Fisticuffs

[Note to the gentle reader: Graphic violence follows.]


I worked at a fast-food franchise in my youth. I was in high school at the time and the job furnished me with gas money for the stationwagon that I shared with my big brother and funds for entertainment activities. I rode my red moped with matching red helmet to work at this corner of Grandview and Glenoaks in Glendale, CA. A park with a nice baseball field was easily visible across the street from the restaurant.


1984

It was a Sunday afternoon and the restaurant had lost electricity. Heck, we can’t cook anything what with their computerized controls no longer operable. So we locked the doors and waited for the power to come back on. We waited and talked mostly. One guy was watching a ball game that was in progress across the street. There was a good turnout there. Then something exciting happened.

“Oh [expletive]! Look at this,” amusingly exclaimed my supervisor still looking out the window toward the ball field.

To our immature delight there were two guys at the park engaged in fisticuffs. One guy was clearly bettering the other. The champion would punch several times, knock down the other guy and walk away. The other would get up, charge the champion and offer a few floundering punches. Champion would deflect the floundered offerings, return fire, knock the guy down again, and walk away. ‘Ohh’ and ‘Oooh’ we’d vocalize with each blow.

Over the course of a few minutes, and the champion continually walking away, the physical challenge that started across the street at the park and was now right in front of our restaurant! We were watching the action from 15 feet away!

The champion, under assault again, offered one last punch delivering the other guy to the ground.

Champion looked at the two of us watching from inside the store. He shrugged his shoulders at us as if to say ‘What gives? He keeps coming back.’ Then he walked away. His shirt was filthy. Blood.

The other guy eventually picked himself up off the ground. He didn’t look at us. He walked in the opposite direction. His face was filthy. Blood.


On this particular day, my minimum wage was a steal.
-klem