As you sip your Conductor, your feet dangle into the water of your apartment pool in the evening sun and one of your neighbors walks by. You have never really talked to her, only afar from across the way, but she is pretty in a way that is almost free loving and hippy style. You imagine that she breaks hearts all day, as men can't help but fall in love with her. Personally, she seems so dignified and practical that you can't really picture her as a sexual being, although you do stare at her cleavage as she leans over and briefly hugs you in a greeting.
You introduce Conductor while drinking a Conductor and your night begins to blur as you are already drunk. Soon it is dark and you're sitting on a bench outside of a bar with a lot of people. You're making people laugh, you're making some people cry and you're chain smoking cigarettes because you are anxious and restless, drumming your finger tips on the tables edge and looking around the bar patio. A slow feeling of impending doom. Slowly self destructing one drink at a time, one second at a time and you have nothing to show for you're twenty five years on earth yet except some memories that continue to cloud and fog over like graffiti being removed from a wall. You've talked the bar into making you a Conductor.
Your neighbor is swooning your male friends and your female friends are giving her daggers. You'd like to talk to her about something, but you can't remember what it is. It seemed important--maybe she is going on a trip to Costa Rica. But you only know a little about that country, and most of it is very political science-y, and you'd probably bore her so you think that it can't be about that. You vaguely recall her saying something about moving out, but she's surrounded in the middle of the table anyway, and reaching her would be a chore of leg stepping and drink spilling.
Another woman who you've on and off fallen in love with all summer is around, and you go to say hello but you're far too drunk at this point and she is completely sober. She is with some friends who are really into rock climbing, and they all seem sober. You immediately forget all their names as you are introduced, and you wonder if you should tell them your belief that rock climbing is a second class activity for people that are too unathletic to throw a ball well. You might have said this, but you doubt it-- either way you excuse yourself and now people are leaving to go dancing.
You don't remember dancing, but now you're walking home by yourself. You're calling people on your phone but no one is answering, probably because it is very late and they're several time zones away. You're a few miles from your apartment and are yelling at cars. A hipster on a bike rides by and briefly seems like a horseman ushering in a drunken apocalypse.
Suddenly he's very upset at you. You laugh at him and tell him to fuck off, unsure why he is angry. But you are feeling invincible, high on alcohol and completely bullet proof. You think that you'll show all those fucks dancing and having a good time without you, even though you were the one who left them. Fuck them anyway. Walking home alone has become a kind of weekend ritual for you--there seems to be some type of crummy nobility in it.
The hipster is making a lot of bad noise in your direction. He's stopped his bike and is calling you a faggot. You laugh and tell him you'll burn his family alive and that his kids will die from necrotizing fasciitis. You spit out all kinds of vile garbage from your mouth, hitting below the belt in every fashion--aids, cancer, racism-everything that is dark and hateful inside of you takes shape in words that you scream across the street to this stranger on a bike who looks as though you've just walked out of a swamp trailing green slime behind you.
He says, come on over, let's fucking fight. Let's throw down.
You struggle not to laugh at hearing the words "let's throw down". It seems like something a wrestling character would say in the mid 1990's. You tell him to fuck off.
You're not too big and you don't know martial arts, but you have a lot of anger inside of you and you are quick. You can see that there's no way out of this as he pulls up on his fixed gear bike and is now standing only a few feet away from you. You tell him to get the fuck out of here, you yell at him to get lost, but he shakes his head, motions with his hands and says let's go fucker.
The inevitable has occurred and you accept your fate.
"Ok." You tell him.
He gets off his bike and picks it up, wielding it like a weapon. What the hell, you think, this isn't fair. He swings it wildly and it connects with your side knocking you back. The alcohol has numbed you and made you a bit slow, but you manage to duck as he throws the whole damn bike at you. You regain your composure and start moving and ducking very quickly like one of your old roommates showed you once in college. His fists are flying but he doesn't get any head shots and you just try to land an elbow or two at his neck. At some point you both are entangled in each others arms, in some weird wrestling holds, and he's landing punches on your body as you throw each other to the ground.
Kidneys. Back. Stomach. You wonder how long this is going to last. Your on one knee with his head in your hands and the sound of your shoes scraping the gravel seems really loud.
You must've hit him, must've connected because now he is laying sprawled at your feet. He grunts, and as he gets up you wind back your leg and kick him solidly in the face. The feeling is satisfying and you feel some of the anger that has welled up inside of you like puss in a black head disperse, the white snake oozing out in his cry of surprise and pain. Two girls are at your side now screaming for both of you to stop. For you to stop.
They say they've called the police, and in your stupor and you suddenly can hear the sirens. Really close. Really loud.
You kick him in the face once more as the girls scream in horror then you put your head down and run. You've recently watched a documentary about how NFL players train to run the 40 yard dash and you put this new found knowledge to good use. Your feet are pushing the ground out from underneath you and you're attacking the space in front of you with each step. You are fast. You are bullet proof.
It turns out that the fight occurred really close to your apartment. You run in and people you recognize are at your pool. Night swimming. You tell them to get inside right away and they look at you confused. You run into your apartment which is thankfully unlocked, and collapse on your bed.
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