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"Taking an army whole is superior.
Destroying it is inferior to this."
-- Sun Tzu, "The Art of War"
It's 10:30 p.m. on a work night, and I'm still in the city. But I felt compelled to stop in at a cafe, order a tea, and write this.
About an hour ago, I was by myself at a Thai restaurant in the area, minding my business and enjoying my coconut-milk curry.
At some point, the man on my right returns to his table after briefly stepping outside -- I didn't notice.
But I notice something else: a clamor.
The man is angrily recounting to his dinner companion, a woman, what just happened to him.
His voice is almost at a scream. In it I hear nothing but frustration, disbelief, helplessness, despair.
I don't even have to hear the words to know -- this is the cry of an AFC.
I tune in. I can't help it, actually -- he's talking loudly enough to fill the restaurant.
"... Guy was crazy! ..."
"... Tried to hit me with his cab! ..."
"... Was laying on his horn for, like,10 seconds! ..."
"... I had to jump out of the way! ..."
This confirms the first instincts I had about him when I saw him: He has no respect for himself or others.
The clues:
1. He had stepped on my boot on his way to the restroom and not apologized to me or at least looked down to see what he had stepped on.
2. He had squeezed past me with his behind to me, rubbing his rear end against my tabletop -- a grave and all-but-unforgivable disrespect.
3. His pants were sagged, exposing his garish boxers to me.
If his sagging were part of a lifestyle or dress-up play, I'd understand. But his ratty, generic sneakers and overwashed, overbleached white sweatshirt explain that the sagging is a fashion choice for him.
And sagging went out with the '90s -- in the United States of America, at least.
Thus, sagging is an actualization of this man's disrespect for himself and, by extension, everyone around him. He refuses to adapt to the currents of time swirling around him. He blocks the stream.
The long and short of it is, my sword was primed long before his tirade began.
I decide to redirect his rage. I need to bring order to the restaurant and save his companion from his haranguing.
"Excuse me, guy, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," I interrupt. I was being honest -- he was involving me in his conversation by not respecting my listening space.
I continue: "I'm wondering, if you're that angry, why didn't you just tell a policeman everything you're telling this woman?"
The woman turns to me, instantly hooked ... not necessarily romantically, but hooked.
He attempts to square his shoulders with mine, but the concerned look on his face betrays his lack of conviction.
"Well, it wasn't a big deal," he says, giving me a smile.
His eyebrows aren't raised. The smile is false.
I bear on: "So a guy tries to hit you with his car, and that's not a big deal?"
His own words against him -- incontrovertible evidence.
He's forced to change the subject: "A cop wouldn't have done anything."
"How do you know that?"
He doesn't, because he's obviously never made that big of a stand for himself. The smile leaves his face.
"It really wasn't a big deal, dude," he says, bothered.
"Dude" -- he's trying to befriend me. I guess in his world, I'm an AMOG.
"So it wasn't a big deal that someone tried to take your life? Is your life that unimportant? What he did could have been attempted murder."
"Really, I would have done something if he had gotten out of the car -- otherwise, it's not a big deal."
"If you didn't do anything when he TRIED TO HIT YOU WITH HIS CAR, YOU WOULDN'T HAVE DONE ANYTHING IF HE GOT OUT OF IT."
I'm a rock encased in rubber.
"You're still talking about it now, and you're going to think about it when you go to bed tonight ... and even after that. And it's going to ruin your life and the lives of everyone around you."
At long last, I've blown the cobwebs off of his eyes. He's in the present.
He loses his ability to bury his words in the code of his defeat-filled mentality. He realizes I see every dimension of him.
"Look, are you a counselor or something?" he asks, bluntly. He can barely contain his rage, but his shoulders are slumped.
Bruce Lee's master in "Enter the Dragon": "The enemy has only images and illusions behind which he hides his true motives. Destroy the image and you will break the enemy."
"No," I answer. "And is being a counselor a bad thing?"
Aikido. Return the energy.
"Then what's going on here, man? 'Cause I'm just here with my girlfriend, having dinner ..."
And thus he has drawn an innocent bystander -- a woman, no less -- into a heated conflict meant only for two men.
This maneuver shows complete disregard for her safety and virtue. And this was all in the name of warding me off of himself.
I recognize, just as he does, that he's backed into a corner.
Sun Tzu: "Do not pursue (the enemy) when they feign defeat. Leave a way out for surrounded soldiers. Do not block soldiers returning home."
I introduce myself to him, so that he knows I'm human and not another one of the many malevolent phantasms -- nightmares -- conspiring to ruin him.
Then, without prompting, his girlfriend introduces herself to me. She's glowing ... she looks and sounds happier than she has all evening.
"I apologize," I say to him. "Those were my opinions, nothing more. I absolutely didn't intend to be condescending or presumptuous." I end our conversation and go back to my curry.
The man begins speaking again after a few moments of silence. This time, his voice is nearly at a whisper -- proper volume for a restaurant this small.
And he's off the subject of the driver who tried to hit him.
After I settle my bill, I don't scoot my chair back. I push the table away from me with a brief but loud scraping noise.
I slowly turn to square myself in the couple's direction, looking off to the side, and stretch to full height -- shoulders back; chin raised; abdomen and genitals on full display.
Bruce Lee: "Be soft, yet not yielding. Firm, yet not hard."
In my periphery, I see his girlfriend turn to look -- no, stare -- while I go through my slow ritual of ablution and ornamentation.
1. Pop the sleeves of my blazer, which I left on during my meal.
2. Brush off each sleeve with one stroke apiece, to clear any errant crumbs.
3. Adjust the cuffs.
4. Straighten my collar.
5. Pull the lapels tight.
6. Button the top button.
7. Don my coat, one arm at a time.
8. Once again, button the top button -- it's not that cold outside.
Last, I hoist my brushed-steel locking briefcase in front of me with an unencumbered swinging motion, and even the dim lights of the restaurant glint off of it.
Now I'm a samurai polishing my katana in front of a foe whom I've just beaten with my bokken (bamboo sword).
He finally recognizes that I spared him by choice. Maybe he's grateful for it.
"Bye!" his girlfriend says, beaming, a note of hope in her voice. Her boyfriend is silent, staring at his food, chomping mechanically.
Not only have I spared him the scrap of dignity he has left, I've spared him his woman -- the very woman whom he held up as a human shield.
Silence on both of our parts is the only thing preserving his ego -- and maybe his sanity.
I bid his girlfriend a good night. And I say a secret prayer that she find a better man.
Or, better yet, that her boyfriend choose to change his ways.
Last edited by Night Job on 25 Feb 2008, 12:25, edited 5 times in total.
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