The other day, I wrote up The War of Marigold: Part 2, and it really got me reminiscing about Jamie Laws.  It seems a lot of people from my past have been popping up lately, but I haven't seen or spoken to Jamie in a very long time, and that blows dead bear.  We've tried to keep in touch over the years- an email here, a drunken phone call there- but he got married and had a kid after college, and becoming a father changes your whole life.  I don't speak from personal experience, mind you, but I've seen it happen to buddy after buddy, I've watched the way their priorities change so much that not even “Drunk Mike” can lure them back into a night of two or inebriated recklessness.

 

On a personal note, I don't think this will ever happen to me.  For one thing, I may be incapable of marriage, in so much that I'm prone to infidelity, and I can't seem to find one person that "completes" me, (insert corny Jerry Maguire reference here).  I've known some truly fantastic women in my life- Susan, Emilie, Margery, even my very first girlfriend, Lauri- but it never works out, largely because I'm always looking for something more. 

 

When I step back and analyze my relationships objectively, (which is one of my rarer gifts), I see a pattern of self-sabotage, a tendency to fuck things up intentionally.  For this reason, I've also dated a host of not-so-fantastic women with characteristics ranging from utter mediocrity, to outright insanity. 

 

The point is, I have yet to find someone I can simultaneously love and be challenged by, and so, I have trouble relating to those friends of mine who I thought were just like me, yet have taken the conventional family route.  Jamie is the epitome of this, which is probably why he didn't invite me to his wedding, or even TELL me he was getting hitched.  

 

I would've selfishly tried to talk him out of it, and I guess he knew that. 

 

Anyway, the other day I was talking on the phone with my old friend Alex Soprano, and it brought up a host of memories, not the least of which being the last time I saw Jamie Laws.  That story corresponds to the first and last time I’ve ever competed in a traditional martial arts tournament as a ground fighter.  But, before I get into that, I wanna impart another story about Jamie, one that happened in undergraduate school.

 

Like the War of Marigold, this tale also takes place during my junior year, (Jamie's senior), and that's important to remember because the fight with the Sigma Chi's had elevated our already enormous egos to "Lords of Beatdown" status.

 

Okay, so Jamie and me went out to Rumors Bar and Grill one Saturday evening, and there proceeded to destroy our livers with beer after cheapest beer, (Natural Light, if memory serves).  It was a slow night with respect to patrons, chiefly because the school year was ending, and most of our fellow students were holed up in their dorm rooms studying for exams. 

 

At one point, Jamie goes off on his own to gather recon on the meager female herd, leaving me to chitchat with a few of our other fraternity brothers.  I remember protesting this because Jamie was really, really drunk. 

 

"But Mike," you say, "Wasn't Jamie really, really drunk during the fight at Marigold?"

 

Yes, he was, but this was far worse.  You have to understand the awe-inspiring drinking ability of Jamie Laws to fully appreciate my concern, for this was one of the only nights that I could actually tell he was intoxicated.  Most of the time, Jamie could down a fifth of whiskey and still appear as sober as a preacher on Sunday.  No blood-shot eyes, no slurred words, no stagger steps, no change in demeanor whatsoever.  Yet that night, he was stumbling around with a perpetual frown, (as opposed to his perpetual smirk of indifference), his hazel eyes narrow and menacing beneath his short cut, dark brown hair. 

 

Jamie ignored my pleas and stomped off on his own, then floating from group to group in search of Buddha only knows what.  I tried to keep an eye on him, (which wasn't too hard considering the bar was half-empty), but was distracted by this girl I was talking to, and I lost sight of him.

 

An hour later, Jamie reappears even drunker than before and claps me on the shoulder.

 

Jamie: "Hey, man.  You 'bout ready ta get inna fight?"

 

Me: (laughing dismissively) "Sure bro, whatever."

 

With that, Jamie was gone again.  I didn't think too much of it until he swaggered up thirty minutes later and asked me the exact same question.  I answered in pretty much the same way, and off he goes.

 

This happened twice more, the last time preceding the actual fruition of his drunken malice.

 

Jamie: "Hey, man.  You 'bout ready ta get inna fight?"

 

Me: (a little annoyed by this time, doubly so since I'd struck out with the girl I was talking to)  "Why do ya keep asking me that?!?  Is somebody starting shit with you or something?!?"

 

Jamie: "Naw, I just wanna make sure you're ready."

 

Me: "Goddammit, yes!  I... AM... READY... TO GET... INTO... A FIGHT!"

 

Jamie: (unaffected by my irritation)  "Good, how 'bout d'em two over d'ere?"

 

I followed Jamie's outstretched finger to see two guys sitting at the bar, their butts perched on a pair of open backed chair-stools, their faces turned away from us.  It was after midnight by this time, and there were only about twenty stragglers still hanging out.  As such, the two Jamie pointed out were the only ones at the bar proper. 

 

Both were bigger and older than us, and it was obvious that they weren't frat-boys.  One had a shaved head and was decked out in military camouflage.  The other wore khaki pants and a short sleeved button up shirt, his brown hair parted to one side like a businessman's.

 

I laughed again, told Jamie "Yeah, let's rough 'em up!", and took another drink.  Keep in mind, I thought Jamie was totally kidding.

 

He wasn't.

 

As soon as I gave my verbal approval, Jamie marched up behind the guy wearing khaki pants, took a step back like a fieldgoal kicker, and punted this poor bastard right in the ass.  As I said, they were sitting on open backed chair-stools, so the guy's butt was partially hanging off, thus presenting a readily accessible target for Jamie's Timberland hiking boot.

 

As the kick lands, Jamie screams, "WHAT THE FUCK'RE YOU LOOKING AT, MOTHERFUCKER!!!" 

 

I remember gasping, "Oh my god..."

 

So Khaki-guy is jolted forward and into the bartop itself, his scotch glass spilling as he frantically looks right, then left, then right again, as if he couldn't figure out where the prostate-invading foot had come from.  Totally unnerved, he half-falls off the stool, steadies himself, and then spins around to see Jamie.

 

Khaki-guy: "What the fuck, man?!?"

 

Jamie: "Don't What the fuck, man? me, you prissy little faggot!!!  I saw you staring me down!!!  You want some a 'dis?!?"

 

Logistically, there's no way Khaki-guy could've been staring at anybody but the bartender.  Both he and his friend had their backs to us the whole time, which made Jamie's assault so undeserved, it went from ridiculous to sublime.  Nevertheless, I immediately tossed my beer aside and came to the rescue, thus crossing the twenty foot distance to accidentally square off with Khaki-guy's military garbed friend, (who we'll call "Gi Joe").

 

Now, my intention was to pull Jamie back, but as soon as the guy with the shaved head got up, my mindset switched from subdue to protect.  We locked eyes, and I put my hands up.

 

"Don't do it, GI Joe!" I warned, at which time my unwanted opponent, (who was much bigger than me, and probably a marine), promptly turned and took off at a brisk walk to get the bouncer.

 

Meanwhile, Khaki-guy is desperately insisting that he wasn't staring at anybody, his reluctance causing Jamie to switch tactics.

 

Jamie: "You sure?  Don't be punking down just 'cause I called you on it!"

 

Khaki-guy: "No, seriously, I wasn't looking at you.  I don't even know you, man.  I'm not even from here!"

 

In retrospect, I would guess that Khaki-guy and GI Joe were old friends who lived in separate towns, and that they'd picked Cleveland as a half-way meeting point to catch up on each other's respective lives.  That's only a theory, though.  I will never know why two middle-aged, upstanding American citizens chose to have drinks at Rumors Bar and Grill.  After all, if you weren't a redneck, or in college, or both, you had no business being there.

 

Jamie: (patting Khaki-guy playfully on the cheek)  "Aw shit, chief.  I'm sorry.  You look like a fuckhead that was staring at me earlier, and I went all apeshit...  Hey!  How 'bout I make it up to you by letting ya buy me a drink?"

 

Khaki-guy: (still shaken, but visibly relieved)  "Yeah, okay, sure.  What do you want?"

 

I shit you not, boys and girls.  Khaki-guy bought Jamie a drink- several, in fact- and not only him.  When Jamie introduced me, Khaki-guy hooked me up as well.

 

Can you believe it?

 

By the time the GI Joe returned with the bouncer, (which was less than a minute), we were drinking and laughing with Khaki-guy, the situation totally disarmed. 

 

Jamie and I were to spend the rest of the night getting plowed on Khaki-guy's tab, and I think we even exchanged phone numbers with both of 'em on the premise that if they ever came back to Cleveland, they should look us up.

 

I told that story because I want to illustrate the intimidating yet charismatic power that Jamie has over people.  He's not a big guy, (5'9", like me, and maybe a hundred and sixty pounds), but Jamie did and does exude an authority that makes you want to be his friend a hell of a lot more than his enemy.  Jamie's demeanor is one of confident indifference, which is why his womanizing exploits at Delta State University are legendary.  He has wooed, (and discarded), girls far out of his league with baffling success, a fact I've always found disturbing because I consider myself better looking.

 

In the three years I was an undergraduate with Jamie, (he was a year older, and since it took us both five years to finish, Jamie wasn't there my second senior year), I learned more about personality than I have in the decade or so since.  He taught me that the perception of merit, is far more important than the actuality of merit, and I owe a lot to Jamie...

 

Fast-forward four years...

 

The last time I saw Jamie Laws was in the spring of 1998. 

 

After working in Black Mountain, North Carolina for a few years, I'd returned to Delta State University to get my Master's Degree in Biology Education. 

 

Graduate school was surprisingly easy for me, namely because most of the requisite assignments had to do with writing papers, and I was already a fair writer.  It didn't matter whether or not I actually knew the material, it only mattered that I could write as if I knew the material; thus, I had a lot of time to delve deeper into the first love of my life: martial arts. 

 

I'd already met my current instructor, [Super Asskicker], in Asheville, and had trained with him for a full year before I went back to school.  As such, I considered myself a grappling/jui-jitsu/wrestling expert, which is why when I heard about a tournament in Bossier City, Louisiana- one that included a ground fighting division- I decided to compete.

 

Let me just say that I was in NO SHAPE to fight professionally, even in a tournament venue.  My stamina sucked, and I'd stopped lifting weights.  But, back in 1998, grappling was still largely unknown within the traditional martial arts community, and I figured I would clean house on skill alone.  That certainly wasn't the only reason I went, however.  Jamie had become a casino pit boss at one of the riverboat casinos in Bossier City, and I really wanted to see him.

 

After a month of planning, the appointed weekend rolled around and I drove the six hours from Cleveland to Bossier City alone.  I was SUPPOSED to be fighting in this tournament with my old training buddy, Vernon Murphree, who'd promised to drive there separately.

 

Vernon never showed, (Thanks Vernon, you ass goblin!), but we'll get to that.

 

I'd previously arranged to stay at Jamie's house, and I arrived to find him a changed man.  The perpetual smirk of indifference he'd donned all throughout college was gone, and what had replaced it was a look of maturity mixed with resignation.  I hadn't seen him in three or four years, and I didn't like the "new" Jamie.  He was a husband now, and more, a father, and I hated that my best friend had perished beneath those responsibilities.

 

A part of me felt betrayed, but I couldn't escape the other part that felt as if I'd merely been left behind, the part that felt as if I was now obsolete.  I couldn't understand why Jamie didn't wanna start drinking at ten in the morning, and even when we went out that first Friday night, I loathed his restraint, his unwillingness to gulp five hundred beers in lieu of a casual two or three.

 

We went to a pool hall/bowling alley that night, and while the insurgence of alcohol, (even in small doses), brought out flashes of the "old" Jamie, I gradually came to know that the past was, indeed, the past.  I'd become a dinosaur, an extinct shadow of the glory days of the D.S.U. Kappa Alpha's...  And again, I hated it.

 

I suppose that, in a way, I'm still that dinosaur, yet I've subsequently surrounded myself with like-minded artifacts: late twenties, early thirties individuals that still cling to the abandon of youth with undaunted veracity.  I'm thirty years old now, but I have yet to find a reason to do otherwise.  I like to think that it's because I'm different, because I'm special.  More likely though, I'm unable to conform, or compromise, or deceive myself, which might very well end in me living and dying alone, companionship no more that a fleeting collection of weeks or months when I endure a new girlfriend for a time.

 

But hey!  Jack Nicholson does it!

 

Tired of my self-pity yet?  Yeah, me too.  Let's move on to the funny stuff. 

 

So Friday passes with me and Jamie doing our best to rekindle a new and awkward bond- the one redeeming factor, that Jamie had set me up.  Jamie's wife at the time, (he's now divorced), was a piece of casino eye candy who we'll call Jasmine.  That may or may not be her real name, but when I remember her, I think "Jasmine!"

 

Tall and lithe and FINE AS HELL, Jasmine was the very definition of a Louisiana redneck princess from any low-income trailer park.  If you've ever watched Jerry Springer, and you've seen one of the "hot" girls come out to blast the people who made fun of her in junior high school, then you know what I'm talking about.  Kicking body- even though she'd had a kid- and a sexy, aquiline face.  Not beautiful, mind you, but sexy.  The kind of girl you see in a bar and think, 'Good Lord!  I bet she could fuck the saddle off a mechanical bull!'

 

That was Jasmine.

 

But, as is often true of attractive girls with that kind of background, I'd imagine she was a road whore, and only in it for Jamie's money.  You may not know this, but people who work in casinos make MAD cash, and despite Jamie's charm and admirable penis size, I knew that bitch was a gold digger from the first time I laid eyes on her.

 

(Jamie, if you ever read this, please don't think I'm dogging ya.  You could and can get any girl you want.  You just chose badly, and I think you know it.)

 

Anyway, Jamie prompted Jasmine to hook me up with one of her road whore friends, and I spent most of that first Friday night charming the pants off of a stripper-esque morsel named Tracy. 

 

Like Jasmine, "Tracy" may or may not be this girl's real name.  Alas, I can't remember for sure, so I'm just gonna run with it.

 

Tracy was also tall and lithe, except that her hair was long and bleached blond, and her boobs were unusually large.  I'm guessing she'd had implants, but, admittedly, I can't say one way or the other. 

 

I didn't sleep with Tracy, though there's no doubt in my mind that I could have.  In fact, after the four of us got home that evening, I flat out TOLD Tracy that I would like to quote, "make her see God," but that I had to grapple the next day, and that I was afraid we'd have conjugal visit sex long into the night, which might hinder my performance at the tournament.

 

I shit you not, boys and girls.  I said those things to her, out loud, and in front of Jamie and Jasmine.

 

Tracy played it off rather complimentary, but I could tell she was disappointed, (yeah, right!). 

 

Okay, so the night dwindles down, leaving me to take a shower, beat off, and then go to bed alone.

 

The next day, I woke up and took another shower, my heart already surging with adrenaline.  As I've said in other posts, I'd been a karate point sparring champion in my youth, but that was back in college undergrad, and, (at the time of this story), I hadn't been to a martial arts tournament in four or five years. 

 

As irrational as this may sound, I was scared shitless, and it didn't help that I would have to drive to the tournament by myself.  Registration was at 8:00 AM, but I was competing in the adult "black belt" division, and it didn't make sense for Jamie and Jasmine to come along.  I knew I would have to wait for hours while the lower ranks and younger ages competed, so I told Jamie I would call him from a pay phone when it was my turn.

 

So I found the high school gymnasium where the tournament was being held, filled out the registration application, (On which I listed my style as "Assbeating".  No, seriously.), and retired to the locker room to change.  Since it was a traditional tournament, I'd decided to wear my super thick jui-jitsu gi and my Shotokan black belt, which is important to remember because of the way such tournaments operate.  (Given the fact that I was, indeed, a black belt, I would later be called upon to judge.  But we'll get to that).

 

The gymnasium was just like that of any other large high school: hard wood floors, high ceilings, and giant stair-step bleachers draped in paper banners that read "Go Bossier High Marmosets!", or something like that.  There were hundreds of competitors there, most decked out in patch-laden uniforms that identified their respective schools.  The majority were huddled together in standing groups, each faction stretching or practicing kata or doing grab ass point sparring.

 

I hated it, and not just because everyone there was a total dumbass.  I didn't know anybody, and I felt like the only caucasian at an NAACP anti-honkey rally.  I kept checking with the registration desk to see if my training buddy from Cleveland, Vernon Murphree, had arrived; but each time I was told, "No, he hasn't checked in yet.  At least not under that name."

 

What- was Vernon gonna check in under another name?  Is he being hunted by the Triads or something, Ass?

 

After an hour of back and forth, I found an empty spot on the spectator bleachers and sat down by myself, my lack of teammates apparently catching the attention of one of the competitors on the floor.  I kept noticing this black guy walking past me, his eyes challenging and narrow, his chest bowed out like someone had just shoved a curling iron up his butt.

 

I had nothing to prove, but he kept looking at me, so I flashed him the patented "Descado Glare".  Now, I have what people call a baby face, and since I'm almost always smiling, I never intimidate people unless I'm trying to.  When a situation arises where the latter is warranted, I usually wait until my target/victim is looking at me, and then I bow my head, like something on the floor has just caught my attention.  Then, slowly, I look up and freeze, at which time my blue green eyes begin to glow with a Satanic light, my face loses all semblance of youth or humor, and great big bull horns sprout from my forehead. 

 

Kinda looks like the demonic character "Darkness" from that old Tom Cruise movie, LEGEND.

 

If I can get a picture of me doing this, (which is hard, since I can't fake it), I'll post it on the website.  Regardless, believe me when I tell you that the "Descado Glare" has cowed more opponents than my girth or skill or reputation combined.  I've actually scared rabid unicorns to death with this look, which is probably why Mr. Toughguy immediately averted his eyes and walked on.

 

I thought that would be the end of it, but ten minutes later he came stomping up the bleachers to take a seat right next to me.  For the sake of providing you with a mental imagine, this guy was, again, black, with a tall and fairly muscular build, (maybe 5'11", 180 lbs.).  He was younger than me, perhaps twenty two or twenty three, and wearing a red, white, and blue uniform done up to resemble an American flag.  The patches up and down his rolled up sleeves identified him as a Kempo Karate practitioner, which, (based on style alone), meant he knew exactly DICK about ground fighting.

 

Mr. Toughguy: (not bothering to introduce himself)  "So, you do Judo or something?"

 

He had a distinctive northern accent, probably from Boston or somewhere close.

 

Me: "Or something, yeah.  Can I help you?"

 

Mr. Toughguy: (ignoring my question)  "You competing in the ground fightin' division?"

 

Me: "Yep...  You?"

 

Mr. Toughguy: "Sure am.  Don't think it's gonna be much though.  Most of these punks do tournament stuff.  You're probably the only guy I'm gonna have to break bad on."

 

Caught off guard by this dumbass's audacity, I immediately started laughing.

 

Mr. Toughguy: (bristling with indignation)  "Something funny, man?!?"

 

Me: "No, no!  I just remembered a joke I heard in the Ladies' Room.  But clarify something for me.  Aren't those Kempo patches on your gi?"

 

Mr. Toughguy: "Yeah, so?!?"

 

Me: "Well, Kempo's a striking art.  Not much ground fighting there."

 

Mr. Toughguy: "Shiiiittt, I grew up on da streets!  I know how to fight!  Standing up, on the ground, in the alley, with a knife- it don't matter, Jack."

 

This immediately tips me off that this guy doesn't know JACK shit, so I start fucking with him.

 

Me: (utterly suppressing the urge to piss my pants)  "I see...  So maybe you can give me some pointers, huh?"

 

Mr. Toughguy: "Look here now, I ain't telling you how I fight!"

 

Mike: "Okay, okay, but how 'bout I give you a hypothetical situation, and you tell me how you'd deal with it.  Let's say you get pinned, and your opponent catches you with an over-the-arm Labia Lock.  How would you counter?"

 

Mr. Toughguy: (obviously having no knowledge of female anatomy, stares like a retarded kid in front of a thrown dodge ball, before inhaling sharply and shaking his head)  "Ain't nobody pinning me, brutha!  I'll body slam a motherfucker before that happens!"

 

Me: "So you're not worried about the Labia?"

 

Mr. Toughguy: "HEEELL naw!  I told ya, I came from da streets!  We don't have no Labias in da streets!  Shiiiittt..." (he adds with a smug chuckle).

 

OH MY GOD!!!  I'm dangerously close to losing my stool at this point, but I just can't let this guy go.

 

Me: (feigning innocent awe)  "Wow!  I've never met anybody from... da streets, before.  I hope you remember that it's just a tournament if you and I get paired up."

 

Mr. Toughguy: "I ain't making no promises.  You pretty straight up and all, but I'm here to win."

 

Me: (nodding)  "Yeah, you pretty straight up too.  My name’s Benjamin, by the way.  Benjamin Dover.  Most people just call me Ben."

 

Mr. Toughguy: (extending his hand)  "Whad'up, Ben?  I'm [Negro Toughguy]. 

 

I don't remember his real name.

 

Me: "Cool, Negro Toughguy.  I'll look for ya in the groundfighting division."

 

Mr. Toughguy: (standing up and making to leave)  "Don't look too hard now!" he warns, half joke/half threat, before stomping down the bleachers and disappearing into the steadily growing crowd.

 

I busted out laughing as soon as he was out of earshot, simultaneously praying to the Gods of Assbeating that I would get to grapple this trash talking crap factory later on.  A giggle from behind caused me to look over my shoulder, there to see a soccer-mom-like woman sitting alone a few rows up on the bleachers.  Apparently, she'd heard the whole conversation.

 

We exchanged knowing smiles.

 

Soccer Mom:  "Well, he sure was a confident young man."

 

Me: (too amused to maintain proper etiquette)  "I don't mean to offend you, mame, but that little panty stain just bought himself a one way ticket to Fucked-in-the-ass-ville!"

 

I laughed, she didn't.  In fact, Soccer Mom's face contorted in a slack-jawed expression of morbid horror.  With but a single sentence, I'd probably exposed her to more verbal filth than she'd heard in her entire life.

 

Luckily, a gravelly voice came over the intercom at that moment, thus diverting my attention and saving me from having to apologize.

 

"Will all black belts please report to the trophy stand.  All black belts to the trophy stand.  Thank you..."

 

Taking advantage of an easy way out, I descended the bleachers and walked across the cold wooden floor, (barefoot, mind you), to take my place among the gathering black belts.

 

There were perhaps forty of us, my compatriots mostly old guys with potbellies and the haughty posture of men who THOUGHT they were masters.  Once assembled, the proprietor of the tournament- a renowned Isshinryu Karate Sensei by the name of Harvey Kennedy- divided us into groups so that we could judge the lower rank events.  My appointed duties had to do with judging kata, and as soon as everyone dispersed, I pulled Harvey aside and expressed my concerns.

 

Now, I'd grown up training Isshinryu, and I knew who Harvey was.  In fact, he probably would've known who I was- if I still had the face of a fifteen year old.  Harvey was present at many of my Isshinryu rank tests, which is par for the course in that system.  Even the little known Greenville Isshinryu Karate Club held their students to the strictest standards, which is why high ranking masters were always in attendance when new belts where handed out, (which wasn't often).

 

Me: "Excuse me, but I don't think I'm qualified to judge kata.  I haven't done traditional stuff in forever, and I'm only here to compete in the grappling division."

 

Master Harvey: "Hmmm...  So you've got a black belt in what- Judo?"

 

Me: "No.  Shotokan.  But that was years ago.  I don't even train karate anymore."

 

Master Harvey: (putting his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way)  "Don't worry, son.  It'll come back to you.  That belt you wear makes you a leader, and leaders need to participate so an example is set for the young ones coming up through the ranks."

 

Me: "Uh, what?"

 

Master Harvey: "That's a good man, now head on over to ring three."

 

I tried to protest further, but Master Harvey turned and walked back to the trophy table.  I contemplated beating his masterly ass right there on the gymnasium floor, and if Vernon had showed up, I probably would have.  At the very least, I would've told him exactly where he could shove his "judging kata" duties.  But I was alone, and that fish-out-of-water feeling totally sapped my resolve.  

 

"Aw, fuck..." I muttered, shuffling over to ring three and slumping down in the only empty chair out of four.

 

The black belt sitting next to me smiled and introduced himself, simultaneously extending his hand.  "I'm [the black belt sitting next to you]" he said, and I shook his hand begrudgingly, not bothering to tell him my own name. 

 

He tried to make polite conversation as he handed me my scorecard, (which was a double digit collection of numbered and laminated pieces of paper held together at the top by a spiral ringlet), but I blatantly ignored him.

 

I was furious at being coerced into this bullshit, and I resigned myself to judging the ten to twelve year old intermediates by my OWN standards.  Keep in mind, I'd already been with [Super Asskicker] for a full year, so I had no illusions about what would or would not work in a real fight.  As such, my scores would come to reflect my unique perspective.

 

So the first kid marches out, (a crowd favorite, by the applause), and comes to a halt in front of me and the other three judges, then giving his school-specific salute before regurgitating the required excrement.

 

"MY NAME IS [DORKY LITTLE FUCK]!!!  MY STYLE IS TANG SOO DO!!!  MY KATA IS [SOME QUICKLY SCREAMED ASSEMBLAGE OF KOREAN GIBBERISH]!!!  ...WITH THE JUDGES' PERMISSION, I WILL BEGIN!!!"

 

The other three nod while I sneer, and the kid goes into a frantic yet choreographed routine of supreme futility.  He was punching and kicking all over the place, downing opponent after phantom opponent with techniques that wouldn't have even worked in a video game.  Eyes were being gouged, throats were being torn out, and I think there was even an illusionary testicle or two that got shorn away and devoured.  The dance culminated in a claw-handed, chest-level strike and pull, which mimicked snatching an opponent's still beating heart from his chest.

 

H O R S E S H I T!!!

 

The kid shouted his final "KI YAAA!!!", and I started laughing, the disapproving glares of the other three judges the only thing that kept me from going into a convulsive fit.

 

After flashing me a look of hurt and confusion, the kid marches back to the center of the ring and bows, there to await his scores.

 

Said scores went something like this:

 

8.9...  8.7...  9.2...  2.3?!?

 

Guess who gave him the 2.3...

 

Gasps rose from the watching parents, and I heard one guy exclaim, "Gosh darn it, what the heck?!?"

 

Hey, to hell with all of 'em!  I told Master Harvey I wasn't cut out for this horseshit, and I judged that kid on practicality.  Despite much protest from the crowd, my score was written in the books, as were the subsequent scores I handed out that morning. 

 

I was merciless, and when my fellow judges leaned in to tell me that I was being too hard on "the kids", I told 'em the same thing I told Harvey, adding that, "I'm not gonna give a high score to a bunch of techniques that would NEVER WORK against real opponents."

 

Needless to say, the spectators around ring three were vehemently booing me from the first competitor on.  Yet, semantically, my scores probably didn't make that much of a difference.  They were equally low for every single one of the little shits, so I'd imagine the supposed winner- a twelve year old Wushu practitioner- would've emerged triumphant whether I was there or not.

 

And so it went throughout the morning and on into the afternoon; competitor after competitor, ring after ring, division after division.  Since no one saw fit to relieve me of my judging duties, I kept critiquing by my own, combatively-orientated criteria, thus gaining the collective hatred of the crowd, and earning a name for myself as the "Asshole Judge".

 

But ya know what?  I didn't give a flying rat's ass.  I was too pissed to care; too pissed at their total lack of technique, too pissed at Vernon for not showing up, and too pissed that I'd been put in this situation in the first place. 

 

FUCK 'EM!!!  Fuck 'em and feed 'em fish heads...

 

By the time it came for me to compete, everyone in the gymnasium knew who I was, and I remember enduring a cacophony of boo's and hisses as I went to my appointed ring.  I'd already called Jamie during the thirty-minute break I got between judging and fighting, but I didn't see him until the second match.  Jamie was there though, along with Jasmine and their infantile daughter, but again, I didn't know it at first.  Tracy was there too, by the way.

 

Prophetically, there were sixteen black belts in the "Adult Advanced" grappling division, which meant that any one of us would have to win four matches to earn the first place trophy.  This didn't bother me so much, because I didn't see a single combatant with a Judo/Jui-jitsu gi on.

 

I know, I know, a uniform doesn't mean shit.  But you have to understand that this was 1998, and people well-versed in grappling would often don the appropriate attire for no other reason than they WANTED their opponents to know they could fight on the ground, (that, and we all longed to look like Royce Gracie).  I'd worn my own Jui-jitsu gi for the same reasons; and, as everybody else was dressed in karate, kung fu, or tae kwon do uniforms, I figured I had this thing won.

 

I was ostensibly right.  And practically wrong...

 

So the judges start pairing us off by weight, (though it was an OPEN division), and I find myself facing none other than my African American buddy, Mr. Toughguy.  I outweighed Mr. Toughguy by more than twenty pounds, but I've always carried my weight with an almost supernatural deceptiveness.  To this day, upon seeing me, you would think I'm much lighter than I actually am.   

 

I didn't participate in the first match, however.  Another pair drew the initial lot, and I watched as this skinny Tae Kwon Do guy was brutally manhandled by a redneck behemoth we'll call "He-man" from here on out.  He-man subdued his opponent by way of a crushing headlock in less than a minute.  Not a finish any experienced grappler would succumb to, but effective against tournament geeks nonetheless.

 

The next match was me versus Mr. Toughguy, and I was so intent on kicking his pompous Kempo ass, that I momentarily forgot I was in a tournament... and the GRAPPLING division of said tournament, no less!

 

I came out with my fists at my temples, simultaneously bouncing around on the balls of my feet like the kickboxer I was and am.  I was actually planning on unleashing a Thai Kick, One-Two combination, when the referee called out:

 

"Open hands, gentlemen!  This is a grappling match!"

 

Good thing too, 'cause Mr. Toughguy's earlier tirade had put me into a "street fight" mindset, and I had to remind myself that this competition was to be won on the ground.

 

Fair enough...

 

So we dance around each other for a few moments, and then I advanced with the patented "Mike Descado Wave Entry."  Unless you've trained with me, you have no idea what this move is, chiefly because I invented it.  Still, let me explain it to you.  It only works when someone is in the same lead as you are; in my case, their right hand and right foot forward, (as MY right hand and right foot was forward, though I've gotten to the point where I can fight off either side).

 

Your left hand shoots in and bats down your opponent's right, thus allowing safe passage for your right hand to shoot in, snake behind your opponent's head, and orchestrate a wrestling clinch without fear of getting hit.  Now, I didn't think Mr. Toughguy would actually try to hit me on the way in; I just did the patented Mike Descado Wave Entry because it's a crackerjack move, and it makes the person on the receiving end feel like a retard.

 

As soon as I had a hold of the back of his head, I kicked my legs out, thus going horizontal to drop all two hundred and five pounds of me on Mr. Toughguy's upper body, (this is called a "sprawl" in some circles, a "bulldog" in others).  

 

Mr. Toughguy went down face first into the mat, HARD, a grunt of surprise trailing up as I pinned him.  I held the north/south position for a second to make sure I had it, and then did an airplane spin, 180 degrees, to end up on his back.  To clarify, he's face down with me glued on top of him like I was penetrating his holiest of holes.

 

According to the bible of grappling and no rules fighting, my next move would’ve been to go for the Rear Naked Choke, (also called the "Sleeper Hold" in professional wrestling circles).  But Mr. Toughguy was strong- far stronger than I anticipated- and he turned over, thus throwing me off because I was a dipshit at the time, and knew a lot less than I thought I did.

 

Luckily, I had the presence of mind to grab a handful of gi collar as I toppled, and Mr. Toughguy viciously turned only to roll himself right into a basic Judo lapel choke.  After three or four seconds of me strangling him with his own uniform, Mr. Toughguy slapped the mat three times, (thus "tapping out" to let me know he was giving up).

 

Nevertheless, I was still pissed, and I didn't let go until the referee called "STOP!", at which time I contemptuously shoved him off of me.  After he stopped rolling, Mr. Toughguy tried to stand, immediately fell to the ground, and then got up talking smack.

 

Mr. Toughguy: (now restrained by the referee)  "Aw, HEEELL naw!!!  He didn't beat me!!!  He didn't tap me!!!  He didn't do shit!!!"

 

I'd won fairly, and this I knew because the fifty or so bystanders didn't say a word.  They all hated my guts by now, and if the referee's decision had been in any way contested, the crowd would've said so.

 

Regardless, Mr. Toughguy's blasphemy pissed me off, and I pushed my feet beneath me, untied my belt, and began taking off my gi jacket.

 

"Hey!" I called, "We can do it for real if you want!  You're from da streets, right?  We can do it from da streets right here!" 

 

Mr. Toughguy feigned a perfunctory struggle against the referee's grip, before mumbling something under his breath and stomping off.  Despite his protests, Mr. Toughguy KNEW he'd been whipped, and I’d imagine he was only throwing a fit so he could later make an argument to his friends once they found out he'd been anally raped in the first match- and in less than a minute.

 

Whatever the case, the tournament went on, and during the match that followed, I caught sight of Jamie, Jasmine, and Tracy watching from the sidelines.  Jasmine was holding her daughter on her right hip, and while she seemed unaffected by the goings on, Jamie and Tracy were beaming with expressions of pride and lust respectively.

 

Seeing them, I decided right then and there that I wasn't gonna lose.

 

Suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore.  Suddenly, I wasn't fighting for anonymous bragging rights that I could take back to Cleveland in the form of a trophy.  Suddenly, I had a real reason to win.

 

My second match was a slaughter. 

 

My opponent was a Praying Mantis Kung Fu expert from New Orleans, (or so I'd heard earlier from his rather mouthy supporters on the sidelines), one who'd supposedly killed somebody in a bar when he was nineteen. 

 

* cough *  "BULLSHIT!!!"  * cough *

 

He came out with a wide-footed, characteristically traditional stance, and I shot in with a double leg "scoop" takedown, thus slamming him prostrate to get the side mount and finish with a Key Lock, (which would've dislocated his shoulder had he not tapped out). 

 

The contest was over in ten seconds, I shit you not.

 

The melee that followed showcased He-man violating yet another adversary, this time catching his rather beefy opponent in a face front guillotine that saw a tap out in as little time as it’d taken me to win my own second match.

 

He-man was proving to be a powerhouse; not particularly skilled, but nevertheless strong beyond the prowess of mortal men.

 

Other matches came next, but none were worth mentioning here.

 

My third fight was the semi-final, and I found myself standing across the ring from a Samoan GIANT!!!  No kidding, this guy was three hundred and fifty pounds if he was an ounce!  Not much taller than I was- maybe five ten- but ridiculously huge.  Like mine, his gi was unadorned, the white cloth accentuating his caramel skin and jet black hair.

 

I remember entering the square marked off with phosphorescent tape, and unsuccessfully trying to gauge him without emotion, thusly doubt-stricken as I went through my armada of finishing holds, and wondering what I could possibly land on this colossus.  Just taking him down would be a monumental achievement, 'cause I could tell his legs were as big as his arms, and his center of gravity was fittingly low.

 

A mix of Brazilian Jui-jitsu and Catch-As-Catch-Can Wrestling is deadly and all, but this guy was enormous, perhaps as one would imagine my balls are enormous, and I couldn't even begin to formulate a plan of attack.  On the street, I would've employed evasive footwork to land Thai Kicks until this guy's thighs were mush, (maybe a few elbows and knees as well).  Yet, I couldn't strike, and I was already feeling the stamina drain from my previous two matches.  Yes, I'd won them rather quickly, but several months of lazy beer drinking couldn't be ignored, and I was in NO SHAPE to participate in a long, drawn out grappling match with a sumo wrestler.

 

Yeah, a sumo wrestler...  A sumo wrestler from Samoa...  That's what he looked like, which is why we'll call him "Sumo" from now on.

 

Sumo and I stepped to our respective lines, and I saw him smiling wolfishly at me from across the ring, as if to say, "Get ready to be penetrated Prison Style, little white boy..."

 

Now, I'd seen Sumo grapple in his first two matches, but I hadn't thought much of it because his earlier victims had succumbed to "smothering" techniques, whereby Sumo had basically laid on top of 'em until they gave up.  At that moment though, with him standing across the ring and much nearer, I realized just how much his awesome weight gave him an advantage.  If I'd been a tall, bodybuilder redneck like He-man, I wouldn't have given it a second thought.  But I was an inch or two shorter than Sumo, and he had AT LEAST a hundred and forty pounds on me.

 

Semantically, I was fucked.  But the knowledge that Jamie, Jasmine and Tracy were looking on, bolstered my courage; and, at that cathartic moment, I recalled the response of my instructor in Asheville, [Super Asskicker], who'd once been asked- in my presence- what he would do if he were confronted by an opponent that was bigger, stronger, and infinitely more skilled than he.

 

[Super Asskicker] had smiled at this and replied, "I would beat him senseless for being a god damn liar!"

 

Within that memory, I began my war against Sumo...

 

I came out like a textbook kickboxer, bouncing around on the balls of my feet with my fists held high.  As he'd done during my first match with Mr. Toughguy, the referee verbally announced that this was, indeed, a "grappling match"... but I ignored him.  Granted, I had no intention of actually punching or kicking Sumo; I just wanted him to realize that if this were a real fight, I had the stand up tools to RUIN HIS SHIT!!!

 

It was partly an intimidation gesture, but the real reason I was bobbing and weaving was because I thought I might lose, and my enormous ego needed to make it clear to Sumo that my talents went far beyond ground fighting.  In those precious seconds, I actually imagined a victorious Sumo going back to his compatriots and saying, "Yeah, I beat him on the ground, but I have a feeling that Descado guy would've kicked my ass in the street."

 

Frivolous and unsportsmanlike...  I'll give you that.  But I was, and am, an unscrupulous prick.

 

I danced around for almost a minute; circling off whenever Sumo charged in, and using the expanse of the ropeless ring to keep us apart with pure footwork.  Eventually though, I came to the inevitable realization that I couldn't win by being a kickboxer that couldn't punch or kick, and more, that I was quickly being labeled a coward by the anti-Descado crowd that was already booing my evasive tactics.

 

Added to this, Jamie, Jasmine, and Tracy were watching, (along with [Super Asskicker] from the theatre of memory), so I had no choice but to lock up.

 

I shot in and once again executed the patented Mike Descado Wave Entry, my body crashing against Sumo's in a grunting tempest of flesh and bone and muscle.  We struggled for a couple of seconds, and then Sumo grabbed two handfuls of my super thick Jui-jitsu gi and tried to manhandle me to the mat. 

 

Ironically, what has always happened to me in an actual fight, happened right there in that ring in Bossier City- the consciousness of combat descending.  My fearful, ego driven mind separated from my already taxed body, and what followed was purely instinctive.  I grabbed and pulled, pushed and pivoted, each attempt to upend Sumo utterly negated by his daunting mass.  I tried foot sweeps, I tried torso-to-torso hip tosses; I even tried a standing gi choke.

 

None were successful...

 

At that point, I was nothing more than an ineffectual watcher, a bystander looking out from a fleshly coil that acts on its own, which is why I can justify what happened next.

 

Unable to take Sumo down by any standard method, I jumped up, wrapped both my legs around his waist, and allowed my body weight to drag him to the floor.  As I'd orchestrated this desperate move just as Sumo was moving forward, I pulled him down rather easily, thus turning our contest into a true ground fight.

 

I went for an armbar from the guard, then switching to a leg triangle attempt when he ducked his head- both submissions circumvented by sheer strength and weight.  If my mind were in control, I would've given up.  But my body had another agenda, and I watched in helpless admiration as I did what was tactically brilliant.

 

Now, I hate trying to describe Jui-jitsu in these posts, chiefly because, a) it slows the story down, and b) because those not versed in ground fighting have a tough time following along.

 

Still, I HAVE to detail the subsequent reversal, because I did it no less than three times.

 

Okay, so I'm on the mat with my back against the floor, and Sumo is in my "guard", meaning, I have both legs wrapped around his midsection, my ankles crossed behind his lower back.  Previously on his knees, Sumo perched one foot flat upon the mat, and then the other, thus using his new position to stand up with my legs still wrapped around his torso.

 

Without thinking twice, I uncrossed my legs and pulled my feet back, thus putting one on either side of his ample hips.  Simultaneously reaching up to pull his head down, I straightened my legs and lifted him up into the air.  Do you remember when you were little, and you and your dad would play "Airplane"?  Whereby he would put his feet in your stomach and straighten his legs to balance you in the air?  Thus allowing you to extend your arms and legs and pretend you were flying?  Well, this particular reversal was something like that, only I didn't hold Sumo up, instead pulling him forward and throwing him ass over head to land flat on his back behind me.

 

There was a resounding "THUD!" as he hit, but I held on and rolled with him, thus reversing our positions so that I was now on top.

 

"That's ya ass..." I remember growling, then flatting on top of Sumo like a pancake.  I had the full mount, and I just laid there as Sumo bucked and struggled beneath me, his bulk actually working against him because he was too fat to maneuver.

 

I was waiting for him to panic and roll over, which would've given me his back, (and ready access to the Rear Naked Choke).  But Sumo didn't do that, instead reaching up with both hands to choke me like a horror movie serial killer.

 

No problem.  He'd extended both arms, which put him in position for a submission.  Placing both hands flat on his chest to shift my weight forward, I spun ninety degrees and fell back to execute a Japanese Armbar.  To explain, this move put my body perpendicular to his, both of us flat on our backs and looking skyward.  One of my legs was draped over his throat, the other draped over his midsection with one of his arms in between.  I held his fist against my chest and raised my hips, the technique designed to hyperextend the elbow.

 

I'm giving a play by play here for the non-jui-jitsu types, but all this took place in a matter of seconds.  Anyway, I had Sumo dead to rights, but he forced his way out before I could lay on the pressure, and I found myself once more on my back with Sumo on top of me.

 

FUCK that guy was strong...

 

Our struggle continued, and I felt myself burning out.  I don't know where Sumo the Slender was getting his energy from, but I was dead tired, and gasping freely from the mouth.  Again, I was in NO SHAPE for this kind of competition, much less with a guy so big.  Part of this was due to excessive college drinking, and part was because I wasn't used to grappling with a gi on.  Most of my previous experiences with [Super Asskicker] had nothing to do with a gi, as we always trained in our street clothes, and I was constantly being thwarted because Sumo had something to hold on to.

 

Anyway, the scenario played out much like before, and Sumo stood up only to have me throw him with the exact same "Airplane" reversal.  Yet, he violently rolled me off the second time and got back on top, each second I was being smothered, a second closer to me passing out.

 

I was truly in exhaustive Hell, Satan standing on the sidelines offering me a warm beer in a dirty ashtray.  But it wasn't pride that allowed me to keep going.  No, it was Tracy, and visions of her stripper boobs revealed and laid bare for my perusal.  I couldn't let her see me go out this way, so I kept fighting, my body still operating separately from my mind.

 

Eventually, Sumo started to get tired as well, his clumsy attacks becoming sluggish and awkward.  At last, he tried to stand for the final time, and I executed the "Airplane" reversal for the final time, the unthinkable happening as soon as I lifted him up with my legs.

 

POP!!!  My left hip came right outta socket.

 

The pain was indescribable, and I'm pretty sure I screamed like a little bitch.  But Sumo was already toppling over me, and I held on once again, our positions reversing so that I was on top.  I heard a second POP!!! as soon as I was free of his weight, my hip jerking back into place, (which also hurt more than a scrotum shave with a dull knife).

 

I had nothing left, and I remember laying on top of Sumo in the mount, ostensibly "winning" despite the fact that I thought I was dying.  Tears blurred my vision, nausea swamping me as the agony from my dislocated/relocated hip shot up and down my leg and spine.

 

It was then that a shimmering figure materialized some feet away at the edge of the ring, one adorned from head to toe in brown robes.

 

"Ben?" I mumbled, "Ben Kenobi?"

 

"You must go to the Degoba System, Mike." answered the ghost, "There to learn the ways of the force from the master Yoda."

 

"What?" I gasped aloud, the vision immediately shifting from Obi Wan to [Super Asskicker].

 

"You must return to the Beatdown System, Mike." said [Super Asskicker], "There to learn the ways of Anal Inviceration from me."

 

"But, I can't!!!  I'm finished!  He's so much stronger than I am, and he knows it!"

 

"Then you beat him senseless for being a god damn liar!" [Super Asskicker] chided me, then flashing a knowing smile before evaporating into nothing.

 

Okay, okay, that didn't really happen.  But I WAS hallucinating, and I vividly remember the referee's face blurring into some kind of monster from the Johnny Depp movie, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." 

 

Nevertheless, the Gods of Assbeating were indeed smiling that day, and after writhing beneath me for a few seconds, Sumo did what I'd been waiting for him to do from the beginning.

 

He rolled over and gave me his back.

 

BAM!!!  I sunk in the choke, thus wrapping my forearm around his neck and cutting off the blood flow to his brain.

 

A futile struggle, a gurgling hiss, and Sumo tapped out...  I'd won.

 

The previously anti-Descado crowd roared with applause, their loyalty apparently having shifted sometime during my epic battle with Godzilla.  I was distantly grateful of the praise, but I couldn't really enjoy it.  As soon as Sumo tapped, I rolled away and sprawled out on the mat, all manner of colored spots dancing before my eyes.

 

I don't know how long I laid there, (it could've been seconds or hours), but my next sensation was that of a pair of giant sweaty hands grabbing my gi collar and hoisting me to me feet.  Desperately trying to balance on my one good leg, I blinked my surroundings into focus to see Sumo holding me up, his face an admiring grin.

 

"That was the toughest fight I ever had."

 

"I hate you," I replied, then grunting as Sumo laughed and pulled me into a crushing embrace.

 

The next minute or so is a blur, but I'm pretty sure the referee raised my arm in victory, then letting me go so that I could limp my way to the sidelines.  My hip still hurt like hell, and though it seemed to be structurally sound, I collapsed in Jamie's arms as soon as he came running up.

 

Jamie: "Man, that was fucking awesome!!!"

 

Me: "Shut up, I hate you."

 

Jamie: (laughing, as Sumo had laughed)  "Fuck you, dickhead.  This wasn't my idea.  But don't hate me yet, you've still got one more to go."

 

Oh shit...

 

Jamie was right, there was still the final match with He-man, and I got a preview of the humiliation I would endure as I watched my soon-to-be opponent ring another guy's neck with little effort.

 

Luckily, there was a twenty-minute break between He-man's semi final match, and our own finale; during which I slumped down into a plastic chair and tried to gauge what little strength I had left to call upon.  At one point, Tracy came sauntering over with her stripper boobs virtually hanging out of a yellow, low cut nylon belly shirt.

 

"I see what you meant last night about not wanting to wear yourself out," she giggled, then kissing me on the cheek, only to recoil violently, "GROSS!!!  You're all sweaty!!!"

 

I flashed my pearly whites and made some dismissive joke about the other ways I liked to work up a sweat, thus confirming my later conquest before she walked back to sit with Jasmine in the bleachers.

 

By the way, sex was the LAST thing on my mind, but I refused to show how hurt and tired I was- at least not in front of a girl that fine!

 

Ultimately though, I knew I was done for.  He-man was just too strong, and in a different way than Sumo.  He was built like a brick shit house; much, much taller than me with a twenty-pound weight advantage of solid muscle.  I was about to get my ass kicked, and when the pivotal moment came, I pussed out.

 

The break ended, and I was called to the line by the referee, there to look across the ring at He-man's determined, almost feral expression.  He had every intention of ripping me a new anus, and again, I pussed out.

 

I waited until the referee gave his required spiel, and then I limped forward and bowed.

 

"I quit," I said, looking up into He-man's crazed brown eyes, "You win."

 

Silence fell within our locked gazes, and then the referee announced my withdrawal, which brought a new wave of hisses and jeers from the same fickle crowd that had cheered my victory over Sumo a half an hour before.

 

Was I a coward?  Yes, in my heart.  No, in my mind.  I've trained my entire life, and I've known guys that simply REFUSE to give up no matter what.  Whenever I think of guys like that, Spencer Fisher is the first name that comes to mind.  He was my arch nemesis/arch friend when I first came to train with [Super Asskicker], and what has always amazed me about Spencer, is his total inability to accept defeat. 

 

Spencer and I were always neck-and-neck in groundfighting, (though I was a superior striker at the time), but what did and does make Spencer a far better fighter than I am or ever will be, is his courage, his stubborn resolve to never give in.

 

As the other stories on this website will tell you, I often do things that might make an outsider think that I'm reckless and without fear.  Most of that's from alcohol; and- since I'm utterly unable to deceive myself- I accept the fact that I'm a coward at heart.  When a situation turns sour, (and I hope to eventually post some stories that demonstrate this), I retreat and regroup.  There're no last stands for me, no suicidal charges that hoist me into the annuals of legend.  99% of the time, I simply know more than my opponent, which makes winning a semantic given.

 

That's not bravery, boys and girls.  It's just awareness.  Which is the main reason you will never see me fighting in the UFC, or Pride, or King of the Cage.  I fantasize that I have the skill, and that may even be true, but I'm a tactician, not a warrior, and that's why- at the ripe old age of thirty- I'm still around to fight another day. 

 

Someone once said, "Perfect bravery is only possible from perfect cowards."

 

I hope that's true...

 

Anyway, back to the story.  So the match is called, and He-man steps forward and hugs me, then whispering into my ear, "Yeah, I didn't really wanna roll with you either."

 

"My ego thanks you," I replied, then limping back amidst the continuing disdain of the crowd.

 

That was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, and I’ve never lived it down.  Ah, but not all was lost, for I left the Bossier City high school gymnasium with a second place trophy under one arm, and Tracy on the other.  After I lied and told everybody that the only reason I'd quit was because of my injury, Tracy was all over me like Wilford Brimley on oatmeal, at one point confessing that she wished I'd been around the time her last boyfriend, (a jealous man, apparently), had slapped her across the cheek and thrown all her stuff out on the lawn in front of the apartment they'd shared.

 

Given my physical condition at the time, I was supremely glad that I WASN'T present when that happened.

 

So me, Tracy, Jamie and Jasmine, (along with their little girl), drive back to Jamie's house in our respective cars, there to enjoy an evening of delivered pizza and top shelf whiskey once the kid was put to bed.  After a rejuvenating shower and a change of clothes, I was poised to claim my other prize of the weekend: Tracy and her stripper boobs.

 

Alas, not even a dozen shots of Crown Royal could quell the pain in my hip, and my last night at Jamie's ended somewhat uneventfully with me passing out on the couch.  I didn't have sex with Tracy, which is a good thing in retrospect.  I was in no condition to adequately pleasure a girl of her trailer park beauty and experience, and it was far better to remain an untested mystery, than to have Tracy go back and tell all her friends how I sucked in bed.

 

Read between the lines of that last paragraph, my male patrons, and you'll find a host of wisdom.  I don't care how good looking you are, or how ugly the girl you're with is- ALWAYS make love to the very best of your ability.  You never know how far your exploits, (or lack thereof), will travel, which will eventually come to be a continuing theme in my stories.

 

Where sex is concerned, always bring your "A" game, or don't bring any game at all...

 

So I groaned to consciousness the next morning, (and by "morning", I mean 2:00 PM), to find Jamie and Jasmine in the kitchen cooking up a late lunch with their daughter.  The enticing aroma of pan-fried steaks immediately invoked a ravenous hunger, but the meal wasn't ready yet, and I decided to take a shower while the feast simmered to completion.

 

As the hot water cascaded against my face and chest, I checked for injuries, passing over the various bruises to ascertain that my left hip would be fine, and that the real pain was now coming from my stomach muscles.

 

It felt like I'd done four thousand sit-ups, (or held a three hundred and fifty pound gorilla in my guard for ten minutes), and I was again thankful that I hadn't tried to consummate my mutual attraction for Tracy.  She was long gone by then, having departed the night before shortly after I passed out on the couch.  Tracy had left her email address and phone number on a napkin, but I put it in my blue jeans’ pocket when I found it, later discovering that body heat had smeared the information beyond recognition.

 

Nope, I'd never see her again...

 

Anyway, I pack my bags, take them out to my car, and then return to the kitchen to enjoy a savory meal the likes of which I've never had before or since.  Jasmine was a great cook.

 

Eventually, it gets on to about four o'clock, and I realize I need to get going.  It was Sunday afternoon, after all, and I still had to drive six hours back to Cleveland so I'd be in presentable shape for my 9:00 AM Molecular Genetics class Monday morning.

 

I remember a pair of perfunctory goodbyes to Jasmine and her daughter, before Jamie walked me to the door, there to stand in shared awkwardness as we tried to encapsulate our own Parting of Ways.

 

Somehow, I think I knew I would never see Jamie Laws in the flesh again, chiefly because he'd moved on to another chapter of life that I couldn't read.  Husband... father... adult...  He'd become everything I'd sworn never to be, and the part of him that was my best friend in college, existed now as only a memory.

 

Me: "So, I'll call ya when I get back.  Ya know, to let you know I made it home okay."

 

Jamie: (his perpetual smirk of indifference reemerging)  "I don't give a shit.  You can crash and die on the interstate for all I care!" he said, a grin stealing the venom from his words.

 

Me: (laughing, and then becoming serious)  "I've missed this.  I know it wasn't like old times, but I've missed us being, well, us!"

 

That's when Jamie said something I will never forget.

 

"There never was an us, Mike.  There was just a then.  I ain't Jamie "Boo" Laws no more, and you ain't Mike "Spook" Descado...  What're ya gonna do?"

 

I knew what he meant, and I hated it.  I think my pussy ass may have even teared up, but I spoke quickly to disguise it.

 

"See ya, man."

 

"Yeah," Jamie answered.  And with that, I left.

 

The unspoken exchange was one where Jamie let me know that he was, indeed, a different person, and that I was too- no matter how hard I was trying to hold on to the past.

 

Jamie was right in his case, wrong in mine.

 

To this day, I'm still a twenty-year-old trapped in a thirty-year-old's body, and I have neither the drive, nor the ability, to act otherwise. 

 

Who's the wise man here?  Jamie has since divorced and either remarried, or taken up residence with another girl from the casino.  I'd elaborate, but our subsequent conversations have always been when either he or I was drunk, thus making those phone calls into excursions neither one of us remembers.

 

I miss Jamie.  Or rather, I miss the youth we shared.  Unfortunately, you can't ever get it back, and what I've come to realize, is that all relationships- good or bad, fantasized or regretted- are subject to the Parting of Ways.

 

See ya, James.  I might have lost ya, but I'll never forget...