Bear with me: though it may seem self-indulgent, introspective, and really freakin’ long, this all ties together. Eventually. I think. Sort of…
I try, while in blog-land, to be intentionally vague about my employment. I think it is safe to reveal, though, that I work for a good-sized insurance company in Des Moines (if you can figure it out from that, than you should be working for the CIA). I work with insurance for businesses, doing what I like to call Glorified Entry of Data, or GED for short. Draw your own conclusions. Last night/this morning, I had a dream about work, which is not unusual in and of itself. The realism, however, was astonishing.
Thus far, my ‘work’ dreams have been like my ’school’ dreams: random, unrealistic, slightly disconcerting, and, in hindsight, fairly amusing. This is generally something along the lines of: go to class (late), realize that you have forgotten to go for the last 2 months (occasionally this happens in real life, too), and discover two very important things. One, there is a huge, important test that day, and two, you have forgotten to wear pants. Sometimes three, you have to pee really, reeeeeeeally bad, the only available facilities are in the middle of a crowded room, and the builders have neglected to include things like “walls” for “privacy.”
This particular dream, however, was different. It felt, and actually could have been, completely real. Got an email from an agent (correct name and email address) about a policy that has been a bit of a problem child (real policy, real name) saying that I had a day to get it fixed or bad things would happen (statement and consequences both completely possible). Because of the way things are, there was no possible way that I could fix it in one day (also true). Wake up. Shudder. Look at clock. 3:30am. I have just over an hour before I need to be awake (which is depressing enough). And I need to pee. Get up. Turn on lights. Wide awake. The first good news of the night is that our bathroom still has walls….
3:40am. Still awake in bed, thinking about basketball riots. What better topic for this time of night? My solution for the whole problem is quite simple, but will never happen, which is probably just as well. I think that all tickets to games and contracts with players should have explicit language, laying out the following rules: if a fan enters the court, or throws something, whatever happens to him is his punishment. If you run onto the field during a Canadian football game and punch someone in the head/helmet (yes, this happened) and players from both teams proceed to circle up and beat you within an inch of your life, no one will come help you. Referees will stand back, and, when the players are done, you will be responsible for your own medical bills/funeral expenses. If other fans want to come to your assistance, they may do so at their own risk.
Likewise, if a player enters the stands to beat the tar out of a fan, they may do so without fear of any punishment being inflicted by the league or law enforcement authorities. Bodyguards, security guards, team officials, and league officials are not allowed to come help. Teammates are. If a pro athlete and 12 of his buddies want to risk taking on an entire section of fans, then let them. If an arm or spleen gets broken, they’re on their own. They will be on leave WITHOUT pay for any time they miss due to injuries.
If a fan or player brandishes/uses a weapon, such as a gun or knife, in the process of said melee, they may then be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. The security guards responsible for keeping weapons out of the event will be shot/stabbed and injured to the same degree as the fighters.
I think this is a good policy because everyone is responsible for their own actions and consequences. It also encourages fellow fans/teammates to discourage the brawling because of the associated risks. I think that substantially fewer fans would enter the playing field and players the fanning field if they knew for certain that they would be brutalized. Any player/fan stupid enough to do it anyway… well, that’s just thinning out the shallow end of the gene pool. I think there would be significantly fewer problems. Either that or unadulterated anarchy, but there’s only one way to find out.
I am not sure why, but watching the on-court chaos – even hearing about a day before I could see the footage – really bugged me. Even as I sit thinking about it right now, trying to describe my gut reaction, my stomach knots. I think it is the same feeling I had on 9/11 (much smaller scale, of course, not trying to compare the two in terms of magnitude) – anger, fear, shock, maybe the fight or flight mechanism kicking in, but all accompanied by the realization that there was not a darn thing I could do about it, other than watch (or not watch) the evil to which mankind can so quickly resort…
Even at 3:45am. Loud crash. Shouting. Another. I looked out the window to see a person standing (I use the term loosely) next to our now-toppled garbage can. The University is on Thanksgiving break for the entire week, and this is what generally happens when those with no class have no class. I step back from the window and try to figure out what to do.
I’ll now let you in on a dirty little secret, a characteristic about myself that I have only recently realized: I hate conflict. As much trouble as I stir up, the honest truth is that when there is legitimate hostility between parties, I get very uncomfortable. I am a peace-maker. Go figure.
More shouting. Breaking glass. It’s probably a beer bottle, but I realize that my car is sitting on the driveway, possibly being urinated on at that very moment. Decision made. I hear a slam that could be a door to the house. I am dressed and to the door in less than 20 seconds. Man, I wish I could be that quick on a regular basis. I even remembered pants.
I had hoped, in vain, it turns out that I wasn’t the only roommate that had heard the commotion. As I moved towards the door, I decided that enough racket/brawling/gunshots would eventually get someone out of bed to come help. I looked out the door. It was quiet. No one around. The trashcan was on its side at the end of the driveway, but no vehicles looked like they were harmed. I went upstairs and looked out other windows. All was calm, and there were no people – vandals or coke dealers – on the street. Back to bed. YOU try to sleep after that.
What did I hope to accomplish by going to confront the hooligans? Stop the hooliganism of my house, I guess. How exactly would I accomplish that? Nuance and discourse would probably be lost on the other participants, and I was in no mood for subtly suggesting anything to anyone, anyway. Go out with guns blazing? Probably not, but they might be unholstered. The grand entrance would have been most likely. Exit house, slam door, ask loudly, “GENTLEMEN! Is there anything I can help you with?” Then what? Lots of variables, but there are really only two possible outcomes: they leave, or they start swinging. And they were probably drunk enough that I could get 4 or 5 sucker punches in before anyone really figured out what was happening. And then spend the next 4 months sleeplessly awaiting retaliation.
Or release from the hospital. Why? Because I am master of my domain. I must protect the inanimate, emotionless, and replaceable object known as my car. And my house. Yes, I must protect my old, drafty, insect-infested and mole-ridden rental property which sits on the biggest party street in my town. I cannot allow it to sustain damage. Just like my ego. Guys are so stupid. Stupid instincts. Stupid fight or…
Flight. The alarm goes off at 4:45 and I choose to snooze. Run from the day just a bit. Then I’m up and at ‘em. Or up, anyway. “Functional” might be pushing it a bit. The day begins. Yes, I’m 1,414 words deep, the day is just beginning, and I’m exhausted. This is going to be a long week. I need to break something – a rule? Perhaps end a sentence in a preposition? No, that would be ridiculous; I just need to find someone to beat up.
