Have you ever felt like your hands were tied - kinda like you were a victim of circumstance who had just been arbitrarily trapped by the hand of fate? That happened to me last year. I went to a bar on Western Boulevard late one night. The place is almost always empty. I'm not really sure how they stay in business but I'm glad that they do. It's a relaxing place to get a drink since barely anyone goes there. On this particular night I trudged in after parking my car down the street. The weather was unusually chilly and the bartender was wearing gloves even though she had her space heater cranked to the max.
I sat staring at the soundless TV set after she poured my drink. The familiar burn of the vodka felt good on my lips and sent a wave of heat through my body as it went down my throat. The images on the TV screen flickered in front of me and my mind reflected on the events of the day. All of a sudden a commotion broke out to the left of me. I turned slowly and then realized that a normal-sized man had picked up a barstool and was waving it menacingly at a huge Samoan guy's head. The Samoan grabbed the barstool away from him with one hand and threw it into the corner of the room. All five people in the room froze.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" the bartender yelled as she pulled the smaller guy towards her.
Her loud, stern yelling and abrupt movement caused the Samoan guy to stumble back a few steps and reconsider his next move - the distraction seemed to almost transport him back to reality. Almost. The smaller guy wasted no time running for the door and vanishing into the night. Silence filled the room.
"He better not fucking come back here!" the Samoan yelled to no one in particular.
"Oh, I'm sure he won't be coming back." the bartender calmly assured him.
That was the understatement of the year. The smaller guy looked like an old-age penshioner who had stumbled into the bar at 10am and stayed there all day. Presumably he would find a different bar to patronize in the upcoming weeks or months.
I glanced over at the Samoan even though I knew I shouldn't. He was in a drunken fog and I could see that the adrenaline from the almost-fight was still coursing through him. There's nothing worse than an almost-fight. I think a beatdown might in many cases feel better than those surging, unresolved emotions pounding through your body and brain. I could smell the Samoan's body odor from across the room. It smelled how men smell when they are ready for the heat of battle. His face was white. People who grow white-faced in anger mean business. The red-faced types are usually just full of shit - kind of like big babies throwing tantrums. I shifted my eyeballs away from him after my two-second surveillance, but it was too late. My brief gaze had pulled his attention to me.
"What're you looking at, pretty lady?" he slurred at me as he angled his massive frame in my direction.
I smiled slightly and gave a small shake of the head to indicate that I had intended no offense and that my glance had meant nothing. He began walking/stumbling towards me. Wow, this fucker was drunk.
"I want to buy you a drink." he said. "I want to buy her a drink."
Everyone else in the room remained silent.
"Oh, that's alright." I said. "I'm still finishing this one and I'm probably going to take off after I'm done."
"You don't want me to buy you a drink?" he asked as an angry gleam crept into his eye.
The bartender shot me a warning look. She needn't have bothered.
"Stoli on the rocks, please." I said to her.
She dutifully poured it and set it on the counter in front of me. The Samoan had not taken his eyes off me. He still stank of testosterone but he seemed calmer. He made no move to pay for the drink.
"Hey, that's $4.75." the bartender reminded him.
That woman had some balls. I've been in a lot of bars over a lot of years and I'll always remember her. I almost feel like shutting my computer down and driving over there right now to see if she still works at the place.
Anyways, the Samoan paid her with a five dollar bill and let her keep the change. He started telling me about himself. Evidently he was a bouncer somewhere at some bar and he lived in Compton. He told me other stuff, but he kept getting lost in the middle of his sentences. I watched him and listened to him. His head was the size of a basketball and it looked like he had pumped up his already massive physique with a bunch of steroids. He showed me some of his tattoos. He kept moving closer to me. Finally he draped one massive arm around my shoulders. I stiffened and tried to pull away.
"I w-want a kiss." he stuttered at me, his sickening, drunken breath blasting in my face. "Give me a k-kiss."
I pushed him back and put one of my legs onto the floor. I felt like I was underneath him horizontally although we were both still standing. One of his massive hands grabbed a clump of my hair up by the roots.
"This is your hair." he said after a sort pause. "This is really all your hair. You got nice hair."
He seemed more like a gentle giant for a moment. Or maybe he just seemed more like Lenny from Of Mice and Men. This dude was scaring me. I have spent half my life in strip clubs and dive bars and this was the first instance of genuine fear that I had ever experienced in any bar. This man was just gigantic. His body seemed rock-solid, he was the size of a refrigerator, and he had me completely under control with just that fistful of hair. I could not run. If I kneed him in the balls he would probably kill me. He saw the shock and trepidation in my face.
"What? You don't wanna k-kiss me?!" he demanded. "You think you're too good for me?"
I was frozen there and found myself considering my options. None of them looked too good at that moment. He tried to put his mouth on mine and I managed to twist my face away.
"You think you're too good for me, you cunt?" he asked again. "You think you're too good for me cuz I live in Compton? Is that it? Cuz I fucking live in fucking Compton?"
Malice blazed in his eyes. Years of hatred and resentment had just come bubbling up to the surface, right up from his soul. He looked like a bull. That's how he looked. Just like a bull who had every muscle tense and was ready to attack. The cords on his neck stood out and were practically pulsating. Are they called "cords"? I don't know. They should be. He wasn't even blinking and his face was inches from my own. I looked back at him and suddenly, oddly felt really calm.
"No. Why would I care if you live in Compton? I live in Gardena." I said with a smile.
He stared at me for a few long moments. I smiled again in a pleasant, matter-of-fact way. For a second he looked confused and then a big grin overtook his giant face. He released my hair and grabbed me in a tight bear hug.
"I love you. I fucking love you!" he exclaimed joyously.
He held me there for half a minute. My whole head was trapped in his sweaty, rancid-smelling armpit although he did not realize it. Finally he let me go. And then he sat down on the barstool next to me and we finished our drinks with some companionable chatter. The moment was over.
For the record.. Compton and Gardena are neighboring cities. For decades they were very similar although rap stars used to sing about Compton a lot in their songs. Compton just gained more of a notorious reputation, but Gardena always had an equivalent amount of Section 8 housing units, desperation, and foolishness.
When I reflect on that night I always remember how that man had his hand in my hair and I felt like I was in bondage. I was just completely immobilized and defenseless. Generally bondage is a ritual undertaken by consenting parties. That night the mad Samoan had me in bondage even though I had not consented to anything. I have not been back to that bar in quite a while. I'm sure I'll get over it.
- XO Tanya
***
I sat staring at the soundless TV set after she poured my drink. The familiar burn of the vodka felt good on my lips and sent a wave of heat through my body as it went down my throat. The images on the TV screen flickered in front of me and my mind reflected on the events of the day. All of a sudden a commotion broke out to the left of me. I turned slowly and then realized that a normal-sized man had picked up a barstool and was waving it menacingly at a huge Samoan guy's head. The Samoan grabbed the barstool away from him with one hand and threw it into the corner of the room. All five people in the room froze.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!" the bartender yelled as she pulled the smaller guy towards her.
Her loud, stern yelling and abrupt movement caused the Samoan guy to stumble back a few steps and reconsider his next move - the distraction seemed to almost transport him back to reality. Almost. The smaller guy wasted no time running for the door and vanishing into the night. Silence filled the room.
"He better not fucking come back here!" the Samoan yelled to no one in particular.
"Oh, I'm sure he won't be coming back." the bartender calmly assured him.
That was the understatement of the year. The smaller guy looked like an old-age penshioner who had stumbled into the bar at 10am and stayed there all day. Presumably he would find a different bar to patronize in the upcoming weeks or months.
I glanced over at the Samoan even though I knew I shouldn't. He was in a drunken fog and I could see that the adrenaline from the almost-fight was still coursing through him. There's nothing worse than an almost-fight. I think a beatdown might in many cases feel better than those surging, unresolved emotions pounding through your body and brain. I could smell the Samoan's body odor from across the room. It smelled how men smell when they are ready for the heat of battle. His face was white. People who grow white-faced in anger mean business. The red-faced types are usually just full of shit - kind of like big babies throwing tantrums. I shifted my eyeballs away from him after my two-second surveillance, but it was too late. My brief gaze had pulled his attention to me.
"What're you looking at, pretty lady?" he slurred at me as he angled his massive frame in my direction.
I smiled slightly and gave a small shake of the head to indicate that I had intended no offense and that my glance had meant nothing. He began walking/stumbling towards me. Wow, this fucker was drunk.
"I want to buy you a drink." he said. "I want to buy her a drink."
Everyone else in the room remained silent.
"Oh, that's alright." I said. "I'm still finishing this one and I'm probably going to take off after I'm done."
"You don't want me to buy you a drink?" he asked as an angry gleam crept into his eye.
The bartender shot me a warning look. She needn't have bothered.
"Stoli on the rocks, please." I said to her.
She dutifully poured it and set it on the counter in front of me. The Samoan had not taken his eyes off me. He still stank of testosterone but he seemed calmer. He made no move to pay for the drink.
"Hey, that's $4.75." the bartender reminded him.
That woman had some balls. I've been in a lot of bars over a lot of years and I'll always remember her. I almost feel like shutting my computer down and driving over there right now to see if she still works at the place.
Anyways, the Samoan paid her with a five dollar bill and let her keep the change. He started telling me about himself. Evidently he was a bouncer somewhere at some bar and he lived in Compton. He told me other stuff, but he kept getting lost in the middle of his sentences. I watched him and listened to him. His head was the size of a basketball and it looked like he had pumped up his already massive physique with a bunch of steroids. He showed me some of his tattoos. He kept moving closer to me. Finally he draped one massive arm around my shoulders. I stiffened and tried to pull away.
"I w-want a kiss." he stuttered at me, his sickening, drunken breath blasting in my face. "Give me a k-kiss."
I pushed him back and put one of my legs onto the floor. I felt like I was underneath him horizontally although we were both still standing. One of his massive hands grabbed a clump of my hair up by the roots.
"This is your hair." he said after a sort pause. "This is really all your hair. You got nice hair."
He seemed more like a gentle giant for a moment. Or maybe he just seemed more like Lenny from Of Mice and Men. This dude was scaring me. I have spent half my life in strip clubs and dive bars and this was the first instance of genuine fear that I had ever experienced in any bar. This man was just gigantic. His body seemed rock-solid, he was the size of a refrigerator, and he had me completely under control with just that fistful of hair. I could not run. If I kneed him in the balls he would probably kill me. He saw the shock and trepidation in my face.
"What? You don't wanna k-kiss me?!" he demanded. "You think you're too good for me?"
I was frozen there and found myself considering my options. None of them looked too good at that moment. He tried to put his mouth on mine and I managed to twist my face away.
"You think you're too good for me, you cunt?" he asked again. "You think you're too good for me cuz I live in Compton? Is that it? Cuz I fucking live in fucking Compton?"
Malice blazed in his eyes. Years of hatred and resentment had just come bubbling up to the surface, right up from his soul. He looked like a bull. That's how he looked. Just like a bull who had every muscle tense and was ready to attack. The cords on his neck stood out and were practically pulsating. Are they called "cords"? I don't know. They should be. He wasn't even blinking and his face was inches from my own. I looked back at him and suddenly, oddly felt really calm.
"No. Why would I care if you live in Compton? I live in Gardena." I said with a smile.
He stared at me for a few long moments. I smiled again in a pleasant, matter-of-fact way. For a second he looked confused and then a big grin overtook his giant face. He released my hair and grabbed me in a tight bear hug.
"I love you. I fucking love you!" he exclaimed joyously.
He held me there for half a minute. My whole head was trapped in his sweaty, rancid-smelling armpit although he did not realize it. Finally he let me go. And then he sat down on the barstool next to me and we finished our drinks with some companionable chatter. The moment was over.
For the record.. Compton and Gardena are neighboring cities. For decades they were very similar although rap stars used to sing about Compton a lot in their songs. Compton just gained more of a notorious reputation, but Gardena always had an equivalent amount of Section 8 housing units, desperation, and foolishness.
When I reflect on that night I always remember how that man had his hand in my hair and I felt like I was in bondage. I was just completely immobilized and defenseless. Generally bondage is a ritual undertaken by consenting parties. That night the mad Samoan had me in bondage even though I had not consented to anything. I have not been back to that bar in quite a while. I'm sure I'll get over it.
- XO Tanya
***
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