John McClane

Because nothing particularly masculine happened to me today, but I do have some other writings in a similar vein, I'm going to include something I've already written. I call it "Hero":



At one point, the helicopter has John McClane pinned down on the roof of the Nakatomi Plaza Building in L.A. Nothing indicates this, but I get the feeling the building is so tall that one could see the tip of the antenna on the Twin Towers from here. Automatic rifles fire at McClane. Thin steel barrels light up the night sky. He’s bleeding. He’s tired. He’s not even supposed to be here. Unable to communicate with the men in the chopper, unable to retreat, unable to engage this magnitude of firepower, he wraps a firehose around his waist and jumps off the building. The firehose reaches its full length and pulls taut against the spool as McClane crashes into the thick window. He shoots the window, kicks the window, splashes through the window, and crawls across the broken glass to relative safety. The heavy cast iron spool breaks away from its anchors on the roof and falls past the window. McClane struggles to untie himself from the plummeting fire hose, which pulls him towards the open air of a quarter-mile plummet. The hose drags him across the thick broken shards of glass. He’s barefoot. Tired. Bleeding. At the last second, he frees himself from the hose, turns toward the future, and continues to kick bad-guy ass.

As for me, I learn in high school to say, “I wouldn’t trade my game for his,” whether talking about basketball, running, writing, studying, or sexual intercourse. On the other hand, if I could be anything else in the world for just a moment or a thousand years, I would be John McClane, swandiving off the Nakatomi Plaza Building amidst gunfire and small explosions as the world rises up underneath my bare feet and strong arms, certain of just one thing: whatever happens next better be ready for me.

Long-Sticking Anger

Okay, so here, maybe, is part of the problem with this training in masculinity. On my run today, I ran through an intersection where I had almost been hit once. I recalled that moment, and how the schmuck who'd almost hit me got pissed at me because his cell phone fell out of his hand when he slammed his breaks -- despite the fact that I'd had the right of way.

That was four years ago. In the middle of today's run, during a particularly blissful moment, I ran through that intersection and recalled that honking, swearing fellow. For the next mile, mile and a half, I obsessed about an altercation that never happened. I imagined him getting out of his car, some nasty words, a scene from Rocky, a culmination of me breaking out seventeen-or-so precise martial arts moves that (I hope) I've picked up over the years by watching Jean Claude Van Damme movies.

In reality, I tucked my eyebrows and gave him my most expressive frown, indicating neither that I was sorry or he was forgive, but that he's probably the dumbest person in this hemisphere . . .

To what end does my (real or imagined) response lead? The more I thought about what a jerk the guy probably was all the time, and certainly was that moment he swore and bird-flipped me, the angrier I got. I calmed down again as I reminded myself, as I had reminded myself during the earlier run, the guy probably had a bad day or, more likely, has simply had a bad life.

Beyond that, yes, okay, I was raised tough, but I don't fight. I don't lift weights. I don't do push or pull ups. I've, admittedly, and, rather happily, gone soft. What am I going to do if some meathead rips the door off his Blazer and beats me over the head with it?

I heard on the radio today that road rage might be an indication of some deeper issues. My first response: uhm, duh.

These are the symptoms: aggression, depression, and what someone is calling Intermitent Explosive Disorder. Which lead me to my second response: now, I watch a lot of movies . . . aren't these responses the way that I've been told to respond to dumbasses? Yes, they are. One of the things the article claims causes road rage is seeing other drivers who are distracted. This pisses me off, I admit. Still, I have a hard time imagining Clint Eastwood or Charles Bronson responding to some idiot: "Pardon me, I see that you're distracted. Could I trouble you to stop shaving and texting and focus on your driving. Thank you. You look great today."

What this article is calling "temper tantrums," I think Hollywood (and therefor the rest of us) would call "standing up for oneself."

We might even call intentionally ramming our car into a stranger's car completely natural. After all, what would John Wayne do?

I pulled into a parking lot the other day, and was greeted by a goatteed man, screaming "fuck you" and tossing me a very aggressive bird. While I'm certain I was abiding the speed limit, and I know I had my turn signal on, I think maybe it was a late turn signal or, perhaps, I hadn't slowed into the turn.

As for me, I never think fast enough to honk or flip off or even swear much, but I do feel my face go flat and my eyes go dead when I drive around idiots. I know that meanface is its own kind of aggression.

I'm not entirely convinced it's natural or right to respond this way. Why do I do it? I'm conflicted. Why do I sometimes feel like being powerful and reasonable are mutually exclusive traits?

Parking Ticket

Okay, so last evening, I stopped by the local law enforcement place, the Police Station, as it’s called here. I had to pay a ten dollar parking ticket for a meter that had recently expired. The ticket dropbox is inside the front door on the left – I’ve been there before. Because it’s a small parking lot, there were no spots available. Because it’s a small town, I shrugged. Because I’m not real big and my car isn’t either, and because dropping this ticket will take me somewhere between thirteen and seventeen seconds, I parked directly in front of the Police Station.

            Now, look, before I get too far into this, I was wrong. I know that. I should not have parked there. I get it. I am a law follower, a rule abider from way back. I loved standing in line in elementary school. I always appreciated the piercing rattle of a refs whistle. I should not have parked there – my bad.

            So: give me a ticket. Tow my car. Arrest me and chain me to the floor of the Police Station – I will abide.

            Instead, this happened: a cop who had been parked in the parking lot, chased me inside the Police Station and says, “Is that your Kia?”

            We're the only two people in the building. He saw me get out of the car. He had done quite a piece of detective work. I said, “Yes.”

            He said, and this is what gets me, “Don’t you think it’s kind of stupid to park your car beside a yellow curb in front of a police station?”

            My fingers were, as he spoke, cramming the parking ticket – the parking ticket that I was paying without complaint – into the dropbox, and I was turning on my heel to run back out to my car. I could have made excuses. I could have said, “Well I’m only going to be a second.” Not to mention the fact that I had the impression this door would be locked soon, and I was on my way to pick up my preschooler. Still, did I think it was dumb. Fucking-A “Yes,” I said, about the dumbest fucking thing I’ve done all day.

            But I just said, “Yes.” And turned on my meanface. No reason to turn on my meanface, just an impulse I’ve been taught. I dropped my chin, let my eyes go dead, stared through him and the cinder block wall behind him. I don’t even mind being called stupid. Simply this, and I remember this from even elementary school: I do not abide being lectured. Give me a ticket, officer, but do not lecture me.

            He said, “I strongly suggest you go move your car soon.”

            I knew who had the power there. I knew that he was likely to see my car and me going twenty-six in the twenty zone on my way to preschool soon. I know where he sits, and, despite the fact that there is always a row of six or ten cars trying to pass me at forty in that twenty zone, I know what’s at stake for meanfacing a cop. But, like I say, I don’t abide a lecture. I said, “Thanks for the advice,” and stood staring through him waiting for another wisdom nugget to issue forth from his claimhole.

            He turned on his heel, though, and fidgeted with cop things on the bulletin board, such that it was clear the only reason he’d come into the building was to let me know I was an idiot.

            The joke’s on him: I already knew.