SCAR

SCAR

Part 1.
I have a scar on my face, just a little one. It sits at the apex of my left cheekbone, along its side, perfectly along its crease. It’s one of those scars you’d see on some actor, in some movie, in some attempt to make him look tougher, or cooler, or both. It was awarded to me by a former friend, someone I thought was an OK guy. He struck me twice, each time an under arm swing, with a bottle of Jameson (it was my bottle of Jameson.) The first time was by surprise. I remember my best friend, Lucas, saying, “Dude, did he just hit you with a bottle?” And in the shock, I kind of turned to him and said, “Yeah, I think—,” Whack! Once again, it hit. My former friend was trying to break a bottle over my face. This time it hit hard enough that it made a nice clean cut, deep enough for several stitches courtesy of the Alfred Hospital in Prahran.

Now, you’re thinking, ‘Wow. Well, obviously, you provoked him?’ Indeed I did. But it wasn’t like I was calling his sister names. I kind of slapped him, not hard, just across the back of the head for saying something really stupid to a girl, and it was more in the vein of the Three Stooges then a high school bully. At the time, the back-head slap had been a running joke with my group of friends; boys, right?

I never realized playfully slapping the back of my friend’s head – this former friend, not a close friend but still, I spent three to four days a week with over the past two years during Uni – would, well, cause him to “snap,” as my best friend, Lucas, put it. This former friend, however, was on speed at the time and had just downed three quarters of the bottle of Jameson (fair effort.) It was like one of those ads where the son is punching walls: this was the mind state of my former friend – I found this weak.

Now, while he was in a fit of rage, fuming, calling me names, tightly gripping the bottle, and waiting to take another swing, I asked him, “What the f—?” He lunged again, this time I grabbed him and pushed him back. Again he came at me, this time I had to defend myself by bracing his arms and kicking him in the gut in order to create some distance. By this point Lucas, shocked, said something – I couldn’t really hear anything at this time, my ears switched off – but didn’t do anything. He stood there, my best mate, unsure. And then that’s when this rage came over me.

All I wanted to do was choke my now former friend holding the bottle so hard my thumbs would pierce his neck. But I didn’t do anything. This voice, some voice of sanity amongst the chaos, kept reminding me how his dad’s a lawyer and you’re going to be the one to go to jail because with your luck you will hurt him more and you will get the brown end of the stick. Defending, avoiding, no support from a friend, shock, more defending, and thoughts of the possibility to be jailed like that guy from the paper the year before for “defending,” was all on repeat for the next thirty minutes. Alfred Hospital, taxi, bed, no sleep, the next day kicked him out of the house (now former room mate), waited for apology, no apology, silence, sleep, anger, mum explaining laser removal of scar, anger, no laser removal, grudge, learn of his situation, four years later.


Part 2.
Looking back, sometimes I wish, I wish, that I had listened to the other voice. He kept telling me, “You should've done it, you’re bigger, you should of *expletive* kicked the crap out of him. You should’ve smashed his head over, blah, blah, blah…” and it continued along those lines. Now, I’m ok with what happened to me, I’ve accepted it, this reflection is proof of that. My attitude and voice from back then hasn’t changed all that much, mainly matured. I still kind of wish I’d kicked the crap out of my former friend who had all this potential and now – lost his friends – spends his time smoking bongs and working in a crappy bar in St Kilda (It’s almost a cliché.) But it’s just a feeling, almost a regret, but probably more some animal instinct from the reptilian part of the human brain. Getting revenge is not what’s important, it never was. As I was reading the New York Times article, When the Good do Bad, by David Gold, that, like proverbial lighting, I realised what was and is important. And what’s important is that that was the first time where I stepped back, assessed the situation, and theorized a very possible future, a possible outcome, and realised the best steps to resolve the situation without any more impact (literally, to me.)

It was a valuable skill I learned, possibly already had, and put into practice; and sounds like some golden rule of project management or something. A skill which now serves me in nearly everything I do: Step back, assess the situation, assess possible future and outcome, formulate plan of action – act. I guess that’s why I never minded the scar, it never really bothered me… It just kind of sits there.

What I think about is how I stuck to my guns, my principles, in this situation. The fact I decided to kick him out of the rental house I lived in, it was harsh, yes, but he never apologized (even till today), and even if he did, well, seriously, think about it, you couldn’t live with someone that was trying to bring harm to you. What happens if he snapped while I was asleep and tried to murder me! It’s possible. This was a guy that would get angry at me for saying we had mold on the potatoes, not the little things that grow from them, proper mold. I mean, he was seriously angry over everything. But you just deal with it, right, I mean, he’s your friend (and I hear some archetypal motherly lecture about getting better friends.)

Back to what stuck around in my head, the conversation I had with my best friend who never stepped in during the whole fiasco… We’re still best friends. The fact that I, in a way, became a better person, I guess. I manned up and did what I had to do, by my own principles, to set things right in my life. There is this thin layer of pride over all this. I accomplished something, got through some inner hurdle race, and was awarded some wisdom, maturity, and clarity – a stronger awareness of things. This kind of sounds warped to me, in a way, I’m aware of that. It also, probably, shoves me towards the shadowy area of the room where you keep an idea of me. But I accept it. It’s not a happy story, or a sad one, it’s just a story that I’m not afraid to tell. Because other firsts that stuck with me seemed kind of scary to talk about. I guess violence doesn’t scare me. Now women and commitment, they scare me.