Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting

I almost got into a fight this weekend. I say almost with just a hint of sadness.

To put it more accurately, the fight almost got into me.

On Saturday, Annie and I drove out to Kewanee, Illinois to have dinner and drinks with our friends Brian and Kimi. The town of Kewanee is not more than a blip on the radar, known for a monstrous furniture store that encompasses close to half of the downtown. It also has the only remaining Pabst Blue Ribbon franchised bar in the United States. So when we want something cool to drink, we go to Cerno's.

Walking into Cerno's, there is a frosted filigree with the letters PBR ornately emblazoned on the door of glass and heavy, dark wood. To your left is an old bank tellers booth where, in the early days of its existence, the tavern offered a check cashing service to its thirsty patrons. The floor below is a mosaic of stone squares and fifteen feet above it is a baroque display of tin and dusty chandeliers.

The bar is guarded by massive mahogany pillars, each bearing a carved angel. The cherubim wield trumpets, heralding the cold, refreshing beer that won the blue ribbon at the 1893 Worlds Fair. Back lit logos depicting the Pabst hop leaf remind you of the beer you should be drinking.

Things Were Going So Well

The night was going swimmingly, with vigorous chatter about weddings, school, work, and various other endeavors. Annie and Kimi were on one side of the booth, Brian and I on the other, shouting above the din that enveloped our ears. The bar was not full, but it had a half dozen imbibing patrons.

Brian was recounting a story he'd recently heard of Kurt Cobain's early years when Annie grabbed my arm from across the table.

“Chris. Chris! CHRIS!” Her voice escalated as her eyes widened, looking over my shoulder at some unknown danger. As I turned to see what had riled her, a tornado of women came plowing through the narrow bar, aimed directly at our booth.

The four women were drunkenly attempting to exact vengeance for some undisclosed insult by pulling hair, shoving bodies, and slapping whatever they could make contact with. They bounced through the aisle like a pinball of human destruction, inadvertently dragging others into their fray. By the time the brawl reached our unassuming location, there were four or five other people involved.

As I laid eyes on this mess of arms, hair, and insults, I realized that while these men and women were passionately defending themselves and their loved ones, they were not willing to put down their beverages. This made for a messy component of the quarrel that had found itself to our doorstep. Bottles of domestic beer spewed forth like dark amber volcanoes. Their golden, foamy magma erupted across the tumultuous terrain of the bar, falling to rest on our table, our pizza, and yes, on all of us. Unsure of how to proceed, Brian and I stood there, passively ensuring that no physical presence enter our little corner of the bar.

With the beer bottles emptied on our table, someone decided that the only use left for these glass carafes was for bludgeoning. In a high, overarm swing, we saw a man slam the base of a beer bottle into the back of another man's skull. With such force, I'd imagine that one or the other would have caved, but neither object seemed phased. Another bottle flew through the air, landing at my feet in tiny pieces. Imagining the damage that could be done with the dagger-like shards that remained, I slid the broken pieces under the booth and hoped no one would notice. The storm of drunken emotion seemed stalled in front of our table when the Kewanee police force arrived.

That's Our Cue, Exit Stage Left

Judging by the size of the town, I would argue that the majority of the police officers of the self appointed “Hog Capital of the World” were present. They began breaking up the fight, questioning people, and issuing citations. At that point, we decided to take our leave of our beloved Cerno's.

As we walked out, Brian leaned over and said,

“You always say you want to get into a fight. That was your chance.” A true statement, but I think I made the right choice. There were only a few probable outcomes to me joining that fray, and none looked promising:

1. I beat up a girl. I look like a jackass who hits women because he can't take on a real man. Some beefcake seeks retribution and I end up dying in the hog capital of the world.
2. I get my cranium crushed by a bottle of crappy, St. Louis brewed beer. At least if I am going to die at the hands of a beer, I want it to be a good one.
3. I survive the fray, only to be arrested for disturbing the peace, assault, or improper use of beer bottles. I spend a night in the Kewanee clink, next to a man charged with defacing a giant swine statue.

No matter how you cut it, this was not the fight I wanted to partake in. Not that I can really determine what an ideal fight would look like. I'd probably have ten of my biggest and closest friends with me, and I'd be hiding behind them yelling things like,

“Yeah, kick his ass!”

“Take that, punk!”

“That'll teach you!”

Until that day, I'll continue standing strong, ready to defend my family and friends from assault, but none-to-eager to dive into fisticuffs.

Junior McGinniss

I've always thought of myself as German. The name Walljasper comes from a region in Western Germany known as Westphalia. The story that has been told to me is that the Walljaspers came to America in the mid 1800's by way of the port of New Orleans, traveled up the Mississippi and finally landed on what is current day Southeast Iowa. A family of five - mother, father, and three brothers, from which the three clusters of Walljasper that currently reside in the various regions of Eastern Iowa hail.

But this weekend I heard a story of a less prevalent, if not just as spirited ethnicity that flows through my blood. The Irish.

My grandfather, Leroy Joseph Walljasper is the source for our families' Irish lineage. His mother, Maiden name McGinniss, was 100% emerald Isle. While visiting my own homeland (Donnellson, IA), Grandpa, sipping his whiskey, told me a story that reveals an interesting aspect of our family tree. This is a story about Junior McGinniss.

Junior, as my grandfather remembers it, was a man of considerable size. He was a farmer, as most of our family has been, so had a leathery toughness that one gets from long hours and extreme conditions. Junior worked hard, but like his work ethic, Junior knew how to have fun as well.

One of his favorite means of entertainment would be to play guitar at a family owned bar in New London, Iowa – The Farmers Tap. He and a pal named Buddy Jones would play almost every weekend at The Tap, which meant, as a boy in the 1940's, Leroy would be allowed to accompany his parents into town for the evening. The Alamo, a movie theater sat across the street from the tavern, so all the kids would dart across the two lane thoroughfare, pay their 25 cents, and be content for a few hours as they escaped the realities of their prepubescent lives. After the films, they'd return to the The Farmers Tap.

The band would still be rocking when they returned, but the owner let them sit along the wall and watch until the night was over. As grandpa recounts, this could be more entertaining than the features they watched at The Alamo.

They'd watch the people dancing, flirting, and drinking. They'd see their parents, affectionately carousing. And sometimes, they'd see a few folks get a little too lit, get into a disagreement, and then they'd watch as the whole thing dissolved into fisticuffs.

When fights broke out, Junior and Buddy stepped in. They served not only as the entertainment, but also as the security muscle. Grandpa remembers six concrete steps that led up to the front door of The Farmers Tap, and when Junior McGinniss and Buddy got a hold of you, you missed everyone of them as you sailed out the front door and landed squarely on your keister.

By midnight, most of the domestic types had indulged their fill. They paid their tabs, collected their coats and children, and made their way home. For Junior and Buddy however, the night was still young. They'd proceeded an additional twenty five miles through back country roads to Burlington, then across the bridge, into Gulfport, Illinois. Gulfport, to this day, is synonymous with one thing in Southeast Iowa. Strip clubs.

That is where my Grandfathers story ends, but I'm sure that there are many more anecdotes about Junior, Buddy, and all the rest of my Irish forebears.

As I listened to his story unfold, I couldn't help but be drawn into his tale. My grandfather, farmer by trade, has a way of telling a story that catches your attention, makes you lean in close to catch every detail, and lands the punchline at just the right moment, every time. It's something about the cadence of his voice, the word play that is a part of the rural vernacular of Southeast Iowa, or the pure joy that comes from Grandpa as he tells these stories, but I could listen to them for hours. Maybe they're not near as interesting to people who don't know Leroy Walljasper, but I find them as enthralling as any I've ever heard.

My friend Brian Wilcoxon, upon hearing this story, was so inspired that he wrote a song about old Junior McGinniss. In my opinion, it perfectly captures the essence of the story.


Junior McGinniss

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Now sit ye' right down

And I’ll tell ye' a tale 

Of young Junior McGinniss 

That I knew so well 

Young men came to hear  

From miles around 

The boy’s sweet guitar 

and its curious sound 

He’d play for the lads

And he’d play for the lasses

At every song’s end 

He’d drink down two glasses 

And toast to the dancers 

Who’d cheer him by name 

And say “Junior McGinniss 

So glad that you came!” 

He’d sing about future

He’d sing about past 

And he’d play on til dawn and the 

Sunday’s first mass 

And the priest during prayer

Would give quite a yawn 

From drinking the dear blood  

Of Christ all night long 

Young Junior he really  

Could be quite a cuss 

A pain in the arse 

He could be when he must 

All the rounders who came in

To spoil his fun  

He’d throw down seven steps 

without touching a-one

When the dancin’ wore down

He’d pull out a jug

Of the good ole white gin

That he made in his tub

And we’d sing him a song

And young Junior’d get down

And go dancin’ and dancin

All over the town

 

Young Junior McGinniss

Is “young Junior” no more

He’s old and he’s grown

And moved on past the shore

But i know that no days

Will no happier be

Than with Junior McGinniss’

Time here with me

The Fight or Flight Dichotomy

I am not a violent man. I have to say that, if confronted with a physical altercation, My first impulse would be to run for my life. It's a survival instinct. I've always been skinny and unassuming, so it seems like the logical choice. But in recent years, an alternative impetus has begun to emerge.

I almost came to blows with a large man in an F-350 extended cab today. He tried to turn in front of me as I was passing through an already precarious intersection, and almost decimated my wife's Prius. Having already had a stress filled day, I'd had enough. As he screeched to a halt across the nose of my hybrid, I laid on my horn and shook my fist while my wife gestured irreverently. From the navy blue cab emerged a huge black man. His head was shaved, his face contorted into a menacing grimace, and his t-shirt could hardly contain the overflow of muscles packed into his arms. He loomed over the roof of the pickup with a scowl that could have bore a hole in my forehead. The behemoth began his march around the bed of the truck, towards my Toyota, and everything slowed to a crawl as I began to assess the situation. I was so livid that this man dare cut me off, let alone think he had the right of way. My initial reaction was to reach for my seat belt, go toe to toe with this linebacker of a man, and explain to him the traffic laws of our great state. He would see that he's fucked with the wrong skinny white dude today, and he'd get back in his truck and drive away.

Instead, as the surly giant lumbered out of his vehicle, Annie broke me from my paralysis with a commanding,

“Chris? Drive. NOW!”

With that, I snapped out of my daydream of virility and laid on the accelerator, getting as far away from that meathead as I could. My rational pacifism had returned to save my neck again. But will this sense of chivalry and physicality return again?

It seems that in the past five years or so, there has been an almost carnal impulse to defend, confront, and retaliate using force. In the past, I'd never consider it, as my self-esteem was fairly low, and my ability to envision a fist fight that didn't result in my bloody remains on the sidewalk was nonexistent.

When I was in the seventh grade, I played soccer. Our team was good, as middle school soccer teams go. We even won the district championship that year. But practices were rough. One teammate in particular made it his goal to push, poke, prod, and provoke me to the breaking point. And one day, while waiting in line for a drill, he succeeded.

He'd been punching me in the arm, repetitively, for about ten minutes. Small, consistent blows to the same spot on my dilapidated deltoid. Finally, I couldn't take it any more, and I pushed him away. I swung back my arm, my hand balled up in a little round clump of fingers and knuckles, loosely organized into a fist and let loose the hardest, most devastating blow possible. It landed on the bully's shoulder, then bounced to a rest at my side. I checked to see the result of my fury, and found only mirth and condescension. More out of shame than the physical pain he had inflicted, I began to tear up, so I ran to the locker room to avoid any further torture.

That incident had a lasting impression on my fight or flight instincts. Maybe it is the film industry that makes me feel that I've slacked in my ass kicking duties as a man in this country. Maybe, as I grow more comfortable with who I am, I will continue to stop people from pushing me around.

Whatever the reason, I've found myself appealing to fisticuffs other times as well. There was a time when my cousin and I went to a local bar in the Quad Cities to get a beer and watch a band we'd heard about. We got there and Adam went to the bar to get some drinks. After a while, he returned irritated, no drinks in hand. Without an ID, it seemed, the bar tender was unwilling to chance serving alcohol to a minor.

I then went up and got a beer. They eyed me suspiciously, as they'd seen me with Adam. After a few moments of enjoying the music and conversation, Adam got up in a huff, irritated by something.

“This is bullshit. I'll be right back.”

I watched him approach the end of the bar and begin what appeared to be a heated conversation with the bartender. Soon two gigantic men entered the discourse, at the behest of the server. It looked as if they were about to forcibly remove my cousin from the premises. That is when I realized that I had a filial duty to become involved and protect my family. As I approached the discussion, my mind went to the movies, where one person gets into a fight at a bar, and his friends are obligated to jump into the fray and bail him out. I came to the meeting with my nerves steeled, anticipating the worst. I stepped into the circle and asked Adam, in a tone that made it evident I was here for support,

“Is everything alright here?”

Adam then explained to me these gentlemen had been giving him threatening looks from across the bar, and that he would not stand for being treated in such a reproachful manner. He demanded they leave him alone. It needs to be said that my cousin is a bit more tempestuous than I, and does not have a problem flaring up in the heat of the moment. While I cannot attest to the validity of his argument that night, and I did not relish the idea of getting my face turned into ground hamburger, part of me was ready to step into the fray and offer a valiant attempt at coming to my friends defense.

Luckily the conversation calmed down, and we left the bar unscathed. But this is one more incident that leads me to wonder if I am somehow hardwired to a visceral desire for expressing this physical dominance. The feeling is by no means pervasive, but it does seem to flourish in times of extreme adrenaline rush. Is this brought on by something inherent, or is it something that is merely a product of the media, my learned response to “what a man should do when faced with a conflict”?

I am no more physically capable of defending myself in a brawl than I was in the seventh grade, save being a few feet taller. But maybe my change in self awareness and perception of the world over the past decade has given me this new aggression towards those who've caused me injustice. I don't know if I'll ever use it, but knowing it's there, somewhere in my core, is comforting.

So don't think you can push around us scrawny little white guys. We may look nerdy, but who knows what kind of fight we have inside.