The Pink Shoes

On game day, Thursday, I went out with a friend for a few beers. I bought a couple of six-packs, but my friend isn’t much of a drinker, so I ended up having 10 beers. She left to go home or maybe to meet some friends—I’m not sure. I swung by my house to get ready to go out again. I don’t remember if I drank more beer while getting ready, but I headed to the bar where some childhood friends were meeting to watch the game together.

At the spot, I had another two or three beers. There were five of us, old buddies from way back. Eventually, the last one from our crew showed up. Dude came in wearing pink shoes, looking ridiculous. When I saw him talking on the phone—seemed like with some girl—he went all the way outside the bar. I couldn’t resist teasing him, so I walked over and called him a clown for wearing pink shoes.

Back with my guys, we started talking about everything, and as always, the political debates kicked off. Right in the middle of it, someone yelled, “Hey, we’re out of beer! Let’s get another round.” I saw one of my friends gesture at another—the one in the pink shoes—who was next to the waiter, doing the universal “circle with the index finger” signal for another round. Watching the exchange, I felt like yelling across the bar, “@&$+# idiot!” And I did. He didn’t say anything back, just motioned for me to cool it.

We kept drinking, and the political discussion dragged on. At some point, I started losing track of my drinks. Slowly, everyone began saying their goodbyes, but I still wanted to keep the party going. Only two friends stayed, including the one with the pink shoes, who was also wearing this preppy cap.

That dude went further into the bar, where it was lively, and we ended up dancing, singing, and jumping around. Total euphoria.

Thing is, I’m a guy who really loves a fight; everyone knows it. Since I didn’t have anyone to fight, I turned to my friend with the pink shoes and said, “Let’s go at it.” But the dude kept saying no. I called him a coward and told him I could knock him out with one punch. Truth be told, I didn’t know how to provoke him enough to get him to fight.

I grabbed his hat and threw it on the floor, but he just picked it up like nothing had happened and kept dancing.

—Not to say I didn’t have other options for a fight. The bar was packed, and there were a couple of beefy dudes and a tall, lanky guy over six feet tall. But I like the odds in my favor—I prefer picking on people who look harmless, smaller, or weaker than me.—

I started pounding on the bar as the DJ played some great tracks. The party was lit, but my thirst for blood was boiling over. I looked for the guy again and threw his hat on the floor two more times. I kept saying, “Are we doing this or not?” but nothing—he wasn’t biting. And there I was, desperate to break my hands on someone’s face.

I took his hat again, tossed it far away, and saw him scowl. Now I had him—his anger was building up. This was the moment. I ripped off my shirt, ready for action.

I got up close, face to face like in a UFC staredown. I snatched his hat again, crumpled it in my hands, and threw it on the floor. His furious expression was ridiculous—eyes bulging like a frog—and he told me to “go to hell.” He grabbed his hat and walked to the other side of the bar. What a coward! That was the perfect moment for a fight, and he just told me off. I was expecting the first punch, but he acted like a child.

I saw him talking to a stranger, so I splashed beer at him to offend him. The dude just moved to the other end of the bar, alone, like a wimp. I watched him sit down and stare at his phone with his beer. Pathetic.

After a while, he started chatting with some gringo who was handing out Jägermeister shots. At that point, I gave up. If the idiot in the pink shoes wasn’t going to take the bait, I might as well head home. Say goodbye? Why bother? One of those guys was paying the tab, and the other was too scared to fight me. Later, losers!

I got home and passed out. The next day, I woke up to a message from the clown himself, calling me a complete idiot when I’m drunk. This dude texting me like he’s some kind of delicate girlfriend. I sent him a voice note—straight talk, no nonsense. I told him if he had something to say, he should say it to my face, not act like some whiny chick. The guy ruined my day.

P.S. I’m the guy with the pink shoes. The next day, I ran into the guy who wanted to fight me. He apologized, said he loves fighting, and asked me to “put myself in his shoes.” This is that exercise, and I still don’t get it. I must have empathy issues or something.