The Day I Almost Punched an Old Man in the Face
This is what fighting is, right?
If
you are offended by salty language, you have officially been warned. Because I’m letting it fly.
I
must give a brief explanation of job before I begin. I am an independent contractor that takes
photos of homes for insurance companies.
There is a bunch of boring construction terms involved, but half the day
is driving around the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and the other half is
computer, form, sketching stuff. I like it.
I make my own schedule and it gives me time to write. There is only one downfall. I have to
occasionally deal with assholes.
It’s
very rare. I would say 1 out of 200
visits to homes have any type of negative interaction. That’s a good ratio. Mostly I show up,
nobody’s home. I take photos and
measurements of the areas I’m allowed to go, then I split. Easy. That is essentially all you need to know.
Also,
this post isn’t about a story of a possible fight, it is about something that
occurred in my brain. It is a new
development. It is something that could
only have experienced though therapy and anti-anxiety medication.
I arrived at a home in a rural area. I knocked on the front door. No one was there. The home was not fenced, so I could do my
thing. I prepared to take my photos. An
old man, corn-fed, in his sixties or so, shouted at me from about fifty feet
away. I figured it was a neighbor. The other option was that the home was on the
same property as the old man’s home.
Turned out, that’s exactly the situation.
I
said to the guy “Is this so-and-so address?” He did not answer me. He continued toward me, beet-faced, shouting incoherently
about notifications, and what I can’t do, and I don’t know what. Normally, if there is a misunderstanding, I
explain who I am to the homeowner and what I’m doing there, and the person says:
“Oh, my mistake. I knew you were coming.”
But
this crusty ol’ bastard still approached me and something different happened
inside. Previously, altercations meant
my flight instincts kicked in. My heart
rate went berserk, I lost the ability to communicate clearly, and then I felt
like a pile of dogshit half an hour later. This time, I was much cooler. I felt the adrenaline kick in, but it was
maintained. I was floating on top of the
wave, rather than being buried by it.
For
a split second, I was ready to take a swing at this festering shitbag. He was
too close, with anger that was all his own.
I was speaking in my softest voice. Suddenly, a feeling popped up out of
nowhere. I didn’t have the urge to
run. I wanted to beat the piss out of
this grizzled old fuck. But I
wouldn’t. I don’t take swings. I don’t have to. Plus, I need to keep this gig to pay the
bills.
Instead, I broke his
tirade by saying “Is this your house?” It wasn’t twenty-first century, corporate
friendly, Wal-Mart greeting in tone. It wasn’t receptionist at HR, clerk at the
bank, all sugar-coated and empty. It was condescending. I was cutting him off, because I wanted to
get the hell out of there. It was 99% because the money’s not good enough to
deal with country-fried pricks, and I’d like to think that the other 1% was
because I wanted to pop this guy right in his dumb fuckin’ face. After he told
me he owned the home, I got in my car and left without another word. (Okay, I
said “Have a good day.” Doesn’t sound as cool, though.)
Remember, I’m not
overjoyed by the violent intent, of which I had complete control. I don’t want
to fight anyone. It was the glimmer of
self-value. I was happy that I walked away from this stupid situation doing
exactly what I wanted to do. In the old days, my gut would make me slink away,
feeling like I was at fault. Now, there
was something else in my body that told me that I didn’t have to put up with
this shit.
The
moral is just that. Don’t put up with unnecessary shit. Say something or
leave. On your way home, you can imagine
how you would have fought your way out of it.