Watch That Man Part 1
or
Gladys The Gladiator




When it all comes down to it, what would you do for your best friend?
In a room furnished with 40 watt light bulbs, a tube television, cracked ceilings, and bare walls, I found myself asking that question. In a room surrounded by the chaotic cacophony of blood-thirsty men gripping greasy dollar bills, flaying through the air like blades of grass in a hurricane, I stared down my opponent, thinking "How did it come to this?"

Groff and I'd had a falling out over who got to drink the last beer. One thing led to another, words were exchanged, and next thing I knew it was afternoon, my head was bumping like the sub-woofer in my Honda, and all I really cared about was brewing some coffee.
With the butt of my palms massaging my eyes and the thumbs rubbing my temples, I tried remembering what exactly it was that Groff had gotten so upset about; when nothing came I stripped down and took a long hot shower.
Roasted coffee grounds filled my nostrils as I walked from bathroom to kitchen; I poured that black ambrosia into a travel mug, added milk and sugar, took a long gulp and felt my brain breathe.

I swear nothing gets me harder than hail like coffee.

Half a pot later and things were coming back. An argument. Groff yelling that "Old Mill sucks" and how he's "switching to Budweiser!" Me losing my cool and kicking Groff out. Him leaving. And me on the living room carpet crying hysterically, belting out Kathy's Song between choked gasps.
Back in the real world I realized sitting around the house all day would do me no good, so I hopped in the car to drop off a few rolls of film at a local super center.

God must have been smiling on me that day because instead of doing just that and returning home, I decided to peruse the electronics department. I got to the end of the aisle and there it was, staring back at me from a white box.

It was a Nintendo Wii.

"My God" I thought, "who needs best friends when we've got Wal*Mart?"

Hands shaking, I found the nearest employee, unsheathed my credit card, and made a hasty purchase. Within an hour I was home, decked out in red sweatpants and wife-beater, playing the shit out of some Wii Sports.

Thus began my addiction.

A week or two must've passed, I'm not really sure, before Earl got in touch with me. He was having a triple-kegger and I was invited. Being that I have a boner for beer I couldn't possibly decline, so I got off the phone, put some pants on, and prepared myself to party.



Imagine the most kick-ass kegger.
Now multiply it by three and you'll have a good idea what Earl's bash was like.

Chicks, passed out naked, in the front lawn; dudes throwing up out of trees; THIRTY BEER PONG TABLES; and vacuum cleaners everywhere!
That was just the beginning.

Earl was in the kitchen, by one of the kegs, with a group of girls. I heard him say, "That's what SHE said" and they all laughed. I laughed too, adding a "dames" before rolling my eyes and sighing with great masculinity. In fact, I oozed so much testosterone one broad in particular informed me I didn't have to yell, which was a great relief. I thanked her by way of the wink; however, she just grimaced and shuddered.

Dames.

I put my hand out for Earl and he shook it.

"Wanna cup?" he asked.

"Fuck! Yeeeeah!" was my response and, again, I was asked to stop yelling. Not that it mattered though; Earl whipped out a red Solo, put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Walk with me."

"I've got something I want to show you" he said, taking me down a hallway, "Something you're gonna love."

Up the stairs and through a door and before us both was a flat screen, hi-def, television almost as long as the wall itself. Some schmuck stood a few feet away from it looking like he wanted to fight, while, behind him, a giggling group shared the couch with a hookah. I did a double-take and realized that schmuck was playing my favorite game: Wii Boxing.

"How'd you get this setup?" I asked.

Earl laughed. Then he said, "Let's just say I have my ways. Oh and speaking of which, there's somebody I'd like you to meet."

He motioned toward one of the couch dwellers, and a rather refined looking gentleman stood, then approached us. His hair was slicked back, his sideburns shaved into lightning bolts, and he rocked a totally bitchin' diamond earring. This guy was ahead of the curve. He introduced himself.

"Name's Giovanni Manicotti."

Something told me he was Italian. One glimpse at his Soprano's t-shirt confirmed the suspicion.

"Rich Garfunkle" I said, "but you can call me Dragonfly."

"Ummmm OK" he said, glancing at Earl.

While they undressed each other with their eyes I focussed on the schmuck playing the Wii. A total newb; he hopped around the room swinging with reckless abandon, shouting taunts at the screen. Boy, what I could've taught him in one round. Giovanni must've sensed my interest.

"Like what you see?"

I nodded.

"Tell you what. As sponsor of this party, if you can win five matches you'll drink for free."

The smirk I wore worried me. Did he have any clue I was about to hustle him? Either way didn't matter, I was gonna win me some booze.

"OK" I said, and both Wii remote and nunchuk were placed in my hands.

"And hey" Giovanni added, "Don't forget. Only a fool neglects the safety strap. Wear it."

I had enough time to tighten the strap before the first fight began. Their idea of a joke was having me play as a short black woman named Gladys, but whatever, I wasn't about to let that phase me. One of the couch-dwellers started a "YOU SUCK!" chant and everyone in the room followed suit; I turned my head to look at them just as my opponent, a computerized scraggly looking stoner named Ryan caught me with a quick uppercut. Gladys reeled back, stumbling to her left. The chant continued, among outbursts of laughter.

This I took for what it was: a blessing in disguise. Little did they know I was playing possum, waiting for the right moment to strike. Gladys took a few more shots to the face while I acted all worried, saying stuff like, "Oh no! I think I'm gonna lose!" and "How will I ever win?"
I even let Ryan knock me down once, heightening my illusion of cluelessness. All that changed though once Gladys had regained her footing.

I bit my lower lip, spread my feet shoulder's length, and set in on my opponent. He swung a hard right. Moving with my hips I dodged; a quiet hush overtook the room. Swaying back and forth I dodged another punch, but this time Ryan left himself wide open and I was quick to act. With catlike reflexes I jabbed the remote, smashing his stoner face in, then followed up with a right hook to his abdomen. Three bars of his strength gauge disappeared. Someone behind me gasped, "What the!?!" but I didn't look to see who it was; I just kept hammering away at poor little Ryan, toying with him much like a cat does a mouse before sinking its fangs into its neck. More comments arose from the rapt crowd:

"Whoa! This kid's amazing!"

"Oh my God! He's doing it! He's doing it!"

and

"Hey Earl, where's the shitter?"

With time in the third round running low I ended his misery with a punch to the gut and an uppercut to the chin.

He buckled like a seat-belt.

Everyone in the room went wild, now chanting "You DON'T suck! We were wrong!" over and over. I raised my arms in triumph and, on screen, Gladys did so as well. Turning around to face my fans brought the realization that more people had come to watch, among them the broad I'd previously winked at. She now stood, leaning in the doorway, licking her lips and running her hands over herself provocatively. I mouthed the words "Let's hump" and made some provocative gestures of my own, pumping my groin back and forth in the air with hands at hip level. She responded by way of the wink and I knew she was all mine.

Giovanni ended the excitement with a bellowing call for silence. Amid the chaos he had stepped up onto a coffee table where he leered down at me with arms crossed.

"So you think you're hot shit, huh? Anyone can win the first round! Don't get too cocky, Dragonfly. Remember, you have four matches left. Still think you got what it takes?"

The room groaned in response, but I wasn't shook. Making as if it were something to be mulled over I cocked my head to the side, rolled my shoulders, licked my teeth, and mustered up the toughest "Yeah" ever muttered.

"We'll just have to see" he said with slit eyes, "We'll. Just have. To see."

In case you can't tell, it was pretty intense. With Giovanni doubting my Wii skills, I was left no choice other than to prove my worth. After all, there was free beer and the admiration of a hot babe on the line, not to mention my pride; I faced the TV, pressed the A button, and resumed the gauntlet with renewed vigor.

Up next was Marco, a bulbous nosed Italian wearing the dull expression of an all-too-content idiot. Knockout. First round.

Then there was Daisuke sporting a confident smile, which made it that much more enjoyable seeing him splayed across the mat after two knock-downs.

After that Victor stepped up, radiating Ruskie intimidation with his mole and drunken lope. He gave me a run for my money, managing to send me face first into the mat in the second round while not wanting to stay down himself. Fortunately I was able to put an end to the fight first thing in the third.

And finally Luca, my most challenging opponent. No matter how many times I clipped him that stoic stone-faced son-of-a-bitch kept coming back for more. Talk about frustration; halfway through the third round I had to remind myself to relax and lay off the offense. Time was against me and in my frenzied state I swung more than Helen Keller up to bat. A quick shift in strategy had me swaying back and forth, dodging punches, until just the right moment when I could land the final blow, securing my position among the greats; Muhammed Ali, Mike Tyson, "Smokin' Joe" Frasier Crane.

And then, just as I saw my opportunity, I jabbed the Wii remote expecting to smash that prick's face in, when the bell clanged.

End of round.

End of fight.

There was sweat dripping all over my chest, my forearms were cramped, and all I could do was wait for the decision. A screen popped up displaying numerals for each round with little circles indicating which person won which.

First round: Luca.

Second round: Me.

Folks were crying at this point, arm in arm, holding each other up; one person screamed "The suspense is killing me!" and jumped out a window. He was mourned by all of us.

Everywhere I looked faces were crinkled in determination, shining with hope, all silently rooting for ME. How does one begin to describe the feeling that wells up inside during such moments? Well, they could comb through countless dictionaries and thesauruses in search of the correct, all- encompassing, terms that fully describe, with poetic clarity, what it's like when a houseful of college kids--America's finest--are cheering you on. Then they could make a list of words worthy of the task, crossing out those which aren't up to par until, finally, they're left with two which convey exactly how that felt.

Those two words?

FUCKIN' AWESOME.

So anyways, the screen flashed the third round results and they were in my favor, meaning I won the match, the bet, and the hearts of everyone at Earl's that night. A swarm engulfed me and I was raised up, carried through the house to the tune of "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow", but since everyone was so drunk they dropped me going down the stairs; I crashed into the banister, rolled down, and smashed my head on a wall at the bottom. Miraculously, standing there before me was that hot little number who had graced me with her wink. She outstretched her hand, which I took, and helped me up.

"So you're the one they call Dragonfly, huh?"

I nodded.

"What are you? Some kind of enigma?"

"Nah baby. Better. I'm a custodian. Now let's get to a broom closet so I can sweep you off your feet."

Her expression told me she was a bomb-pop and I was asphalt in the hot July sun.

We banged till boredom set in, then we banged again just for old time's sake.
It was late by that point, the party crowd had dwindled down, putting me in the mood to go home and drink alone, so I went looking for Earl to say goodbye. He was passed out in the most heroic of poses: shirtless, belly up on the linoleum, hand clenching a tap which spit little white bubbles of beer foam.

No use in sticking around, I thought, so I made for the front door. Two steps outside and my path was blocked by someone in the shadows. Stepping forward, I saw it was Giovanni; he offered his congratulations.

"That was pretty good what you did back there."

"Yeah, I know."

"Listen. I'm sorry about my actions earlier. You really are an outstanding athlete."

"Think nothing of it. Just, next time, lay off the Hatorade."

And with that I sidestepped him, my craving for alcohol and solitude growing with each second.

"One more thing, Dragonfly."

I turned, "What's that?"

"Ever heard of Fight Club?"


To be continued . . .