Specimens
Life of the Party
It wasn’t exactly a career, and he often came home with bruises and a split lip, but the money was great. Anywhere from 3 to 5 hundred a night. They hired him for parties, intimate affairs and one on ones. All he had to do was act like an asshole for an hour or so, at the end of which, a lot of times, his customers beat him up. It was said by some to be “cathartic” and by others to “encourage the thuggery of the world.” In the course of his job, he’d been set upon by office parties, birthday parties, family gatherings, anniversary couples, etc. First one member of the gathering, usually the least self-confident, would inevitably step forward, offended by his quip about a crooked eye, and take a swing at his face. That swipe was like a gun going off, and they all ran in then, grandma and grandpa too, groin kneeing, shin kicking, hair pulling, eye poking, throat punching. He’d studied under masters of martial arts (work paid for it), not so much the offense of the discipline but the defense. It taught him positions in which to hold his head, feints and head fakes to make it look like they were dealing him mortal blows but really landed with the force of a down pillow. Occasionally they got through his strategic blockade and landed a blow that stole his breath or raked his forearm with long nails, leaving an open wound. One middle aged woman with hair piled atop her head like a fake blonde cyclone, managed to pull down his pants and bites him on the ass. She drew blood, a considerable quantity. He struggled free from the family mob, decked her, and ran out of the house and down the street. Luckily, he always asked to be paid before the festivities began. Before his first gig, a neighborhood book club’s annual Christmas Get-Together, his boss took ten minutes to school him. “Basically, you need to enrage them, get them fomenting, if you know what I mean. Insult their looks, their spouses, their kid’s intelligence, their breath, the shitty food they serve. Aim for the jugular. If you’re good, you’ll be in and out of there in a couple of hours. If you’re really good, all it’ll take is an hour and you’ll split with no one disappointed.”
It wasn’t exactly a career, and he often came home with bruises and a split lip, but the money was great. Anywhere from 3 to 5 hundred a night. They hired him for parties, intimate affairs and one on ones. All he had to do was act like an asshole for an hour or so, at the end of which, a lot of times, his customers beat him up. It was said by some to be “cathartic” and by others to “encourage the thuggery of the world.” In the course of his job, he’d been set upon by office parties, birthday parties, family gatherings, anniversary couples, etc. First one member of the gathering, usually the least self-confident, would inevitably step forward, offended by his quip about a crooked eye, and take a swing at his face. That swipe was like a gun going off, and they all ran in then, grandma and grandpa too, groin kneeing, shin kicking, hair pulling, eye poking, throat punching. He’d studied under masters of martial arts (work paid for it), not so much the offense of the discipline but the defense. It taught him positions in which to hold his head, feints and head fakes to make it look like they were dealing him mortal blows but really landed with the force of a down pillow. Occasionally they got through his strategic blockade and landed a blow that stole his breath or raked his forearm with long nails, leaving an open wound. One middle aged woman with hair piled atop her head like a fake blonde cyclone, managed to pull down his pants and bites him on the ass. She drew blood, a considerable quantity. He struggled free from the family mob, decked her, and ran out of the house and down the street. Luckily, he always asked to be paid before the festivities began. Before his first gig, a neighborhood book club’s annual Christmas Get-Together, his boss took ten minutes to school him. “Basically, you need to enrage them, get them fomenting, if you know what I mean. Insult their looks, their spouses, their kid’s intelligence, their breath, the shitty food they serve. Aim for the jugular. If you’re good, you’ll be in and out of there in a couple of hours. If you’re really good, all it’ll take is an hour and you’ll split with no one disappointed.”