Arena
by
Robert Levin
There
were three of
them—three
guys whose wiring
you probably could
have smelled in
Brooklyn—but,
my purpose eluding
me, I found myself
headed straight
in their direction.
If
I didn't know
what I was doing
in that respect,
however, I wasn't
in the least unclear
about my impending
decomposition.
Although
none of my vital
parts had actually
shut down yet,
I was convinced,
and had been for
weeks, that one
or more of them
was about to,
that I was already
in the end stages
of a fatal wasting
disease. In all
manner of physical
distress—perpetually
light-headed and
nauseous, my breath
short, my vision
dim and my gait
unsteady—I'd
never felt so
weak and frail.
Or small. Not
that, at 5'6",
140 lbs, I wasn't
small. But I was
getting even smaller.
In fact, I was
shriveling—I
swear, I could
see myself withering
and contracting
in my mirror.
No, it would not
be long before
I was reduced
to something ghastly,
to a thing you
might find in
a drawer, deep
in the bowels
of a Port au Prince
curio shop cellar.
I'd
been living with
the expectation
of my imminent
demise since my
fifty-second birthday—which
had coincided
with my son's
acceptance into
college and was
when it first
hit me that I'd
turned fifty.
And the anxiety
I was experiencing
had begun to color
my perception
of the world at
large. I mean
here I was, returning
home from an errand
through the Village
on a Saturday
afternoon. It
was one of those
fine days you
get just a precious
few times in midsummer
New York when
the humidity's
low and the temperature's
reasonable. The
narrow streets
were teeming with
people celebrating
the weekend and
the weather, and
all I could think
was that, at one
point or another,
every last one
of them was going
to get very sick
and then disappear.
Okay.
I know. I didn't
need to be a Starfleet
engineer to appreciate
that I was in
the throes of
a monster midlife
depression. But
my awareness of
this made no difference.
If I was exaggerating
my situation,
if my expiration
was perhaps not
so close at hand
as I believed,
it was still true
that my youth
was gone, and
my
hyperconsciousness
of my body's impermanence,
which recognizing
that fact had
generated, didn't
go away.
So
literally staggering
under the weight
of the menace
my body was posing
to me, I was turning
into West 4th
Street (hoping
I wouldn't pass
out in the crush
of a very dense
crowd—and
holding a freshly
lit
cigarette, which
would prove to
be significant)
when I saw them
a little way up
the block. In
their mid-to-late
twenties, and
emphatically not
from the neighborhood,
they were swilling
beer from bottles
and loudly passing
judgment on the
females who happened
near them, even
those escorted
by men. One of
them, his T-shirt
advertising a
Jersey City tavern,
was leaning against
a parked car.
He had a face
that was almost
identical to Jack
Black's and he'd
apparently nourished
his resemblance
to a celebrity
by shaping his
body to match
Black's as well.
The other two,
similarly proportioned,
were sprawled
just opposite
him on the bottom
step of a stoop.
Their legs were
stretched onto
the sidewalk and
left with no more
than a foot or
so to pass, most
people were taking
to the street
to get around
them.
As
I came up to them
and, as I've indicated,
without a clue
as to what, a
sizable trepidation
notwithstanding,
was compelling
me to enter their
space, my only
conscious intention
was to slide my
way by. But when
I turned slightly
sideways to accomplish
this objective,
the Jack Black
ringer reached
out, grabbed me
by the stomach,
and pulled me
toward him. "Are
you a fag?"
he said, his eyes
not quite looking
into mine.
Now
his breath—and
an overlay of
alcohol did little
to mute it—smelled
like nothing so
much as a chicken
coop. His skin,
moreover, glistening
with sweat despite
the moderate temperature,
was riddled with
brutal acne scars
(the remnants
of a likely bleak
adolescence).
And yes, his grip
hurt a lot. But
what I couldn't
help concentrating
on was a huge
white globule
of snot that was
hanging precariously
from one of his
nostrils.
"I
think you're a
fag," he
continued, squeezing
my stomach harder
and grinning at
his friends. "And
you know what?
I hate fags."
With
that my focus
shifted to his
brain. I think
of stupidity as
more often than
not willful, as
a way of shutting
out the complexities
and ambiguities
of life. But this
guy's stupidity
wasn't a choice
he was making.
No, it was clearly
congenital. He
was the grim product
of his family
history, of generations
of inbreeding
with other people
from New Jersey.
And
registering then
the full sweep
of his stupidity,
his evident derangement,
his heft and his
inebriation (not
to mention the
booger and the
prospect of it
landing on me),
I felt a very
real panic. And
what I started
to say was: "Hey,
you've got the
wrong guy. I'm
straight, man.
I'm married. I
even have a kid.
Not everybody
in the Village
is queer, you
know? Believe
me, I share your
disgust. Of course
it's a perversion.
The AMA and the
American Psychological
Association really
caved in on this
one, didn't they?"
But,
no, Jesus, I didn't
say that. My pathetic
reflex was quickly
interrupted by
an intuitive recognition
of a large reward
to be gained here—a
recognition that
was accompanied
by a feeling of
elation and a
sense of abandon.
(Had I connected
to my purpose?)
And what I said
instead was, "Let
go of me, asshole."
When,
grinning more,
he didn't let
go, and after
taking quick stock
of the resources
that were available
to me—the
cigarette I held
and the single
file approach
of two enormous
guys with gym
bags who by all
appearances were
oblivious to what
was going on and
about to push
past us—I
said to him: "Do
your parents know
you boys are in
the big city by
yourselves?"
And
then, the cigarette
between my fingers
and my fingers
clenched into
a fist, I hit
him in the face.
It
was hardly what
you'd call a devastating
punch, but the
lit end of the
cigarette more
than compensated
for the limitations
of my swing. Crying
out, he freed
my stomach immediately
and before he
could retaliate—or
his buddies, who
rose in unison,
could react with
more than a "Mother------!”
I darted (with
an agility it
amazed me to learn
I still possessed),
between the gym
guys. Remaining
ignorant of my
circumstance,
or indifferent
to it, they were,
in any case, visibly
irritated by my
abrupt intrusion.
So hanging with
them for only
a few yards, I
reluctantly abandoned
the shield they
provided to less
than graciously
barge ahead of
a group of tourists
who were just
then emerging
from a restaurant
and starting up
the block. From
there on, muttering
"excuse me's"
and "sorry's,"
I seized upon
every space that
presented itself
and, twisting
and lunging, stumbling
once, but not
falling, I finally
arrived at the
relatively open
expanse of Sheridan
Square, where
I turned right
on Seventh Avenue.
As
I headed north,
alternately running
and marching double-time,
I was certain
that the Jersey
boys were right
behind me and
I didn't want
to look back.
But when I happened
to notice the
faces of people
coming toward
me from the opposite
direction, I saw
no alarm in them,
no sign, in their
expressions, that
danger lurked
at my rear. And
when, three blocks
later at Charles
Street, I dared
to stop and turn
around, my adversaries
were nowhere to
be seen.
At
that point, with
the adrenaline
evacuating my
blood and my heartbeat
returning to its
normal cadence,
I realized that
all of my symptoms
were gone and
I began to feel
good in every
imaginable way.
In fact, for the
next few days
(for about as
long as the welt
on my stomach
and a blister
on my knuckle
lasted) I was
buoyant. I felt
precisely like
what I'd needed
to feel like.
I felt like a
survivor.
And
the thing was
that when I came
down, when my
high evaporated
and I settled
back, as it were,
into my body,
my symptoms were
still gone and
I was something
like comfortable
with my body.
I understood,
of course, that
in the risk and
challenge department
the feat I'd devised
for myself hadn’t
been all that
heroic. Still,
I’d succeeded
in winning a measurable
victory and I’d
learned, in the
process, that
my body was not
without a lingering
capability or
two.
With
this information
to fortify me
I had my balance
back. Indeed,
my mirror reflected,
such as it was,
my full height
again.
©
2008 by Robert
Levin
|