Fisticuffs, Flushes, and Friendships

The key to a lasting friendship is a good ol’-fashioned traumatic experience. My best friend since the 5th grade is a guy named Eric, but it wasn’t until the 11th grade that the dogs of war cemented our friendship.

We were walking from my house to my cousin’s house. It was about a three-mile walk, but you could shave off a half mile with a shortcut here and there. The shortcut took us down a street that was on the dicey side, and things went sideways lightning-quick.

A bunch of gang-bangers were having a barbecue on the corner house of the street. Several of the gang members mad-dogged Eric and me and the two other friends we were walking with. Seconds later, they sent out a kid about our age, and he shuffled after us as we passed their house.

“Why you walking on my street?” he said.

We ignored him and quickened our pace. He started to jog after us.

“Hey, pinches güeros! Why you walking on my calle?” It was an odd choice to start in English, get no response, and then switch to Spanglish, but I don’t think this kid was planning on majoring in interpersonal communication.

This movie left me drastically unprepared for street fights, gang initiations, and life-or-death violence.

He passed our two other friends, passed Eric, and beelined straight for me. I’m not sure what informed this decision, but there were three other perfectly available jaws he could have swung at, but he swung at me. His fist hit me in the cheek, the first time I’d ever been punched square in the face.

It must have been the adrenaline, but I don’t remember feeling anything except panic. Uh-oh, I’m in a fist fight, I thought, and then my brain rifled through dozens of scenes from movies—The Last Dragon, Commando, Lethal Weapon, The Karate Kid, Road House, 48 Hours—and ultimately I concluded that I was more of a buddy comedy sort of character actor as opposed to a tentpole action star.

I look nothing like this.

When he threw the punch, it was wide and sloppy, and he lost his balance and fell to the ground. I’m guessing it was the first time he threw a punch, and he was doing so to get into the gang. Instead of retaliating, I held him down and looked up. The gang was on their feet, watching from thirty or forty yards away. Eric and my other two friends were watching, too. I pushed off the guy and just tried to get some distance between me and him, hoping it was the end of it. It wasn’t. He popped up, wound up, and began to throw another haymaker.

Cue Eric.

We were all sixteen, and puberty was doing what puberty does to young men. Eric stood 6’4" and skinny, but 6’4” has a lot of leverage. He threw a left cross at this gang-banger pledge, and it landed before the sloppy haymaker made any contact with me. When I say it landed, it occurs to me that the word implies a grounding of sorts. And that happened eventually, but first, Eric’s punch lifted this little bastard off his feet. It looked like a scene from a Popeye cartoon. His head hit the asphalt first, and then the rest of his body came down like a waterfall.

Eric and I looked at each other, and we both looked at our other two friends. Never have eight eyeballs been so exposed, eight eyeballs that collectively echoed Smokey from Friday: “You got knocked the fuck out!”

Eric is Ice Cube. I’m Smokey.

Except he didn’t. He started getting back up, and we also noticed that the gang-bangers who sent him on this suicide mission—about a dozen of them—had started running toward us. We gave the kid a few kicks to the bread basket to keep him down before launching into an all-out sprint. I tossed a look over my shoulder and realized that most of these gang-bangers likely spent much of their time sucking down chili dogs at Wienerschnitzel while we spent much of our time running suicides in basketball practice. Still, they threw some gang signs at us, which was weird seeing as how Eric just made quick work of their newest initiate.

Eric was the best man at my wedding. Our kids hang out together. We’ve swapped basketball for pickleball. I’m guessing that will become shuffleboard on an octogenarian cruise line soon enough. Again, nothing bonds two people like a good ol’-fashioned traumatic experience.

It looks a little different for my daughter, though. Through eighth grade, Charlee went to a small charter school, and her graduating class boasted just 60 students. She transferred into a high school with 2,600 students, and only a few from her charter went with her.

Initially, she panicked. She was certain she would struggle to make friends. It took time, but she started to connect with some other kids, and we started to hear the name Ananya. Charlee is 5’10”. Ananya isn’t much taller than a handful of nickels. Charlee is introverted and enjoys quiet. Ananya speaks at a clip that could power a major metropolitan area. The average human speaks 16,000 words a day, and Ananya exceeds that number just after breakfast.

This is an artistic recreation of Ananya monologuing.

There’s definitely an opposites-attract element to their friendship, but most importantly, Ananya is loyal. Like Eric, she would throw a left-handed lights-out wallop if Charlee asked her to. And the reason for this is because of a traumatic bathroom experience.

Charlee dragged Ananya to a birthday party for some kid she knew from the charter school. Ananya didn’t hesitate. When I was a freshman, I would have been terrified to go to a birthday party for a kid I didn’t know, but Ananya, I imagine, just thought, What? It’s not like I won’t have anything to talk about. I got conversation for days, son!

So they get to this party, and it ain’t exactly a barn burner. A bunch of kids just sat in a room and watched a movie. Eventually, Ananya and Charlee started texting each other. Which is an interesting evolution in human communication. There’s always been dialogue—what we’re saying versus what we’re really saying—but now there’s a conversation that takes place at an even lower level, from cell phone to cell phone.

What follows is an exact transcript between Charlee and Ananya at this birthday party with my running commentary.

ANANYA: i need to pee

ANANYA: but i don’t wanna ask where the bathroom is

Two minutes pass before the next text. Presumably somebody asked where the bathroom was.

ANANYA: CHARLEE

ANANYA: I THNK TJERE TOILETS CLOGGED

I really appreciate the typos because I feel they adequately capture the terrifying mother fucking dread of such a scenario. Few things are as ominous or as high stakes as the rising waters of a toilet bowl in a house that is not your own. Many fine men and women have not survived such peril, for nothing obliterates social status, damages reputations, or compromises spiritual welfare like a clogged toilet.

The psychological state of every person on the planet when the toilet waters rise.

Also, as a grammar snob, I usually thumb my nose at the use of all caps, but in this case, I feel the caps are being used appropriately.

ANANYA: INHAVWNT EVEN PEED

CHARLEE: BRO

“BRO” hardly seems like an acceptable response, but Charlee has reassured me that its subtext in this context is a multi-hyphenate of support. “BRO” communicates the following: Holy Shit. This is unthinkable. But I’m here for you. You are my sister, and I shall not abandon you in your time of need.

ANANYA: WHAT DO I DO

CHARLEE: ITS OL

Charlee meant to text ITS OK, but the horrific reality of the situation interfered with her eye hand coordination and basic motor skills.

ANANYA: IMAGINE IT FLOODS

I love this text because it’s the precise moment when Ananya fully comprehends the imminent danger of her circumstances. I imagine her furiously searching for a plunger, weighing escape options, searching bathroom drawers for something to kill herself with—all reasonable reactions to this Old Testament-scale dilemma.

CHARLEE: ARE U TRYING TO FLUSH AND ITS NOT WORKING

CHARLEE: JUST HOLD IT

CHARLEE : I MEAN THE HANDLE

Clearly, Charlee intuited my previous commentary, understood the inherent danger, and rattled off every solution she could think of with her limited knowledge of plumbing, water pressure, and the unpredictability of pipes under duress. I also applaud her for clarifying what to hold since the benefit of Ananya holding her bladder had long since passed.

ANANYA: NO I OPENEED IT AND THERE WQS STUFF IN THERE

ANANYA: OLL TRU

This is poetic cosmic irony. Ananya enters the bathroom. Someone had left “stuff” in there. Ananya does the previous occupant a solid (world class pun there) and flushes, only to become victim of this sanitary indignity. Note: Charlee interpreted “OLL TRU” for me. It was Ananya’s scared shitless attempt of texting “ILL TRY.”

CHARLEE : LIKE HOLD IT DOWN LONGER

ANANYA: I HAVENT EVEN PEED THO

ANANYA: OK

This is the moment where I felt compelled to counsel my daughter on her behavior during an emergency. Doing more of the same thing that isn’t working is not a great strategy. This is also the moment where I feel nothing but compassion for Ananya. When you have to pee, the buzz of anxiety is already pretty intense. Add the excitement of a clogged toilet, a frenetic text exchange, and the insistence of repeating failure, and you’ve got a good recipe for a wet mess.

Two minutes after Ananya texted OK:

ANANYA: IT OCERFLOWED

Poor, sweet Ananya exited the bathroom and came clean (or dirty) to the birthday boy’s mom. Thankfully, the mom heard Ananya’s take, surveyed the mess, and reasoned that her youngest daughter had flushed wipes that were not toilet safe, thus saving Ananya from a lifetime of shame and humiliation.

My wife and I picked up Charlee and Ananya from this party and they immediately regaled us with the clogged toilet tale. Ananya later confided in Charlee that she was scared I was going to crash the car because I was laughing so hard. But we were all laughing hard, maybe Ananya the most, which is a testament to her character and her resilience.

Two years later, Charlee and Ananya remain best friends, bound by loyalty, honesty, and toilet water. When my wife and I celebrated our anniversary this year, we stayed at The Ritz and our balcony overlooked a lawn where a traditional Indian wedding was taking place. The women all wore beautiful saris in bright colors, and my wife said, “Charlee and Ananya are going to look beautiful when they wear a sari like that for Ananya’s wedding.”

I nodded because, yes, of course they will. When you and someone else survive a street gang initiation or the treacherous waters of a clogged toilet, that's exactly the person you want by your side as you march into your next big adventure.

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Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, consider reading some of my other stories about hilarious trauma:

• The Finger: a story about a game of basketball gone wrong.

• The Mobility Guru: a story about a psychological trauma averted.

• Avocado of Doom: a story about trauma perpetrated by an avocado.

• Manslaughter, Santa Claus, and a Hatchet: a story about how I inadvertently traumatized my children while attempting to render their childhoods with enchantment.

• Or you might consider reading Dig, a dark crime comedy novella I’ve written about any number of traumas.