Punch Drunk Love
Before I begin, does anyone know what the Statute of Limitations is for attempted bank robbery?
Never mind, I’ll figure that out.
It’s tough to point out our flaws, unless you have a blog called ‘Conflict and Scotch’ (it’s right up there in the title). Still, to realize you have a trait, but can’t seem to control it, can be daunting.
My flaw (at least this one) is that I am a very jealous person when I am in a relationship. To be truthful, even when I’m not in a relationship, I’m jealous. I’m sure it has taken its toll over the years, but what I’m about to tell you is probably one of the worst exhibition of that jealousy.
Author’s note: By the end of this post, I come off as the bad guy (for good reason).
My first year away at college, I dated a girl back in my home town. Not to reveal her name, I will call her Sally. Now, just to be clear, I know a woman named Sally since high school, this is not her (Hello, original Sally, hope all is well).
Anyway, to say Sally and I argued a lot would be an understatement. Nothing over the top, but there was always an annoyance which simmered just below the surface. While I was away at school we’d exchange letters (actual letters! oh, what a glorious time it was) that mostly contained apologies for whatever happened the weekend before. I know it sounds horrible, but I’m sure most of us, if not all of us, can look back and say, “yeah, that was not a healthy relationship at all”.
Now, let’s get to the incident.
Most Saturday nights, my friends and I would go to a bar a few towns over. I’m not naming names or locations – you’ll understand why in a minute.
The bar itself was long and narrow, with a small dance floor, some tables, and a spot for the band in the back. On this particular night, Sally and I hardly talked to each other. Don’t remember why, could have been anything; maybe I sneezed wrong, but we barely spoke that night.
Then, from my vantage point, Sally was on the dance floor with some guy, they danced much closer than I thought appropriate for someone with a boyfriend.
I wore jealousy on my face, so a friend of mine, who read the look, grabbed my hand and dragged me to the dance floor.
As we danced, never took my gaze off Sally and her new friend. My dance partner tried to talk me off the ledge, but I was firmly planted there.
When the music ended, and Sally still talked and laughed with the guy, I had to leave. Went through the crowd and ended up outside to get some air. My friend Tommy (not his real name) followed me to the street.
He caught up to me and witnessed as I punched a street sign (I’m sure it had it coming).
Tommy, much like my dance partner, tried to get me to calm down.
It didn’t work.
Tommy followed me down the street, just as I turned to punch the brick wall that also annoyed me.
Except…
...it wasn’t a brick wall I punched.
As my hand went through the glass, the entire wall, ceiling to ground, the front window of a bank, rained down in front of us.
Without hesitation, I turned the corner and ran up the side street, only to stop when I reach the end of the block.
I turned to talk to Tommy, except he wasn’t there.
Ran back to find Tommy, rooted to the sidewalk, as he stared at the open wall once filled with glass.
Grabbed his shoulder and pulled him with me to the other end of the block to regroup. It was then I noticed the blood, and realized the palm of my hand gashed open. Took off my t-shirt and wrapped it around my hand to conceal the bleeding. A moment later, I took the dressed hand and shoved it inside my shirt.
A six-foot-two, bloody Napoleon.
Walked around the block, then we went back into the bar.
I sulked in the corner like a wounded bear (which I guess I was), until Sally come over and we made up (for what? not sure)
Exited the bar, we see to our right two police cars up on the curb and several officers, both in uniform and plain clothes, review the bank situation. Sally smartly pulled us in the opposite direction, my bloody hand still inside my shirt.
This was a time before CCTV cameras; no one every came after me for the window. As for the gash in my hand, I should have had stitches, instead slept with my blood soaked t-shirt wrapped around my hand as it rested on my chest.
The gash on my hand healed better than my relationship with Sally; we ended it soon after.
In conclusion, I would love to say I banished the green monster that lives inside of me, best I can say it is tamed enough that I don’t go about punishing innocent inanimate objects with my fists.
Although, I once threw a drunken bar patron through a butcher shop’s window, but that’s a story for another day.
