Raging Bull

It was a little past 2am when I heard the knocking on the door. Raging Bull was on TV but it was more for background noise. It was Jessie, from two floors up. “Hey, listen man. I know this is out of the blue but do you mind lending me a few hundred? I’m with this girl back in my room and she wants to go out and do some dancing.” We were not particularly close, but I didn’t mind. I have a soft spot for drunk angry men who rarely win in life. I reached for my wallet and gave him what he came down for. He took the money, and thanked me, I closed the door behind me and poured myself another cold foamy beer from the fridge. I got back to bed and watched how Sugar Ray Robinson had almost sent Jake LaMotta (De Niro) to his grave. I then wondered what the boxing ring canvas might have looked like in the real fight. Beaten and bloodied while the whole world was watching, but Sugar Ray never got him down — what a prize bull indeed, I thought.

 

 

Espionage

A man walked into a bar. In fact, I often see him there, sitting quietly still on his stool recluse every night. He would order the same thing over, two shots of bourbon, three bottles of beer and he is done, steps out of the bar like clockwork. Curious, I asked the barkeep, “What’s his story?” He then leaned closer and whispered, “I heard he accidentally killed his wife and did time for manslaughter, locked up for twenty-something years. Some even say that he used to be a government spy, even arguing that he’s still active, called away every now and then but nobody knows for sure. I then asked the barkeep, “What do you make out of it?” “To be frank, I don’t like wading in those waters. People come here to drink, and I think they ought to stick with that instead. In here, it’s Casablanca, and we’re neutral. I’m Rick Blaine and it doesn’t matter which side you’re on. Outside, you can be whatever you like, be a rabid Grizzly bear for all I care.” And with that, I finished my drink and paid up. I walked out of the bar and followed the animal path deep into the forest, back to my cave, where I hibernated for six months.

 

 

Concert Tickets

I think I was thirty-two at the time. A friend and I were on the way over to see a concert by this popular band from overseas. He had a hot date waiting for him there and he had me tagging along just in case he got stood up or if things just didn’t work out. I didn’t mind being the third wheel and all, for as long as I scored free concert tickets. Being well-off with his generous nature, I’m pretty sure that he had paid for the girl’s ticket as well, I thought, I might as well enjoy it. We had set out early to avoid the anticipated heavy traffic but for some reason, we’re still running late. Jittery, fearing that we might miss the show, I kept on rotating the knobs on the radio in the poor attempt to distract myself, I was even playing with the automatic windows of the car but the only thing racing was my brain, we were at a complete standstill. I then pulled out a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, placing one between my lips even though I was aware of the no-smoking policy inside my friend’s car. The traffic lights kept taunting us, mocked us even, changing, from amber to red, to green, engines were revving up and low, in complete anticipation, yet no car seemed to move. This felt like an eternity, a grim glimpse of purgatory, I thought. We were trapped, like sardines in tin cans, as if all the luck in the world, no matter how eager we sought to bargain with fate, all its tickets, had completely been sold out.