On Misadventure No.6: The One Where I Learn not to get into Fights with Brown, Cleaner Dudes

I breathed a sigh of relief when I grasped my high school certificate that the days of getting into spur-of-the-moment group fist fights in the yard after school were long behind. That the time now has arrived for socializing, meeting people, partying, lying back and enjoying life.

Boy was I wrong.

Not only did I get into the heaviest, most violent fights in my life, but the crudest weapons were also brought upon those fights.

It was a beautiful, spring morning. It was the first day of spring when you realize that the days of fistfuls of water dropping on your head and snaking down your neck and muddying your boots and the lecture rooms are long behind. My mood was as sunny as the weather. It doesn’t take much to lighten up my mood. A blazing sun, a good shave, and a starched white shirt will always work the formula. It was one of those days where you walk around, chest pumped high in the air, waving to people, winking to people, pointing imaginary guns at guys (ok I don’t do that, but I was just conveying the sort of mood I’m in), girls complimenting you.

Such a beautiful day for new beginnings.

When my lectures were over I hung around to socialize. A habit I become notorious for during my freshman year that it was rumored that I locked the university gates behind me after I made sure everyone left.

All of a sudden, an impromptu scuffle broke out. People started swearing on each other, fists and punches flew in every direction. It didn’t develop into a full-fledged fist fight, not until I showed up there attempting naively to break it up. The sides were evident.

(Deep presenter voice)

In the blue corner, dressed in jeans and shirts, weighing 100 something pounds, carrying their engineering rulers, are the college dudes. In the red corner, dressed in filthy rags, weighing 80 something pounds, carrying their broomsticks, are the cleaner dudes.

Somehow the sides shifted and turned masked by a cloud of dust, so that I found myself right in the middle and in front of one very pissed cleaner dude, blindly kicking and punching the air. I put my hand against his head keeping his distance away, in a vain attempt to calm him down, but his punches were landing everywhere. Two, three punches later, my favorite shirt was ripped beyond redeem. That’s when I lost it. I swiveled and threw the biggest arc of a slap I ever will. The smack landed on the middle of his face and he disappeared like those enemies that fade into nothingness once you kill them off in video games.

A few minutes later the fight was broken up by security. I used a mechanism that helped me survive demonstrations, car accidents and police arrests:

Mingling with a stupid-ass, Mary's-Little-Lamb face.

I emerged as I came minus a shirt. Thank God my partial nudity was quickly solved by a T-shirt from a kind friend. We stood there to discuss our heroisms, each retelling and bragging his contribution (or lack thereof) to the fight. But I didn’t say a word. I was too pissed about my shirt and was making vows to myself never ever get involved in any fight.

A friend of a friend was looking at me and smiling.

Me( Still in the fight adrenaline rush, fully ready to get into another one if the need rises): What are you looking at?
My friends tensed , sensing in my tone a little more than aggravation.
Him (Still smiling): Oh nothing. I just wanted to tell you that there was a cleaner guy chasing you with a broomstick. And I saved you from him.

I have no awareness or recollection of anyone chasing me with a broomstick. But the guy seemed truthful enough. And the conceding nods of his mates suggest that it is true.

Me (smiling): Then I guess I owe you my life.

The circle of friends broke out in relieved laughter.

It was a beautiful day, up until it dawned upon me that I could have been killed off with a dusty, filth-infested broomstick. Not the prettiest way to go, I'm telling you.