Tough, Part IV: Riots

I seem to have a knack for getting into fights that turn into full-scale civil unrest.

As mentioned previously, I've been charged with (and I suppose I must add, under the guise of full disclosure, "and convicted of,") Riot or Breach of Peace, applied for "behavior inconducive to good conduct and order." To wit, that I tossed Seaman Laidlow over a table and then proceeded to choke the shit out of him for throwing a glass of bug juice in my face. The riot part came from the fact that this altercation occurred on the mess deck of a US Naval vessel, where a gang of cheering sailors were eager spectators and eventually became willing participants.

Sometimes, getting punished for a fight is actually worth it. Laidlow deserved his beating and the Captain knew it. Laidlow was a slacker, a shirker, a problem child, and this wasn't his first time at mast. In fact, he'd assaulted me with Kool-Aid because I'd been discussing with another Petty Officer our plan to report Laidlow for Unauthorized Absence, which would inevitably result in his third appearance before the Captain, a record of undesirable distinction.

Laidlow was supposed to be cranking, working in the galley for a couple of months. Instead, he'd been telling the galley that he was going to sick call and that Doc had put him on light duty, and that the Deck Department had him cleaning the berthing compartment. He told us that he was cranking. We believed him since we didn't see him — it turns out he was spending the day asleep in his rack with the curtains closed and dirty laundry piled over his head as camouflage.

When I'd found out what was going on, I remanded him into my duty section. However, instead of reporting for weekend duty with the rest of the section, he told the Command Duty Officer that he was on crank duty, had liberty for the weekend, and then immediately left the ship to go sky diving. I busted him coming back across the quarterdeck Sunday night. Laidlow tried to get out of it by claiming that, after I'd ordered him back to duty, our Senior Chief had told him to go back cranking. Unfortunately for Laidlow, I'd already talked to Senior, the CDO, and the MSC. There was no hope for him, and I made sure he knew it.

The next day at chow, I was discussing the pending charges against Laidlow with another Deck Petty Officer. Laidlow came to our table and began accusing me of harassing him. Unwilling to argue with him, I started to walk away. Frustrated, Laidlow threw a spoon and hit me in the back. When I turned around to face him, that's when I caught the face full of cherry sugar water.

At Mast, the Captain gave me ten days of extra duty, far less than he could have done. Basically, he told me I should have exercised a little more restraint. Laidlow, bruised and defeated, was convicted of a whole host of things including Assaulting a Superior, a capital offense during a declared war (which, fortunately for him, this wasn't). He was given the maximum sentence allowable in a non-judicial punishment: Restriction to the ship, with extra duties, for 45 days, a loss of one half of his base bay for 60 days, and by separate administrative action, Other-Than-Honorably Discharged from service.

Laidlow's punishment and discharge were a satisfying ending to our conflict but as I've said, despite the legal rhetoric, that fight wasn't really a riot. Nor, for that matter, was it my first riot. My first riot was years earlier, when I was still in junior high school. It was also my first fight, if you don't count the time I slapped Nathan Drake for screen-printing my pineapple design without permission. The fight happened during 6th grade, less than a year after the Nathan incident, and like many of my subsequent brawls, the fight involved older kids picking on those of us they deemed to be budding social misfits.

When the fight started it didn't actually involve me. It began during recess, when the Jervis brothers started hassling my friend Cliff for reading a Heinlein novel instead of playing football or picking his nose or engaging in some other similarly mindless physical activity. The fight was typical schoolyard stuff — lots of posing and pushing, a circling crowd of onlookers chanting "Fight, fight!" while looking around nervously for the recess monitor.

Up to that point in my life, I had been pretty good at obeying my mother's dictate to avoid violence at any cost, so much so that I had garnered a reputation at school for being a bit of a pussy. But non-violent credos are one thing, actual violence is another — it has a base seductiveness that resists moral logic and makes ethical behavior relative. I just couldn't stand by and watch my friend get pounded on by a pack of illiterate bullies.

Jeff Jarvis was the youngest and smallest of the three brothers. When I grabbed him by his shirt collar and yanked him off of Cliff, Jeff was so surprised that he sat on the ground looking up at me with bewilderment for a few seconds. He was no more surprised than me though. Sure, I was a big kid for my age but I knew even then that fights aren't really about size, they're about attitude. And I didn't have one. I stood over Jeff, uncertain of my next move. I was amazed at his obvious intimidation, impressed with myself for having the nerve to get involved, pleased that things seemed to have gone so well.

As I stood there wondering what to do next, Jeff kicked me in the nuts.

Instantly, I was at the center of a hurricane of angry kids — all three Jervises gave up on Cliff and jumped at me. The crowd smelled fresh meat. Most of the kids in the circle around us hated the Jervises as much as I did, but I was startled to realize they hated me even more: several were screaming so lustily for my blood that spit flew from their twisted lips. Hands clawed at me from every direction, trying to drag me to the ground. I was in the whirling center of a pack of violently excited animals.

I knew if I went down, I'd be finished. They would pile on top of me, robbing me of the space to swing. Cliff was nowhere to be seen. He had escaped from the pack the minute the Jervis brother's attention had been diverted, leaving me to face them alone. There was a Stop sign at the edge of the playground, where the buses lined up to wait for school to let out. As bodies lunged at me, I grabbed the sign post and used it to swing in a tight circle, dodging and adding power to my punches and kicks at the same time. I couldn't believe how effective it was — I deflected attack after attack simply by moving around the sign. At one point I actually used it like a pole vault to sling myself into a flying kick that caught Ronny Jervis straight in the chest, knocking him flat and leaving him gasping for air. Despite my aching testicles, I felt like Bruce Lee.

Eventually, the recess monitor returned from wherever she'd been hiding and stopped the fight by dragging me off to the principal's office. Despite my attempts at an explanation, I ended up with a week's worth of detention. For whatever reason, the Jervis brothers were not punished. To this day, I'm convinced that the principal was afraid to punish all three of them at the same time — their taste for vandalism and arson was already well established by that point.

During my punishment, several of my friends spoke to me privately, congratulating me for facing up to the school's most notorious bullies. Even some of those who'd been screaming for my death begrudgingly admitted I'd fought well against a superior foe.

OK, I thought, I got punished, but at least my standing among the student body had increased.

Cliff, on the other hand, failed to demonstrate any gratitude whatsoever. He told me I'd been a fool to get involved and that anyway, he hadn't needed my help. Despite the obvious untruth of this statement, he clearly believed it. He made it clear that I could not expect the favor to be returned.

At the time, I was puzzled and hurt by Cliff's rejection. I have always valued my friends, and been willing to sacrifice myself for them. I had thrown myself into a vicious battle and risked severe bodily injury to save Cliff from a beating. My balls had been bruised for weeks. I could not understand why my sacrifice was totally unappreciated.

My friendship with Cliff was never the same again — while we continued to hang out, there was always an underlying bitterness that kept us from being true buddies. It took me a long time, years, to realize that for every increment by which my standing increased as a result of the fight, Cliff's fell two. Sometimes, the pain of a beating can be less than the pain of humiliation. There's nothing worse for your self-esteem than needing to be rescued by the fat kid.