Headshot

The last time I was hit in the head this hard was post-Christmas, 1993. Maria and I were coming home from a late showing of “Philadelphia,”… but we were in surprisingly chipper moods despite the film. I was wearing one of those long, floppy Peruvian hats with pompoms (I didn’t know better) that bounced on my shoulders as we all but skipped down Second Ave. We were across from St. Mark’s Church when an angry dude, walking with his bro (and probably returning from “Sister Act II: Back in the Habit”), dismissively yelled, “Nice fucking hat, asshole,” as he passed.

“Whatever!” I said with my 80s affectations still intact… and then a blanket of red.

His fist to my temple.

If one could be cold-cocked and remain standing, that’s what happened. When the blanket was lifted – felt like minutes, but only a couple of seconds – I “awoke” to Maria lunging herself at the angry dude while a passerby tried to hold her back. She was unleashing a litany of expletives, Maria-style. I, punch-drunk, moved on my assailant and we circled each other like posturing Catholic schoolboys. His friend was trying to make peace by screaming, “His mother just died! His mother just died!”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything,” Maria yelled. “My father died and I don’t go hitting people in the street!”

“Well, your boyfriend said, “Your mother!”

“Whatever” was heard as “Your mother” and that was enough to attack me. So, for whatever "whatever" means, all that is known in unknown, that’s the moral of the story.

For some reason, my inability to process the rapidity of how everything is unfolding these days is like being punched in the temple again and again, six days and running – I wake up from the red, puff my chest out, engage,… but this time it’s not a gross misunderstanding and I’m swinging my fists and I’m swinging my fists and I’m swinging my fists. Repeat. Another shot to the temple.

The headache is unbearable.