Swinging Knives & from Light Fixtures. Also, True Love.

I punched a friend of mine in the face one time. His name was Justin and he was almost as drunk as Lot sleeping with his daughters. We’d gone downtown with this girl we knew, but we got separated from her and decided to wait for her by her car.

So we were stumbling through the parking garage. Justin sees a low-hanging overhead light and with all the gusto of a 4-year-old jumps up, grabs a hold of it, and starts swinging on it. But he was not a 4-year-old, or in any way similar to a 4-year-old, sizewise.

The light snapped off the ceiling and he tumbled down, still holding onto it. It smashed into his head when he landed on the concrete floor. I about died, laughing at him.

So me and this guy with blood running down his forehead kept wandering the ramp because we’d forgotten where exactly our friend’s car was. We were just your ordinary pair of idiots, loitering around cars, occasionally tearing down light fixtures and cutting ourselves with them.

I hoped no one was watching the security cameras.

It turns out my good friend Justin—and he was a good friend—was so inebriated that five minutes after injuring himself he tasted his blood, then put his fingers to his face to confirm that he was bleeding, as if he was surprised by it.

In fact, he was surprised.

He had no idea how he’d gotten cut. But I was there, so, of course, I must have done it to him. He got all indignant and started shouting at me, “What did you do to me!?” blah, blah, blah.

Part of my brain was thinking about the cameras that can now see that these two loiterers look like they’re about to fight. And part of my brain was concentrating on not laughing as I explain to my discombobulated compatriot that I had not attacked him. Rather, he had swung from the ceiling on a light fixture and it had broken off and hit his head.

Fortunately, he came around and acknowledged that, no, it was not like me to attack him, let alone viciously enough to draw blood. But he thought the whole swinging-on-a-light scenario was a little far-fetched. It may not have been me, but somebody had attacked him. He was gonna find out who and get his vindication on if it damned him.

That’s when I discovered Justin was carrying a knife. I swear, I had no idea he was such a lunatic. Everyone has good friends who are lunatics, right? I mean, your friends have pulled knives on imaginary attackers in downtown parking garages, yes?

It was a pretty lame blade, but a knife nonetheless. I got even more nervous about the cameras. He was waving the knife around and raving about finding the people who did this to him. I told him to put that damn thing away and calm down. We’d get arrested.

Finally, he put the knife back in his jacket. Just then, this couple walked out of the stairwell and started heading past us to their car. They were probably in their early 30s—a good-looking set of yuppies. The kind of people who go out and get just as drunk as my friend and me, spend way more doing it, and somehow keep it classy.

To sum it up, I guess: They were the kind of people that park in parking ramps instead of loafing around in them threatening phantoms with little knives.

Justin sat back against the hood of a car—not our friends’ car; we didn’t know where that was yet—while I stood in front of him trying to calm him down. He was swearing loudly and I was swearing quietly, trying to get him to shut the hell up.

Obviously we were causing a bit of a disturbance. I noticed the man who had just come in took the elbow of the woman and walked with a little more dispatch toward their Volvo or Saab or whatever.

To my great disappointment Justin made eye contact with him. The poor guy had given one of those furtive, I-hope-you-don’t-notice-but-I’m-looking-at-you-because-you’re-scary looks. Justin noticed.

He began shouting at them. First it was just ordinary what-are-you-looking-at kind of nonsense. But then I could almost see the drunken logic taking place behind his bleary, bloody eyes. He suddenly realized that it was them. It was them. They’re the ones who ambushed him and slashed his head open. It was them. It had to be.

He started hollering about how he’s going to kick their asses and how they’d picked the wrong guy to mess with. Cliché? Nonsensical? Sure, of course. But dangerous cliches and nonsense.

It’s not like these people didn’t have cell phones. I was sure we were going to jail that night. Then Justin reached into his jacket.

That’s when I punched him in the face.

I said I was sorry to the nice yuppies and tried to use the old, boy-isn’t-he-drunk excuse. I think they may have wet themselves by then, though. A couple of homeless-looking hoodlums, one with blood all over his face, threaten you. Then one of them starts coming toward you and the other one punches him in the face and apologizes.

It was probably a bit surreal for them. Which must be why my coming to their defense went somewhat underappreciated.

I felt bad. This isn’t exactly the way yuppies like ending their dates on Saturdays.

What if this was their first date. I kinda hope it was and I hope they got married. I can see that being a very real possibility—not unlikely at all. Me and Justin really brought those two together.

Isn’t it always exciting when you can play even just a small role in a loving couple’s how-we-met story?