The Push Up Contest

I was dragged into one of those Goddamn sports bars last night by a group of friends that enjoys the rustic college dorm room ambience of such establishments. It was the kind of place that serves 78 different kinds of chicken wings and 40 types of domestic beer, most of which is flavorless and has the hue of early morning urine. You can have any side dish you want with a meal as long as it's made from a potato and it will be deep fried.

I tried to make the best of it but the stool I was seated in was so hard and uncomfortable I was convinced some sadist in a medieval work release program had probably designed it. There was also the matter of the 200 or so televisions, tucked into every conceivable nook that produced such a blinding glare that I thought handing out welder’s masks with the menus would've been an appropriate gesture.

After ordering a beer I lit a Sancho Panza Dulcinea and blew the smoke into the collective cloud at the ceiling.

"Do you have to smoke that?" Luch asked me.

"Yes, I do," I said, blowing smoke in his face.

Shielding my eyes with my hand I scanned the multitude of varying sized television screens. One of the “sports” I witnessed on ESPN was a competition where women were eating giant plates full of food and then running laps, puking, eating more food, running, and puking some more. The point of such a competition was lost on me, as are many things, but I suspect that “sporting events” of this nature only takes place in America and are perhaps adaptations of Roman game shows.

The Romans and their unfettered affection for gorging, purging, and the subsequent erection of vomitoriums has helped to cement their place in the top five of civilizations that pushed the boundaries of excess. Puking was a national pastime for these early bed sheet wearers and it seemed to be a rather effective way of controlling weight. You don’t see sculptures of fat Roman people do you? My point is that they knew how to puke. Not that I’m advocating regurgitation, but merely throwing it out there as a possibility as a cheaper alternative to gastrointestinal bypass surgery or prescription pills. Maybe if all those calories weren’t sitting in our stomachs it would keep us from looking like a society of Krispy Kreme mutants. I don’t mean to be callus to those that do have eating disorders I know it’s a serious problem and damn the advertising bastards that make us all think we have to have the body of someone like Lance Armstrong who bikes six thousand miles a day. Don’t you like how I covered my ass at the end there?

After my limited attention turned from the eating spectacle on the televisions I began to take in the scenery around me and noticed more than one cute waitress parading around in a belly shirt, which as a member of the male species I immediately gave the testosterone stamp of approval to. There are however people that should run not walk from any piece of clothing that shows more skin than that on the hands, neck, and head. A good rule of thumb when choosing whether or not to wear midriff revealing attire is to "just say no" if you can sit a TV remote control on your stomach while standing up.

A husky waitress waiting on a table next to ours with a belly shirt on was just such a person. Always the optimist I recognized she had an attractive face and figured her belly bulging dilemma was nothing several layers of duct tape wrapped tightly around the stomach couldn't cure. The modern answer to the corset? I’m going to talk to my attorney about a patent.

This husky lass joked and laughed and seemed undaunted by the rolls hanging over her belt. I watched her for a bit as I am apt to do when a certain characteristic catches my attention. I noticed her waiting on the table next to ours and evidently she had misplaced her bottle opener or didn’t feel the need to carry one because she stuck the bottle in her belly button, twisted, and popped the top off. I’ve seen feats of strength and oddity before but this one was new to me. I just hoped that the guy who received that bottle of beer didn’t take a swig and find a big lint ball on the lip. In my book that would be equivalent to getting scalded with a cup of McDonald’s coffee. The mental anguish caused by such an incident would be of monumental proportions and would be in my estimation worth somewhere in the ball park of ten million dollars.

I turned my attention to my hypothetical friend Luch (named changed to protect the innocent) who was sitting beside me, wearing a sweater with the sleeves so stretched out it looked like the baggy top of some crazed Caribbean swashbuckler.

“I can do more push ups than anyone here,” Luch said, pulling his pirate shirt up around his elbows.

Two other friends, Dylan and Charlene, who are in the same Air Force Unit as Luch rolled their eyes.

“Feel these, they’re like steel,” Luch said.

“You must be thinking of a more malleable metal perhaps lead,” I said.

“Hey, baby do you have a ticket?” Luch said, to Charlene.

“A ticket for what?” she asked.

“A ticket for the gun show,” Luch said, hiking his swashbuckling shirt sleeve up around his shoulder and flexing his bicep.

“Okay, Captain Bluebeard put that gun away, before someone gets hurt,” I said.

“Charlene, I’ll challenge you to a pushup contest right here,” Luch said.

“Here in the bar?” I asked. “There’s plenty of room out in the alley. In fact I’ll bet that homeless guy would let you flatten his box and let you do push ups off of it so you wouldn’t soil your clothes. Just give him money for a sandwich.”

“Don’t do it,” Dylan said, shaking his head.

Never one to let social morays interrupt what he considers his God give right to make an ass out of himself Luch set down his pitcher of lager and said, “Let’s do it.

“You’re on,” Charlene said.

I quickly scanned the bar to see who might have been listening to the challenge of a push up contest but those around us seemed blissfully ignorant of the challenge. Unfortunately those at our table weren’t. Jill, Shane, John, and Renee had looks of horror on their faces. Dylan was pretending he was looking for something under the table and I could tell that Charlene was too fired up to care.

“Don’t do it,” I pleaded.

I set my cigar on the edge of the table and took a long drink from my Troegs Hopback.

Luch pushed both his pirate shirt sleeves up and with a cigarette dangling from his lip he dropped to the dirty floor. His arms were shaking before he even started the first push up.

Again I scanned the bar and now everyone was staring at Luch struggling on the floor. He looked like tired sea lion involved in some strange mating ritual.

“By God get up off that floor,” I said under my breath.

“Three,” Luch said, slowly locking out his elbows. The cigarette dangling from his lip fell out and landed on the sleeve of his billowing pirate shirt and stayed there smoldering. “Four.”

Somewhere around 8 push ups Luch petered out and just in time because the first flames from his cigarette were appearing on his pirate shirt.

“That’s pathetic,” Dylan said.

Charlene got down on the floor and pumped out 34 push ups in a minute. I was impressed. She didn’t even turn red from the exertion. Luch was still purple and had fired up a recovery cigarette.

“You’re the biggest buffoon I’ve ever seen in my life,” a guy at the next table said to Luch.

I turned and got a look at the guy. I was sure his great great great grandparents had crossed the great planes in a mobile home pulled by a Jeb Clampet like truck, laid cinder blocks in the trashiest trailer court in the west and called it home. And these assertions weren’t made because his head was impossibly narrow at the top, which would have allowed little room to accomodate a brain of any significant size, or because his pronounced brow, thick with a uni-brow, hung over his bulbous nose creating a shadow so dark it looked as if he had a full beard. No there was a much more pronounced deformity that led me to these assertions and that was the gaping hole located just below his nose, i.e. his mouth.

“He is not the biggest buffoon you’ve ever met in your life,” I said standing.

“What?” the guy said.

“I said he isn’t the biggest buffoon you’ve ever met. It’s impossible because I’m the biggest buffoon you ever met.”

I could tell I'd confused the guy and there’s nothing I like more than to spread a little confusion. One of my favorite ways to create a little chaos is to show up at a large party you aren’t invited to and at which you know no one. As i make my way through the throngs of people mingling about, they always ask who invited me. I Don't panic, the gig isn't up yet. I chose a common name, usually Steve, and make some vague connection to him involving investments and making a huge profit. The suspicious are always less apt to kick a person out who seems to be making one of their friends money. For the better part of the evening those hosting the party try to place me and will stay confused unless the Steve they thought you were reffering to actually shows up. In this case I quickly excuse myself to the bathroom, or to get a CD from my car and am never seen again but I digress…

“Are you trying to start something?” the guy said.

“Trying? Don’t insult me my objective has already been achieved. “

The guy took a step forward. I took a step back.

“Let’s dance,” I said, extending my arm. Now, this added further confusion to the confrontation because my gesture wasn’t hostile but in fact sounded like a legitimate offer to dance. By the look on the guy’s face I could tell that he wasn’t sure if I meant fight or perhaps rumba. I can imagine he had visions of the West Side Story going through his lizard brain; gang members dancing and breaking out in song. If it came down to that my friends and I would definitely lose none of us can dance or sing worth a damn. We’d have a much better chance in a real fight and I think the guy realized this after he’d seen Charlene pump out 34 push ups. None of the woman at his table looked as if they could even do ten push ups.

I touched my belt buckle which was a unique item my sister’s fiancée had given me. It was a set of brass knuckles that attached to the belt but could be removed quickly for the cracking of skulls or the crushing of jaws. I only use them when the odds are stacked tremendously against me or when I find myself in need of something to crack walnuts. This belt buckle is not a fashion statement and remains hidden under a shirt most of the time unless I want to expose it as a warning not to mess with me, like I did the night a crazed meth addict had followed me down a dark alley to where my car was parked.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” the guy said to me.

“Exactly,” I said, pointing my cigar at him.

"What the Hell are you talking about?" he said.

"I'm talking about me being a fucking idiot. I'm talking about America and the rights granted us under the COnsititution that allow us to persue the right to be an idiot. I'm talking about tiping excessively at titty bars and not apologzing for it. I'm talking about your ancestry and why the double helix in your families genes looks like rusty barbed wire," I said.

This confused him even further. He shook his head and went back to his table where a tray full of kamikaze shots awaited him.

“Now who's the idiot?” I asked, and turned.

Everyone at my table was starring at me. It was evident by the looks they were giving me that I’d overstepped the boundaries of polite social discourse. I’d embarrassed all of them, which is what I’d intended. Embarrassment is initially an uncomfortable social glitch that often, ultimately, manifests itself in behavioral changes which can be, according to the stimuli, extremely strong aversions. I believe this is why people often avoid me when I’m hell bent on one form of chaos or another. We are all Pavlov’s dogs, myself included, and salivate according but it doesn’t always have to be this way. I like to ask what happens when you put a couple hits of acid in the water dish.

“We’re going to get going,” Dylan said.

“See you later,” I said.

Shane, Jill, John, and Renee followed.

“Good seeing you,” I said as they hurried off.

“Well it’s just you and me buddy,” I said to Luch.

He drained his beer and stood.

“I have to get up early,” he said.

“I thought you had off tomorrow,” I said.

“I do but I’m…tired.”

“Right, give me a call tomorrow.”

Luch hurried off and I was left sitting at the table by myself. My cigar had gone out so I lit it again and blew a big blue cloud of smoke over the table. This is when I noticed the guy and his friends at the other table staring at me. I lifted my shirt and rubbed my brass knuckles.

“Waitress,” I called, the husky waitress came running over. “Nice belly shirt,” I said. “How would you like to make fifty dollars?”

She nodded excitedly, her belly shaking like a bowl of jelly.

“Good,” I said, “here’s all you have to do…”

* * *

“You’re an asshole,” the guy at the next table that had called Luch a buffoon said after he’d wretched on the floor.

“Right,” I said, hurrying through the sports bar as he heaved on the floor again. “Thanks,” I said to the husky waitress with the belly shirt.

I was right a free beer opened in someone’s navel and then served with a planted piece of lint on the lip of the bottle was a very disgusting proposition. I just hope that sports bar doesn’t get sued and that the husky waitress is able to carry out her strange bottle opening act.

n my way out the door I was confronted by a police officer and like any good citizen I consented to a brief interview and left him my name.

“Sancho Panza Dulcinea? What kind of name is that?” the cop asked.

“Mexican-Italian, goes all the way back to the Roman days. I’d love to stay and chat but I have a roast in the oven,” I said hurrying off down the alley way.

I don’t think I’ll be going back to that sports bar again for a while.