It started the way most bar fights do – with a misunderstanding. Next thing you know, punches are getting thrown, tables knocked over, and I’m in between two guys yelling ‘Knock it off! You just hit a girl!’
Yeah, I got punched. Twice. In the face. The first one connected pretty good, the second was more of a glancing blow. Neither were intended for me. Stupid boys.
Let me back up a bit. I was sitting at the bar after my shift, having a drink with the boyfriend, my coworker and a couple of regulars. Farther down the bar, three military dudes were having dinner. Now, the bar is pretty narrow – not a lot of room to maneuver. One of the military dudes kept squeezing by to go outside and smoke. No big deal.
Well, when they finished their meals and were headed out, they squeezed by one last time. Our drinking buddy (we’ll call him Sam) said to the smoker – with a joking tone ‘Jeez! You keep bumping into me!’
The smoker flips out! Gets in Sam’s face, starts yelling, and before we know it, punches him in the mouth! They’re pushing and punching each other, beer is getting spilled everywhere, and we’re all yelling at them to stop it. My coworker is getting chairs and barstools and tables out of the way.
I’m a glutton for punishment so I dive in the middle and try to push them apart. (This is the part where I get punched.) the kitchen staff appear at the end of the bar and look on in shock. A couple old ladies who just walked in stand near the door and watch.
And, as is the case with most bar fights, it’s over as quickly as it began. We straighten the tables. The boyfriend helps wipe up the spilled beer. I look down at my arm and see a smear of blood – not mine.
The guy who threw the first punch disappears. The other one sits outside to calm down for a minute.
The little old ladies ask where the owner is. I tell them ‘Not here.’
I head for the sink to wash the blood off my arm. Everyone is worried about me. I tell them I’m fine. One of them is on the phone with security, asking me if I want to press charges. I don’t. The night bartender hands me a bag of ice and tells me to put it on my face.
They tease me about how all the boys were standing back and watching while I jumped in the middle. They’re not surprised. I laugh. The boys are smart to stay out of it. When boys try to beak up a fight, unless they’re bigger than the fighters, things generally go from bad to worse – quickly. Testosterone can be a dangerous thing.
I sit back down and finish what little beer I have left (most of it spilled), a ziploc bag of ice on my cheek. The boyfriend hands me my phone (he saved it from the tidal wave of beer), chastises me for getting involved, says he saw me get hit and I’ll probably have a shiner in the morning.
My coworker goes outside to tell Sam that I’m okay, that he should go home. One of the little old ladies and her husband come over to make sure I’m okay. They’re friends with the owner so they tease me a bit about what he’s going to say. (He’ll tell me to let the boys handle it next time.)
The adrenaline wears off, and suddenly I’m starving so we head out in search of dinner. Just another day at the office.
Now it’s three in the morning, and I’m wide awake. I go to the bathroom, and once my eyes adjust to the light, I can see that I do have a little set of bruises at the corner of my eye, and a red mark on my cheek-bone. Looks like I’ll have a bit of a black eye in the morning.
I’m so badass.