Machismo

There’s this trick I do only once every couple years so that people don’t catch on, one of those “break glass in case of emergency” type deals custom-designed for boring nights at bars. The quiet pitchers’ duel on Friday qualified, so when this bald, burly, heavily tattooed Cards fan began peeing a couple urinals down from me, I tapped him on the shoulder and asked if I gave him five bucks would he let me beat him in arm wrestling in front of everyone later. I asked him to just play along because it would be really funny.

Maybe it was too much booze, but the Cards fan? He just shrugged and nodded, like I had just made a totally reasonable request, like people have asked him to do that before. He replied, “Sure, why not. But I'll take a drink instead of money.”

We both went our separate ways. I rejoined my table of coworkers, while he went back to his rambunctious group of out-of-towners at the bar.

About a half hour later when the Cubs tacked on three insurance runs at the top of the ninth, we walked over to the group of Cards fans to give them a little shit. It was all in good fun of course, but a shouting match erupted and hot veins stuck out of so many necks that the bar’s nervous bouncer started clearing his throat loudly nearby. So I told everyone to calm down and suggested that we settle it like real men.

By arm wrestling!

I volunteered to go first, challenging the bald, burly, heavily tattooed guy that no one knew I’d met in the bathroom earlier. Why did everyone snicker? Because my pitiful biceps are the female boob equivalent of a size 32A, whereas this bald guy had guns roughly the diameter and density of a bowling ball.

Everyone gathered around the table we were stationed at, and right before we went at it I winked at the bald guy to confirm that our plan was still a go, and the bald guy? He just shrugged and nodded.

Dude was terrific. He totally played along to my act, grimacing, grunting, holding his breath so that his face turned red, while I screamed and pointed my chin towards the ceiling in fake agony as our locked hands shook violently in the middle of the table, not budging even a half inch either way. The best part was how the hooting and hollering from our spectators was now replaced with a hush of fascination.

Someone from the back said, “My God, that kid is holding his own out there.”

And another person gasped, “How is that possible?”

And someone else commented, “It’s his Ch'i. Didn’t you hear about that old Chinese lady who pulled her piano out of her burning house? The Ch’i makes you capable of shit like that.”

I decided to really ham it up. “It’s got nothing to do with Ch’i,” I said, my face trembling as saliva fizzed out the side of my mouth. “It’s physics... pure... physics...”

On cue, the bald guy’s arm started to give, and I continued talking: “You see... my elbow... my elbow is the fulcrum... and my arm... is the lever...”

People leaned in for a closer look as the back of the bald guy’s hand flirted with the table's surface, which meant I was inches away from victory. I continued my lecture: “To paraphrase the mathematician Archimedes... ‘Give me a lever long enough... and... I... can move... THE WORLD!’”

SLAM!!!

Everyone roared. People hugged and high-fived each other. The floored group of Cards fans could not stop laughing. The nervous bouncer cleared his throat loudly. The bald guy? He looked as if he’d just made a deal with the devil and regretted it.

“Yo bartender!” I yelled, slapping the bald guy’s back, holding up my end of the bargain. “Glenlivet on the rocks for this pussy right here. He needs it. Make sure you put it on my tab and then close it out for me!”

I paid my check, then pointed and smiled at random people while walking in slow motion towards the exit. One of my coworkers stopped me to say, “Pete, that was amazing!” and I replied, “I know.”

The bald, burly, heavily tattooed Cards fan? I heard him hissing at his buddies at the bar, insisting that he had agreed to lose on purpose if I gave him five bucks. No one believed him. He was a laughingstock.

I grinned in satisfaction, popped the collar of my Polo, did the People's Eyebrow, flared my nostrils, then took a last look at the final score of the game on TV and said to myself, “Cubs win. Cubs win.”