Warning: the following contents are full of vulgarities, curses, and unabashed abandon of all sense of humility.
At 6:30pm on Monday, February 28th, I found myself in a face to face stare down with a kondoura-clad degenerate, moments from bopping him square in the face.
My new habit after coming home from work is to go straight to the gym and get busy with a hardcore cardio-weights double whammy. There’s a smiley bundle of joy working at our gym, Amen (can I get a hallelujia!?) who happens to be certified as a personal trainer on an international level. Amen’s advice on running has actually turned me from a hater to a junky-to-be. I left the gym a sweaty mess, pumped with endorphins, bundled in long yoga pants, a loose fitting hoodie and scarf.
The outfit is important for reasons you’ll soon discover!
On the way back to my hotel-home restaurant, I took a shortcut through the bar where noticed a friend sitting alone. She’d recently lost both her father and her favorite student – both within a month of each other. Kings of Leon singing morosely through the bar speakers, I made my way over to greet her.
I didn’t even notice our repulsive specimen sitting at a table before the bar, drinking alone. Overweight, dull-eyed and desperate, he grabbed me by the arm with such force, I almost stumbled backward.
“Excuse, me,” I said with cautious civility, “Don’t touch me. That’s very rude.”
Who knows who this guy could be. I’m not a regular at the bar, and judging by his traditional Muslim outfit, he could have been a local or Saudi of some contrived importance. No need to confront a rock, anyway, an argument at this point would be useless.
I made my way to my friend’s table and sat with her for five minutes, ignoring the Arabic clamor in the background. Whether he was speaking to me or not, I paid no mind, I was only passing through.
As we got deeper into conversation I realized it’d be best to stay with my friend and lend a kind ear. She’d really had a difficult time of things lately and needed someone to listen. Selfishly, I missed her company, and loved the opportunity to shower her in hugs and reassuring words.
While we chatted, I could tell our ogre of an acquaintance was trying to convince the bartender to get us a few drinks. Kushan, bartender hottie that he is, explained that we weren’t interested.
As if to prove otherwise, oozing with a blurred confidence only spirits can discharge, the dullard comes over to my side and rubs my upper arm, mumbling some incoherent nonsense, spewing bad breath and bullshit all over the joint.
My entire demeanor changed, and Kushan got on the phone immediately.
I turned around slowly with scary-mom pursed lips, flared nostrils and en evil eye only Hawaiians can perfect to such intensity.
“Just what do you think you’re doing? I asked you not to touch me. I don’t want a drink. Go back to your table, you’re being very rude now. Go away.”
Turning my attention back to my friend, I actually surprised myself with my stern but tempered tone. As angry as I was, it was controlled – and totally free of any wavering fear. My communication was clear, as was my body language. At least, it seemed clear to us sober folk!
Lo and behold, ten minutes later, the boorish fuck stumbled back over to us, this time smack dab between our intimate conversation space. Here we go. He literally started throwing money on our table, begging to buy us a whiskey, of all things.
“Look, mister, we don’t want a drink, we don’t want to talk. We want you to leave us alone. Good bye. Halas!”
I thought perhaps all he needed was a touch of Arabic to sober him up. Halas – finished! As he turned around to “leave,” in one last pathetic attempt to get some piece of our action, he grabbed me just under the breast, around my ribcage –
And which point I quickly turned around and pushed that fat ass with all the might I had.
“You fucking touch me once more, just once more, and I will punch you in your face!”
Still, I hadn’t lost control, I wasn’t screaming – it was as though things were moving in slow motion. The work-out chemicals in my brain were still firing and as far as flight or fight went there was really only one option, despite the hundred and fifty pound handicap – FIGHT.
I studied his face and concluded for all the extra blubber, my fists would be fine after a few punches. Thinking of a counterattack, I wondered if he was so fat under his white muu-muu that maybe his thigh and tummy fat would have totally covered his crotchal region, giving him an irregular advantage in our sparring session. I noted my allies in the venue, the three older European gentlemen sitting at the bar, the size of Kushan and his athletic build. I considered how happy I’d be to take one hit from this loser just to have the opportunity to teach him a lesson with my fists.
With deep even breath I awaited his next move. I dared him to touch me with my eyes. Fists clenched. Mouth akin to Billy Idol. Come on, you feeble-ass punk, give me one reason.
Seeing as he was too much of a coward to either touch me or sit down, I pulled the Allah card.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? We are in the UAE, buddy. You think it’s OK to touch a woman here? You think it’s OK to grope a woman ANYWHERE? What would Allah think about your being here? Drunk! Groping women! Sit the fuck down and get out of my face.”
He started to back off.
Once he sat down, I could feel a tear in the back of my eye. My throat closed a bit, and I knew if I kept talking, my voice would be unsteady. I took a deep breath, sat down, and turned my attention to Kushan.
“He needs to go.”
I wasn’t about to get hysterical over some unsocialized animal, but I knew if he stayed he’d only get more drunk and more unreasonable. I’d seen worse drunks before, but he was a proactive mother fucker!
In my entire adult life, I had never – ever – been groped like that before. Especially not after telling someone not to. Three times, no less!
So all the managers in the house come in, and after far too long, he concedes to leave. No punches were pulled, no dragging out the door. It was all rather civilized, and for that I’m relieved.
Truth be told, I was actually proud of myself. I stood my ground with a cold temperance and said what was on my mind. I have no delusions I’ll have made any difference in this guy’s approach to women – he’s probably grown up thinking all women at bars are hookers (even if they are wearing baggy hoodies and a scarf). But when the shit hit the fan, I didn’t crack under pressure – no matter how intimidating he was.
Surprisingly, though physically tired, I was mentally stoked all the following day. And it made me wonder, am I a bad person for feeling pride about that encounter? On the one hand, I conquered a real and present danger with a frightening calm. This is the positive side.
On the other hand, should I really be so happy about wanting to ‘teach that asshole a lesson?’
Well, I don’t know. As a rule, I make a conscious effort to act, speak and even think with pure non-violence. But this was a special case and I’m glad it happened the way it did. Let’s just hope the groper stays home from now on!