The first time I have to kick somebody out of the bar I was scared shitless. Gina is doing what she does best, yapping and making a round of drinks. Right as she pours the drinks, this drunken guy walks by and knocks over all the drinks she is making so that they spill all over her. The guy has a body shape similar to a summo-wrestler, you can see the cheese beneath his boulder thigh, he is wearing a dog chain around his neck and has a striking resemblance to a one aging Mr. T. Little does he know, that one should never piss off a lesbian. They will make sure you pay and get what’s coming to you. She is so angered she snaps for me to kick the drunken mess out. Being her servant, barback for the evening, I stop and think of how I will get this guy out of the bar. I also start to wonder how such a large person could fit into the doors of the bar and if when he goes on airplanes, does he need to purchase 2 seats?
Gina’s selective butchness kicks into high-gear once a shift, where she usually ends up kicking drunken messes out when we need her to. This time, she tells me that it’s my turn to be the man of the group.
While Gina’s logic is true, I have never really had to confront another man in that way and tell them to leave an establishment. I have been in little quirels before, but nothing like this. I am the kid that has always been picked on for no reason other than my general awkwardness.
While I have never really been hit or injured from a fight, I have been threatened to be beaten up many a time in my young life. I have never really been in any major physical confrontations. Often these threats were harmless and once some kid threw their yogurt at me while I was leaving school. After being mortified, when I got home, I washed the strawberry yogurt out of my hair and then ate a gallon of strawberry ice cream to heal the pain.
I ask the guy nicely if he will walk out with me to the exit since he has had too much to drink and maybe needs some fresh air. His response is of course less nice. He informs me on how I am “a little faggot mouse” who has not right tell him what to do. Not knowing what to do, I just freeze not sure of what my next move should be or what to say. Then Gina comes right up from behind the guy, puts her arms around him in what looked like an old fashioned bear-hug, while restraining his arms down. She then walks in a waddling fashion (similar to the way one walks when conscealing a fart) with him to the door while keeping his arms tight to him. She leaves him outside of the door with the doorman and then tells me that next time she won’t be there to help me.
The concept of even possibly getting into a fight makes me think about how my father always makes me spar with him even as an adult. It’s been this way ever since I was a small child. Sparring is another term for practicing boxing, punching a given hand, item or punching bag. This is a great self-esteem strengthening exercise for an awkward kid like me. Little do I realize how this practice will come in handy when I will be dealing with drunken assholes for a living. This will lay the bricks for many things later on in my life. It is like an informal training on how to “handle it” as my good friend Tracy would say. My dad always explains it like this, “one day you’ll be walking down the street with a hot girl and some guy picks a fight with you. What will you do? Chat it out? Compramise? No, you’ll hit him harder than he can hit you and look good in front of your girl.” Such simple cut and dry logic.
My dad always fancies himself to be this amazing boxer much in the way that others dream of being a rockstar. He has an unusual obsession with boxers, their world and life they live. He idolizes boxing legends like Mike Tyson (before the ear bite), Lenix Louis, Mohamad Ali. According to him, some of these guys are on par or equivalent to modern day gods. He replays Tyson’s fights any time he needs inspiration or something to do. I have consequently seen every Mike Tyson fight at least 3 bazillion times. Where I fall asleep to “Golden Girls” and “Roseanne,” he falls asleep to the fights.
Living in the city of Angels, my muscular father is like most Southern California men. He is obsessed with going to the gym and making sure that people know he does such. The difference is his preference of gym. My 5’7, fair-skinned, four-eyed, bald-head father travels to Compton and workout at this place call the Broadway Gym. Dad says that he can’t go to another gym because real men don’t workout there. Apparently he needs a Rocky Balboa type to workout there or a man with tears tattoo on his face working out at a gym to feel like he fits in.
The Broadway gym is the one and only place were my father seems to feel at ease, something that will take me years to understand. He is always worried about life’s daily struggles, money, his relationships, possible mistakes of the present and past, the list goes on. This is the only place where he has real control of his life. As an adult I can still clearly remember him making me go with him so that I could “watch him workout”. This is similar to the episode of the “Simpsons” where Homer makes Bart look at the Virginia Slims ad for hours to make him feel more machesmo-ish. The gym is his way of showing me how men are supposed to be. Even though my dad always tries to be close to me, we never really connect in the way he hopes. The gym though is his time to show me his concept masculinity and tries to extend it as a role model. While I couldn’t grasp this concept as a child, now I understand the point of watching him box with other beefy men, beating eachother’s brains out. While it is just another one of life’s games where men work on proving who has the bigger balls. Boxing though, seems more interesting and more skillful than other games of this nature. It’s definitely more interesting than watching a guy show off their ridiculous sports car.
I will always remember my father in this way rolling up to the Broadway gym while blaring his hip-hop or hard gangsta’ rap, loud enough for people to hear he was coming. As he would get out of the car, he of course then takes out a Bensin Ultra-Light, his cigarette of choice. Maybe swig a sip of water, which in his case was always a coke or seven-up and then ask me to grab. I am always about 2 feet behind him like a golf-cattie carrying his bag. An ironic side-note about Russian immigrants, incase one has never had the delight of being raised by them as I have. All the families like us that I know, they always refer to sodas of any kind as water. Generally, drinking pure, crystal-clear water is considered unusual. Even plain water would have alca-seltzerish bubbles simply because that’s what they are us to from the motherland that treat them like prisoners, but we digress.
As a child, I have no clue that the Broadway Gym is in the city of Compton and known for being a bad area. This is my dad’s version of a country club, so I never really think about it. While he looks like the odd man out there to most onlookers, it is here that he feels he belongs. As he puts out his cigarette on his shoe, my dad’s voice drops 3 octives lower and he then begins to swagger, much like JJ on “Good Times” or LLCool J. He then grabs my hand and is greet by this big bald black man who goes by the name B-bell. He is about 35 years older than, and balding like my young father. The few hairs on his head, are grey and slicked down so much that the wind can’t make a dent. This man always treats me like I was his own grandchild. As a child he always has handed me a jump rope and treated me like I was training for the Olympics or a big Vegas fight. B, is an ex-famous boxer, friends with the greats during the time of Ali and the “rumble in the jungle.” His place here is to be the mentor for up and coming boxers and those who need fatherly guidance. He is like the trainer from “Rocky.” He even has a slightly east coasterly way of talking. He is a father to the fatherless of Compton’s Broadway gym.
In this gym they have these rows of seats, much like the benches one may see in church, which was perfect since this was my dad’s church. I will always remember sitting there, watching my dad going back and forth, between punching 2 different bags, one the size of a human, and the other, a little one above his head, he seems happier than I have ever seen him. This is his time to show off and be proud. He always waits for me to look over and applaud. Every now and again he will stop and chat with someone about old fighting-scars from knife fights and so-on, but that again is his way of showing me what he thinks men do. Fights, exaggerated talk about sex and making fun of those who can’t get it. In between these conversations, he then looks up to see that I am still happily watching him. He then tells whoever he was talking to, that I am there to watch and soon will start to spar myself. At which point, I am be half-asleep, dreaming about things that most boys seem not to, with a ribbon of drool soaking my shirt, then I would wake up, wave and go back to it.
My dad, generally is not a very outgoing person as the way most people know him. The ring is the only time he will step up and let is hair down, so-to-speak since he lost most of it at 26 when his father died. In the ring is when I learn the most valuable lesson he has ever taught me, how to strive and defend myself. This is the only time that I don’t fall asleep is when he is in the ring ready to fight another human being and does just that. Watching, I don’t realize how much of this brutal, savage and somewhat complex sport I am absorbing. My dad is very observant, always practicing his opponent’s next move before they made it and then combating by doing the opposite or hitting them first. Maybe this is what has and always will get me out of major fights?
I use my intuitive senses to spar out a conversations, this in turn to make a bully tired. This way they don’t have the energy to fight like my father does with his fists. He plays the game as he talk the other person down, like any good fighter does.
Once I start at the bar, I don’t realize that I will have to at times be the security of the bar. I would have to play the battle of the bigger balls via my speech and way of holding myself. Me, at a statuesque 5’8, 5’7 and ¾ in actuality, responsible for kicking out guys the size of houses and drunks ready to beat up anyone within a square foot of them. The second time I have to ask a guy to leave the bar, he tells little old me that I was am a kid and he knows when he’s had enough to drink. Then I inform him that I am sorry, but he is done drinking for the night and should leave. He then tries to swing a punch at me, I duck as my father does in these situations in the ring and the guy hits the brick-wall behind me. This fist is now scraped and bloodied. I then tell him that we can take it outside but now that he had tried to hit me, I have every right to defend myself, not only physically, but also make sure that he is taken to a drunk tank. The mix of poor reflexes and lack of words make him slowly walk out. This was just one of over 2,000 similar stories. Every time I have to kick someone out, my voice for some reason travels down around 3 octives and the adrenaline takes over. It’s as though I channel my father every time someone picks a fight with me.
Every time I need an extra shift, I end up being the bar’s door man on and off for about 3 years. The ironic thing is that I am one of the few to make it without a single scratch. I use the tools and ghetto-know how that my father has provided me with. If not for my father, I couln’t defend myself the way I do. I make it through these times without fear because of him. My father is the only light-complexioned man I know who during the famous LA riots is stuck buying a pack of cigarettes right in the middle of it all. The same man that since grade school tells me that, “if anyone fucks with you, hit them back 2 times harder.” Even though he is absent from many of my childhood memories, his tools for defense are ones that will always help me become a stronger man in the long-run and in turn even stronger knowing I won’t need use these skills. I can keep them safely stowed in my back pocket for emergencies. It was like that condom in the wallet that many guys keep there just incase but never use because they aren’t sure how long it’s been there, but feel empowered knowing they have it just in case. It’s things we don’t necessarily know if and when we’d need them, but feel good knowing we are prepaired.
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