A Situation Handled

A Situation Handled

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

This is for those of you out there who are particularly skilled in the fighting arts, say, Kung Fu, Karate, or any effective system of hand-to-hand combat arsenal you may have at your disposal. There is a moral responsibility that comes with combat weaponry, be it gun, knife, or bare hands, and the following addresses it.

A group of friends and I were discussing the use of physical violence, and the issue of justification came up. I will write another column that deals with this in more depth another time, but in light of that important and controversial question, allow me, if you will, to relate a small – and fictional – example of one situation and how it could, and in my opinion, should, be handled.
Let's say you and your significant other are at a coffee bar standing in line for a cappuccino. Just as you get to the counter a guy steps up, cutting in front of you managing to nudge you back, and proceeds to place his order. There you are, with your wife or girlfriend, and this guy's being a real ass.
"Excuse me," you say, just in case he doesn't realize his mistake, "we were here first, pal."
He turns to you and says in a rude and arrogant manner, "So ... what are you going to do about it?"
There you are, standing opposite the bastard, him with his shoulders back attempting to show you, your woman, and most of all, himself, just how tough he really is.
It's decision time.
The love of your life says, "Honey, come on, let it go. It's not worth it." You know she's right. But you also know that she will, albeit reluctantly, shave a couple of inches off your height if you just slink away with your tail between your legs. And to make matters worse, now everyone else in the place, all eyes, are riveted on you, breathless, wondering, waiting to see what you will do. Of course, he's still standing there, defiant and clearly challenging you, also waiting to see what you do.
So? What do you do?
Keep in mind; I am predicating this on the notion that you are a trained fighter, skilled and practiced, more than capable of dispatching this idiot.
I hope this doesn't disappoint, but it is my opinion that the best thing to do is simply smile at the mental midget and say, "Sorry, no offense," and step back, letting him order his damned Latte. Now don't worry, this can be done with confidence, dignity, and a self-assurance that is evident to your squeeze and the dickhead who seems to have such unknowing disregard for his own health. It can even be done with a bit of moxey so as to let everyone watching – at least those with a bit of discernment – know that your retreat was out of deference and mercy, not fear or intimidation.
Hopefully, as you step back allowing him your rightful place in line, the jerk will turn back to the counter, place his order, and a potentially volatile incident will have been successfully diffused. You can take comfort in the fact that you've avoided a dangerous confrontation in the name of 'taking the high road,' sparing you a police report and him a beating. You had to swallow some pride, take a hit or two to your sense of masculine ego, but hey, you're man enough for it. After all, he may have a table full of the same IQ deficient friends a few feet away, and remember, you have woman to look out for. All is well with the world.
But there may be a problem.
Some guys will see this as an opportunity to push the envelope a bit further, taunting you and trying to force the ... 'situation.'
Like for instance, as you smile and turn to leave, you might hear a small but quite audible, "Yeah, you better turn your ass away."
In an instant, the temperature has just risen a notch.
'No no,' you say to yourself, 'that's okay, everything's fine. Not a problem.' You ignore the comment and the muscle bound Neanderthal as you continue in your humble and comfortable stroll upon the 'high road.' But just when you thought you dodged a bullet, that the air was clear and the birds were singing a song of determined, although strained, passivity, the damned fool speaks again. Even though it isn't at a high volume, still, you hear it...
"F#@!in' pussy."
Close ... close. But, as it happens, not quite enough. You're strong, your staid, you just let it fade away into oblivion. However, it does give you ample reason to let him quietly slip a little more rope over his head.
You turn back to him, and with a calm smile, you say, "Hey, I said I was sorry. No need for any trouble." You're proud of yourself. Your control and tranquil attitude gives you a renewed burst of hope for humanity. "You wanted to be first," you say with a gesture to the jittery, white as a sheet seventeen-year-old girl behind the counter, "there you go." You again turn to leave, but yet again, you hear the imbecile say something. This time, he makes no attempt to lower his voice,
"That's right. Get the F#%! outta' hear ..."
You control yourself, grit your teeth, and pay it no mind as you head for the back of the line, thinking that given the overall gravity of the situation, you're better off playing it safe, keeping things cool. No need to take a chance. The ramifications that can come with these things are often devastating. So, very wisely, you decide to just let the entire incident roll of your back like a ball of fish hooks for the sake of, again, taking the @%$!&$# high road – that is ... until you hear him finish his sentence ...
"...and take your ugly bitch with you."
You turn around to see him grinning and making sure that everyone is aware of his dominance over you, your woman, indeed right now, over the whole world.
That's when you proceed to quickly and thoroughly handle the situation.

Squelch! "Unit thirty-four, is Emsa en-rout?"
"Affirmative, situation under control, unit thirty-four, out," says the officer, then hangs the hand mic back onto his shoulder. You notice that the brass bar on his chest reads T. Braddock. "So," says the patrolman, "According to your statement, you were only going to ask the guy to please not use that kind of language in front of the lady, and he ... let me see ..." the officer lifts the page on the clipboard and reads, "'Threw a punch.' He looks up at you. "Is that right?"
"Yes, that's correct. I was kind of surprised, actually. He was verbally abusive but I didn't think he would actually attack me."
"He just took a swing at you, from nowhere? You didn't move on him, didn't shove him, or reach for him, didn't do anything?"
"No, he just ... he was coming at me. I just reacted."
"Yeah, well, you reacted, alright," says Braddock as he looks down at the floor where the smeared blood still lay. He looks back up at you, right in the eye, then glances to the woman clinging to you and beaming up at you like you'd just discovered the cure for cancer. His eyes shift back to you. "According to several witnesses they all say pretty much the same thing, they saw a blur of movement, heard a snap, a couple of thuds, and all of a sudden the guy was on the ground, bleeding, mangled, and unconscious."
You don't say a word.
He continues to stare at you for what seems like an eternity. You just look at him, not flinching, not wavering, not even blinking.
"I suppose," he says finally, "if you mess with a bull ... sometimes you get the horns, huh?"
You can see the corners of his mouth threatening to turn up. Just the same, you hold onto that poker face, never pulling your eyes away from his.
"Okay, well," he says as he adjusts his hat and closes the flap on the clipboard, "I guess we have all we need here. You can go." Then, just as you turn to leave, he says, "Oh, uh ... you might want to stick around town, incase we need to contact you later."
"Sure, be glad to. I'll help in any way I can."
"Yeah," he says as he holds your gaze one more time, "we appreciate it." Then he gives a nod to the lady, smiles and concludes with, "Have a nice evening."
"Thank you," she says, then looks up at you with a grin that almost embarrasses you, "We will."
Situation handled.

Keck