One may marvel at the reason why people do certain things or conclude that most actions we take are impulsive and not well thought out. Other times, decisions are purely based on ill-advised assumptions or prejudice. In all cases, people are eager to judge others or situations based on appearances or preconceived notions.
Well, that only works sometimes. In matters of physical confrontations, it’s a good idea not to underestimate others based just on their appearance. Overvaluing ourselves may prove a fatal mistake.
A very comical encounter between two guys unfolded because one underestimated the other and ended up being a prime example of the above assertion.
I
In the late nineteen eighties, Block G. was very busy. A lot of people, like ants, were coming and going. Given the lack of leisurely space nearby, a park, or a baseball field to socialize, the young fellows met with regularity on the street corner. The magic of the street corner was unavoidable. It was the perfect vantage point to check all moving up and down the street. To be or not to be seen, that’s the question.
The street corner was a cultural surrogate for their society’s educational system. There, they learned their national “wisdom” and formed their identity as young men. The street corner teachings were based on brutal honesty, not ill-intended but painful. Part of the rituals included the routine roasting of the younger members of the group to “Darte cuerda“-to wind you up.
It consisted of picking on your vulnerability, winding you like a clock until you snap. It was psychological torture on steroids. At the end of your training, you were assured to snap, grow a thick skin, or end up with a very sour, violent temper. Or all of the above.
Each guy, for sadistic reasons, had a given nickname reflecting some unusual physical trait or an abnormal psychological bent in their behavior. The origins of a few nicknames were difficult to trace. One guy was nicknamed Bemba because of his big lips, and another one, for his base, thieving actions, was known as La rata. The protagonist of this story was nicknamed “Pantera,” The Pink Panther.
II
One afternoon, the gathering was larger than usual. A few guys from the other side of the avenue inflated the number of those already present. The reason why the gathering was larger than usual remained unclear. Perhaps they were unusually bored and looking for novelties.
As customary, there were jokes, banting, and picking on each other. As the guys from the other side joined, the group dynamic changed. A constant in any gathering of young men is that it soon becomes a competition-driven situation; the battle for primacy, or attention, soon appears as cracks in the earth’s tectonic plates. An earthquake will quickly follow.
The Pink Panther was there. He owed his name to the cartoon character, but for being human, his resemblance was very close. He was wiry and of average height, but the peculiar way he swung his arms when walking rendered him with an undulating, feline gait. But that was where the resemblance ended.
Contrary to the cartoon, The Pink Panther, – Pantera– was boastful, had good banter, and was quick with his lips. Bragging also came naturally to him. He was known for his sharp tongue. He was very skillful at winning arguments, twisting facts to his advantage. Not in vain; he was about to attend law school. He was also very ambitious and was very busy trying to make his mark in the group. -Not that there were any clear benefits to it-. But he was having a hard time due to his physique. He lacked muscle mass, and his athleticism was nil. In the Jungle, brute force prevails.
The guys started their expected dick-swinging routine. One of the evil attendants, The Instigator, decided to start egging on the guys to ignite a fight for pure enjoyment. Most of the guys knew how to deflect the provocations and did not bite the bait.
“You’re right, I can’t fight,” or “Whatever, I’ll deal with that later.” It was often their replies.
The thing is that if the other guy, the next one to be instigated on, did not catch the bait either, there would be no fight. It takes two to tango. Otherwise, to save their standing in the group, they would be dragged into a physical confrontation that neither wanted nor started. More frequently than not, The Instigator, an older guy, would fail in his attempts.
This time was no different. After failing a few times, he gave it one last try with The Pink Panther. He looked at him intensely, half challenging, half threatening and quickly poked him.
“You know, being as thin as you are,”
He said to The Pink Panther while preying on his obvious weakness, getting in his head.
“I bet you can’t even fight Shorty.”
Shorty was from the other side of the avenue. He seemed a jovial guy. Nothing extraordinary about him. He was indeed short. He did not reach five feet. Most certainly, he was smaller and thinner than The Pink Panther. Were they to fight, it would not be an even match.
The Pink Panther decided not to talk himself out of the bait. Instead, he swallowed whole the bait, including the thread. He saw an opportunity. It was evident that he felt he could improve his standing in the pecking order. He quickly planned to heal his wounded image after suffering numerous roasting episodes. The sour-tempered, violence-prone guys were roasted once only.
The Pink Panther, however, did not immediately consent to the challenge. He examined intensely at Shorty, determining if, indeed, he had a good chance of prevailing. He convinced himself in the positive. Then, true to character, he boasted for everyone to hear,
“Ha, if I cannot beat up this guy, I can’t beat up anybody.”
He sounded superbly convincing, cocky as usual, and self-assured. Everyone thought it was not a fair fight. His rhetorical prowess, paired with his clear physical advantage over Shorty, made it easy to root for The Pink Panther.
The Instigator wasted no time. He quickly turned his attention to Shorty.
“Ha, so what you gonna do, Shorty?“.
Shorty did not want to fight. However, he was in a very difficult position. The Pink Panther’s loud statement cornered him in an untenable position. If he did not take the challenge, the roasting expecting him on the other side of the avenue would be merciless. He would be deemed a coward, and his roasting would be endless. Taking the challenge would imply fighting a bigger opponent. Quite a predicament.
Shorty reluctantly took the bait as well.
“I don’t care, I’ll fight him.” He said, trying to sound confident.
The Instigator was in heaven. He was static after setting up the fight. Quickly, he raised his voice,
“Well, there you have it! … The Pink Panther against Shorty. Mano a mano”.
All the guys were now excited; free entertainment was coming their way.
“Fight, fight, fight!”.
The human ring was quickly assembled.
The fight was supposed to be quick and overwhelming. Everyone expected The Pink Panther to win. What a surprise!
After the initial blows were thrown, they could not believe it. Shorty had the determination of a man doing a job that he hated and had no choice but to do. The sooner he would finish it, the better. The Pink Panther also enthusiastically jumped to terminate Shorty but encountered a very slippery opponent. Shorty either knew how to fight or fear was guiding his path. He dodged The Pink Panther’s jabs masterfully and replied with aggression and determination. Shorty was fighting for his survival. He landed all his punches and quickly overwhelmed his opponent. Shorty was totally defeating him. The Pink Panther, frustrated, started throwing crazy, clumsy, at times girly punches. He landed none. Desperation had set in, gripping his soul. He was good as lost.
In a quick maneuver, Shorty squatted and picked him up by his feline legs like a sack of potatoes. The Pink Panther landed hard on the pavement. A screeching “ouch,” like a pitiful wail, blew out of his mouth. All hope was lost.
The Instigator stopped the fight.
The fight was not brutal by any standard. It was a comical relief to see such an unevenly matched pair fighting. The guys were laughing their guts out. They did not harm each other because, in the first place, they did not have a reason to fight. They held no animosity toward each other. Their fight was the result of coercive psychology orchestrated for pure entertainment. The ensuing damage was surely psychological.
The Pink Panther was embarrassed. Humiliated. He had miserably lost the fight to a smaller, thinner, and lighter opponent. In the meantime, Shorty was in his corner, basking in his victory. Not only had he survived the fight, but he also managed to climb the pecking order; Glory was expecting him on the other side of the avenue.
The worst was yet to come for The Pink Panther.
The Instigator, again, wasted no time with his loud scolding laughter of a hyena. He yelled,
“Damn, Pantera, Shorty fucked you up!”.
The other guys picked up the cue, continued laughing, and went on the offensive,
“Oh Shit! Ha, ha, ha, ha, can you believe this?”.
What followed was more than a one-hour session of cruel, relentless, put-down, soul-piercing comments. They were vicious.
“You’re such a big mouth… Ha, ha, ha, you could not even fight a little girl…”.
In the macho world, there’s no worse insult than being incapable of fighting a little girl. The Pink Panther was almost brought to tears. For once, he was speechless. A naked child abandoned on the road. It was official! He was a pussy.
Surprisingly enough, The Instigator took mercy on The Pink Panther and spared him further humiliation. It was a strange psychology as if The Instigator had a measure of his sadism and knew when to stop the suffering. He stopped the torture session.
After boasting about his prowess and superiority over an opponent that he deemed inferior, The Pink Panther suffered a humiliating defeat. He could not land a single blow to Shorty. After the group brutalized him, he left with a severely wounded pride, bruised ego, and tail between his legs. He was dropped to the bottom of the pecking order.
The Pink Panther fell victim to his pride and wrongful assumptions.
P.R. Thompson
June 19, 2024