87: PICK YOUR FRIENDS /’ FIGHTS

on pure instinct and the awful feeling of learning something good

Almost a decade ago I was at a bar on lower Nob Hill in SF with a bunch of friends. We had thrown a special party at the big famous tiki bar up the hill, and this was a sort of after party. There were maybe ten of us, and it was that funny sort of situation where it sort of involved delegates from various friend-groups, a couple people acting as the axis, so many folks not only didn’t know each other, but were very different sorts of people. Two of those people were a couple I’d known for awhile. Their lore, as the kids say, was rough, if you will, and they struggled with a handful of high-profile issues. After we all filed in and finally finagled our drinks we set to carving a small seating area out for ourselves in the crowded bar. This situation brought us, quite literally, shoulder to shoulder with another group of people, your sort of stock photo SF techie types, who the above mentioned couple found themselves sitting next to. I was across from them.

It must’ve happened very quickly: a belligerent douche bag with a blonde flop-over situation on his head jostled my friend— we’ll call her Amy— and there was a short, not impolite, exchange of words over the logistics of a seat that I realized was being contested. I saw her hackles raised, and could tell it was an instinctive, trigger-like situation, and I now noticed that the man was much drunker than I’d originally thought. He then said something, and purposefully nudged her with his shoulder.

I seem to remember thinking this guy was fucked— my friends were not to be trifled with— but I might not have, considering how quickly she pounced: like a fucking jungle cat, claws straight out toward his throat. Pure instinct. I don’t know how I was able to keep up enough to even be privy to what was happening— it was dark and I’m often uselessly overstimulated in bars like that— but in an instant I shot across the short distance to place myself between them. The woman’s partner, I knew, might very well destroy this poor little piece of shit’s facial structure and, as much as he probably deserved it and I might’ve enjoyed it, my instinct was to prevent, or mitigate or de-escalate or some shit. Who knows. That’s why they call it instinct I guess.

Before I knew it we were in a multi-person human sandwich, and I was in the middle. Without really any room to move the whole apparatus slammed first against the bar itself, then slid down to slam against the dark wood panelled wall on the far side of said bar. I could feel my friends’ punches circumnavigate my skull (these motherfuckers had grown up fighting); see them connect with the douche’s face; see her hands gripped tightly around his gullet. I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty funny. My instinct had proven somewhat effective, though I’m not sure the margin of success was worth it. In another instant we were slammed by a small cohort of very large bouncers, who dragged us outside.

Outside the belligerent shit kept at it, yelling insults at my friend, and while earlier my goal had been to prevent violence, I considered taking advantage of the room the street gave us to really kick his ass. Fortunately, a very pretty and polite young woman stepped up and told me he wasn’t worth it, and lit my cigarette. After a while the asshole walked off, and my friends departed the opposite direction, saying their sheepish goodbyes. The hubbub calmed and I turned to re-enter the bar with the rest of my friends, most of whom had come outside, before the bouncer stopped me and told me I couldn’t.

I told him that I was trying to prevent and break-up the fight, and he was nice: said he knew and had seen, but that it was policy. Well, that sucks, I said, before turning to my friends who’d come out.

I’m not sure what was said at that point or what they were thinking or even what I was thinking— I was probably still a little buzzy from the altercation— all I knew is that they all went back inside. Every single one of them. Blinking in the now too-bright quiet of the outside streetlight, I pulled out another cigarette and lit it. I walked to the corner, paced a few rounds, before finding one of those large orange water-filled traffic dividers to sit on while I waited for my “friends.”

It was a very long time before they came back outside again. The ones who I remember who were there I don’t hang out with anymore, the other ones I’ve forgotten. And to be perfectly honest, it probably took me longer than it should’ve to learn that lesson, but— as an old priest once told me— it’s important sometimes to not let good be the enemy of better, or better be the enemy of best. Sometimes.