You’re Never too Old to Die
Introduction:
Rated PG
My name is Bill King. A month after I moved to California I was sitting in a bar in San Francisco’s Mission District. At about 9:00 I decided to go back to the apartment of the friend I was staying with. When I left the bar I heard a man yelling obscene insults at two Hispanic women who had just left a restaurant. My parents raised me not to be that way. I thought he should not be that way either.
I walked over to talk to him. “Why are you yelling at those women?” I asked.
“They’re Mexican.”
“So?”
“This is our country. They don’t belong here.” By now I could tell that he was harmless, possibly homeless, drunk, and twice my age. “Everyone in this country who is not an Indian came from somewhere else, or their ancestors did.” I said. “Where did you come from?”
“I’m Portuguese,” he admitted. Recognizing the difficulty of his position he smiled, shook me on the shoulder, and said, “You’re all right kid.”
By now the women had had time to get into their car and leave. I smiled at the man and left.
Soon later I was thrown into an ally by two men who started beating me up. I thought I was being mugged until I noticed that they wore police uniforms.
I stared at their uniforms. “That’s right. We’re cops,” One of them said.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You were making abusive remarks to women and harassing winos.”
“I was not!”
He pushed me to the ground, and kicked me in the ribs. “You calling me a liar?”
The only thing I could say was, “No. I’m not resisting Officer.”
“Let me see your ID,” he commanded.
I gave him my wallet. He opened it. “Why did you come to California?” he asked.
“I was given a job here.”
He threw my wallet at me. “You better go home before you get hurt.” They snorted and left.
When I tried to get up I realized that something was terribly wrong with me. I could still walk. I walked slowly to the apartment of the friend I was staying with. It is dangerous to walk in a dangerous neighborhood when you have been hurt. You are telling the muggers, “I can’t fight back. Mug me.”
When I got to my friend’s apartment I told him what happened. “There have been a lot of crimes in that area,” my friend explained. “You probably met the description of a criminal suspect. They heard the man yelling at the woman, and investigated. When they saw you talking to him they thought you had been yelling, and were trying to pick a fight with the man.”
“That makes sense,” I said.
“Now I am going to take you to an emergency room to see what they did to you.”
X-rays at the emergency room demonstrated that I had several broken ribs. I was told they would take a week to heal.
When my friend was driving me back to his apartment he said, “Let’s go to a police station and report this.”
“Report the police to the police? They took off their badges. There were no witnesses. Nothing will happen. I am new to California. You are the only person who knows me. I do not want to get the reputation of a cop hating trouble maker.”
When we were back in my friend’s apartment he told me, “I have to tell you that you did not get the job.”
“I thought everything was taken care of.”
“It was. I told you to lie about your psychiatric background.”
“When I came back from Iraq I had post traumatic stress disorder. I still have symptoms. So I went in for treatment.”
“That is what spooked them.”
“Are they allowed to deny me a job because of that?”
“No, but they did. They can say you lacked experience for the job.”
“I came across the country for that job.”
“I know, my friend said. “Until you can find a better job I suggest you work for the guard agency I did. They like to hire military veterans. They may promote you. They won’t care about your P.T.S.D. They hire people with felony convictions.”
I got the guard job. Because guards do not get paid much I had to move to a dangerous neighborhood in one of the most dangerous cities in the United States: Oakland.
I worked the swing shift, from 4:00 pm to 12:00 midnight. I do not have a car, so I walked along streets where people get mugged, robbed at gunpoint, and sometimes killed.
Walking there in the afternoon is not so bad. Walking back after midnight is a real adventure. Sometimes I would like some boredom.
A week ago I was at my guard site in a warehouse at 9:00 pm. Someone started pounding on the door. When I opened the door I saw a beautiful young woman who was half naked. “They tried to rape me!” she shouted. Let me in.”
I did, and looked for something for her to drape around herself. I was able to quickly find a blanket, which I gave her.
Before I could call the police I heard, “Hey look! They got a nigger guarding the chicks. What’s the matter, nigger. You want all that white stuff for yourself?”
I looked up and saw two white thugs in their early twenties. The other one said, “Hey man, we got no argument with you. We’re just two white guys who haven’t had any for awhile.”
I looked behind me, and saw the girl. “Do you want to stay around and congratulate the winner?” I shouted. “Get out of here. Run!”
She ran back into the warehouse.
Those perps were about to learn that I was an above average security guard. I had taken karate lessons in high school, Tang Soo Do to be exact. That’s Korean Karate. As much as possible I kept up my training when I was in the Army. What I knew saved my life a few times in Iraq. I still took lessons at a local studio. I had also written a few articles for Black Belt Magazine.
The garbage in front of me did not know that. When they rushed me, I tried to plant a left side kick into the abdomen of the one in front. It fell short. He pushed it to my right. “Hey look” he sneered. “We got us a karate expert.”
I told you I was a karate student. I did not tell you I was a karate expert.
He spun me around, and grabbed my arms. The other one began to punch me in the face. I was aware of the punches without really feeling them. Adrenalin dulls pain. With my left foot I pushed him away. With my right foot I kicked him in the solar plexus. That took the fight out of him.
I pushed my right elbow into the stomach of the one holding me. He let go, and doubled up. I turned around, and planted a right reverse punch into his jaw. Then I hit him with my left fist. He fell back, unconscious.
Turning my attention to the one in front, I straightened up his shoulders, and knocked him out with a single punch to his jaw. If you know where and how to punch, and if you punch with enough power, you can take a man out with one or two punches. At the karate studio where I train I punch both the heavy bag, and the makiwara. That is a padded board.
After I called the police the girl came back. “Did they hurt you?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she said. “They only tore off some of my clothes. “You look like you’ve been hurt. “
“Nothing permanent,” I said. “No teeth missing or chipped.”
While we were waiting for the police the two men regained consciousness. One tried to leave. I kicked him in the ribs, breaking several, and knocked him out. The other saw that, and did not try to leave. He just lay there.
After the police left with the thugs and the girl I called my supervisor to tell him what happened. He said, “I’ll come over to replace you. You should go to the emergency room of a hospital.”
When he got to the warehouse my supervisor called an ambulance.
Fortunately, they did not find anything serious at the emergency room. I had two black eyes, and blood coming from my nose, but my vision was still good. I called a taxi to get back home.
I left Iraq with a mild case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. My encounter with the two thugs made it worse. That night as I slept I had nightmares of combat in Iraq. I hope the people in the next apartment did not hear me when I woke up screaming.
The next day about two in the afternoon my telephone rang, waking me up. It was my supervisor. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like a bag full of broken glass,” I answered. “Could I have a few days off? I don’t want people staring at my black eyes.”
“I have to tell you not to go report back to that warehouse,” my supervisor said.
“Why not?”
“You lost the account for us.”
“How?” I asked.
“They said they have a strict policy against fighting on company property.”
“Anything else?”
“They said the girl could have been a decoy to distract you long enough to get inside the warehouse, overpower you, and loot it. They said at the least, you should have locked the door after you let the girl in.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“One more thing, Bill.”
“Yes.”
“The president of our guard agency wants to talk to you in his office.”
“Why doesn’t he just have you fire me?”
“I don’t know. Look, Bill I think this is as crazy as you do.”
“You think it’s crazy. I’m going to get fired. May I use you as a reference when I look for another job?”
“You bet, Bill. I wish I had a lead for you right now.”
Four days later, when the swelling in my eyes began to clear I reported to the president’s office. He was sitting behind an impressive desk, with an expensive looking PC on it. He was expensively dressed, and imperial in appearance. He looked like the sort of man who had never lived in a dangerous neighborhood, never been poor, never failed, never been fired.
In One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wrote, “How can you expect a man who’s warm to understand one who’s cold?”
“Come in, Bill,” he said. “Close the door behind you. Please sit down,” he said motioning to a chair in front of his desk.
“I just talked to the president of Ajax Storage. They said we could keep the account if we fired you. I hate losing you for something like this. You know that, don’t you”
“Yes Sir.”
“I told the president of Ajax storage that we’d hate to lose you. I also told them they can go somewhere else with their business. I have a daughter the age of that girl you protected. That could have been my daughter knocking on that door. You’d be surprised how many of the executives here have daughters.
“We’ve been thinking about promoting you to a supervisory position. This event finishes our decision. You will need to buy a car, but we will pay you a lot more. Are you interested?”
“Of course.”
“Good. The next person you need to talk to is Beth Johnson in HR. She will tell you what you need to know, and do the paperwork with you.
“I have one question. “Are you the Bill King who writes for Black Belt Magazine?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. My son takes karate lessons, and subscribes to the magazine. I have been impressed with your articles. We can always use a man who can write well in this company. There is a lot of room for you to rise here.”
“Thank you, Sir.
“Thank you, Bill. Everyone here who has worked with you likes you. I am going to like working with you too.”
We shook hands and I left. That sure turned out better than I expected. After I talked to the people in HR I had dinner in Oakland’s Chinatown to celebrate, and took BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) home.
Soon I became a minor league celebrity. A reporter from The Oakland Tribune called, and asked me to come over to the Tribune offices for an interview. I had often walked past the Tribune building, but I never went inside. I could get used to working in an office.
I played the role, so to speak. I put in a good word for my karate instructor and the studio I trained at. I thanked my guard agency for not firing me. I did not name the company that canceled their account, although I mentioned that they cancelled the account.
The reporter told me that the woman I rescued was named Cathy Turner, but she did not want to be named for the article. She was a student at Stanford.
After that story was printed people I did not even know recognized me on the street and shook my hand. Lot’s of people signed up for lessons at my karate studio. My instructor told me that if I got tired of being a security guard supervisor he would hire me full time as an assistant. The president of my guard agency told me that after the Tribune ran the article about me he got several new clients.
Black Belt Magazine asked me to write an article about my experience. My photograph will be on the front cover.
I was beginning to feel like a big man about town. Nevertheless, while enjoying success one should consider the possibility of failure. When I called Cathy on the phone, and asked for a date, she thanked me for what I had done for her, but said she had a boy friend.
Cathy is what Humphrey Bogart in one of his movies would call “a classy dame.” Classy dames have lots of choices. I am not Cathy’s. I’m no dope. I know the score. Her boy friend at Stanford might be the next Steve Jobs. I am not going to be the next Chuck Norris.
I also wonder how many of these adventures I can survive. I just turned thirty. Men who die violently are usually in their late teens or early twenties. Nevertheless, you’re never too old to die.
The End
