The one fight I've been in was in the second grade, which was when
fights consisted of "nuh-UNH!" followed by a shove and Tim Landry
sobbing.

The fight I was in lasted approximately zero seconds and was called
off by a teacher who happened to be selling Chick-O-Sticks in the area
during recess.

"Tim, are you crying?" she asked me. "What? Is that bug looking at you again?"

Upon the realization that me and another student were actually engaged
in combat, second-grade style, she put us in time out. I vowed, during
those seven arduous minutes, never to fight again.

And never fight again, I... did. Throughout elementary and high
school, I was always that guy who stood frozen on the sidelines of a
fight. My heart would beat quickly and I wouldn't root for anyone
except the lunch bell. I'd wait for that one saint of a student to run
up and attempt to end the fight. I always loved that guy because he
always got booed by the rest of the guys and bags of milk were always
thrown at him. Which always, ironically, lightened the mood for me.
Keep in mind I went to a private Catholic school, so most of the
fights were over whose "pipes" were more expensive. I didn't
understand the arguments at the time and assumed a lot of the guys
were part-time plumbers.

As I've mentioned in the past, I rarely go "out." This is because
every time I do go there, I get approached by some drunk hardass who
tells me his life story. I guess my non-intimidating frame coupled
with my strikingly intimidating charm and relatively straight smile
attracts all types. Of men.

Here is the conversation I have every time I go out to a bar:

        Random Drunk Hardass: Hey.
        Me: Hey.
        Random Drunk Hardass: Man, I was in the parking lot just now
        and this dude come up to me all come up to me is all 'sup.' So I'm
        all like, 'tssssss maaaaan.' So he's all mad-doggin' me an' my girl
        comes out and I'm all 'pfffttt.'

This continues for about eight to 12 minutes. I sometimes get a free
beer out of the story, but usually throw it away, dejected, after
catching a glimpse of the storyteller one last time.

Usually I'm the one the badasses confide in, but sometimes I'm a
target. I attribute this to the fact that I'm apparently a smartass—an
oblivious smartass. Which is the worst kind. (I really hope that
doesn't come off as me being a smartass).

I remember one time I had beer bottles thrown at me in college for
something I apparently said in high school.

The following is, verbatim, what someone once yelled at me before I
had to dodge an air born High Life.

"Hey! You! Funny guy! I remember you! Remember that one time at that
party that one time senior year? Huh! Yeah I remember what you said.
Saved by the Bell, am I? Slater this!"

*Fling*

I had no idea what the hell was going on, but I weaned myself off of
teenage comedy references for months. Which isn't very easy.

God decided to spice up my life with a little bit of drama the other
night. As I celebrated my 23rd birthday, which is pretty much the
oldest I've ever been, I heard someone yelling outside of my apartment
complex.

"I'MA HEADBUTT YOU IN DA FACE!" a strange voice shouted.

My friends and I, still celebrating my difficult birth, shrugged it
off, assuming it was something harmless like my neighbor talking to
his cat. No such luck. This random dude was yelling at two of my
friends, one who is female, who were smoking too loudly on the porch.

"Shut up!" he yelled, as my friends puffed, bewildered.

I, temporarily forgetting that I'm 135 pounds, ran outside to confront
the gentleman. He turned to me and I froze. I recognized him as a man
who lives nearby. I don't want to say his real name, so I'll call him
"Superdrunk."

"Superdrunk," I said. "What's the problem?"

He then picked me up by my shirt, which apparently actually happens,
and said "WHAT? YOU SKINNY DORK? WHAT YOU WANT? YOU
FRONTIN'?"

As I hovered a few inches above the ground, my killer instincts kicked
in. It was like I was back in second grade, except my shirt wasn't
stained with pickle. I did what any second-grader in my position would
do: I turned my head to look at my friends and said "Uhhhhhhh!"

My roommate and other male friends jumped over couches to rescue me.
The girls were frozen in a hauntingly Tim-like manner. As soon as the
man saw they were coming, he let me down, cursed and slammed my door
repeatedly. He then walked back to his apartment, quasi-defeated
before, I imagine, passing out on his stove.

In summary, I'd like to thank my friends for coming to my rescue on my
23rd birthday. Not for saving me, but for saving Superdrunk. Because I
would have totally peed all over that guy.

©2005 Tim Landry