Tables Of Fury

Let me tell you about my first bar fight.

Life is lovely and…..slightly askew with Shannon (my gangsta Canadian friend). She does not care what she says or who hears, she dresses as she likes and has complete control of the radio at all times (always hip-hop/rap). She can throw so many gang signs, in fact, I am quite sure that she could probably offend everyone who is anyone in gang land! She is a very attractive red head that knows how to have a good time. In short, Shannon is my favorite person down here!

Shannon lives with other Safe Passage volunteers in a nice house in Guatemala City. She is a city chick, she loves the city life. She loves nothing more than good music and good company, especially when she does not have to wake up in the morning. Her and I wear our “fuck the future” attitudes proudly, living every moment as if it were our last!

It is in that spirit that she began going to what is now a Friday night tradition, Cien Puertas. Cien Puertas is a street that is closed to traffic. It is lined with doors, in fact, its name means “100 doors.” Behind each door lies a bar. Each bar is a bit different, most have that cool, kick back, loud guy and his guitar, screaming during conversation atmosphere that I have come to love in my pubs.

One, however, is completely different. That one is “Blanco y Negro,” (“White and Black). On Friday nights, some of the sickest (see Shannon? I am learning!) DJs in Guatemala spin their tunes to a crowd that is crammed in, using every inch of space in the relatively small bar. This, my friends, is an experience unto itself!

Now we come to the night.

Shannon had invited me to this Cien Puertas experience and, being the positive guy that I am, I completely agreed with her insistence that I attend. I caught a ride to her house, a huge group of us loaded into two VW convertibles and we were off.

We parked in an overcrowded parking garage, the kind where you will lose your car in the midst of others and if you wish to go home, you must wait until everyone else in the parking garage wants to go home as well.

We wandered the short distance to Cien Puertas and stepped through the gate. I was patted down by the heavily armed gate security because, yes, I do look like a gangsta who be packin’ heat. We attempted to get into Blanco y Negro right away, but, alas, only Shannon made it in as the rest of us were not possessing of her passion and ability to throw elbows. I went with some of the others in the crew to a great little sit down joint and ordered myself a litro. I have explained litros, yes? Yes, I did. Anyway, we talked, we drank, we laughed, we spoke mean, hurtful words about some of the people there and I was hit on by a dude. Typical bar night.

Toward midnight, Shannon came flying into where I was and grabbed me, we were off! I was quickly shown the fine art of making people move when there seemed to be no possible place for them to move to. I soon found myself facing Shannon in the middle of the dance floor. We began. I am a HORRID dancer and, personally, would not have been surprised if this story resulted in me getting into a fight defending my atrocious moves, but it does not. Shannon is amazing on the dance floor, so, I assure you, no one was looking at me! I turned away from Shannon to set my beer down…..and that is when it happened.

I thought it rather strange that a man should dance with a table, but the realization quickly hit that the man was wielding, not dancing, with that table. The piece of furniture quickly found its mark on the face of another dude, who in turn went flying and landed at my feet, literally face on my sandal. Being the slightly drunk person that I was, I pointed at this gent and said something like “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I quickly realized that my whole half of the bar was in a massive brawl, with me in the midst of it. As soon as this realization hit, a strong, straight gangsta arm wrapped itself around my mid section and pulled me back out of the ruckus. It was Shannon. She indicated that now was a good time to leave. But, as we turned to exit, the fight spilled over into her half of the bar. I made a feeble attempt at pulling her back just as she had done me, it worked and we both stood in the middle of a HUGE fight sort of chuckling to ourselves.

Yes, obviously I made it out alive. Yes there was blood. Yes, stuff did get spilled. Yes, the table did die. And yes, it was some of the most fun that I have ever had.

The DJs stopped the music, the security guys weeded out the morons and the fun started again. We finished the night gyrating to the beats of Guatemalan and Central American hip hop.

When in doubt, say yes, when in a fight, be sure to have a bad ass chick there to protect your moronic self and when in Rome, dance!