all get-out and I’d probably shock the hell out of someone who smashed me over the head with non-reaction and then immediate retaliation.
But like, don’t get into bar fights, or something. Okay? Cool! Bye!
Oh, here’s an artistic rendering of my American Badassery