A Tale of Two Biceps

October 5th, 2002 Posted in 2002

Walking into my apartment later at night, I’m met by two really drunk guys in the elevator. I’m reading, so I don’t much think of them beyond the fact that they seem pretty potted and surly. The one guy, in a grungy old ball cap and cheap clothes, is chewing out his skinnier drug-addict counterpart.

“I’m tellin’ you, man,” he slurs, leaning an arm against the wall for balance. “Next time you got trouble, you let me know. I’ll straighten ‘em out for you. Tha’s what I’m here for, man. I live for that kind of thing. I am THERE for you with that, man. Seriously. TELL me.”

His frankly non-impressive size doesn’t seem to in any way back up his “I kick ass” claim, but I’ve by now gotten so used to late-night Toronto drunk-talk that I don’t even pay attention. Nose deep in a book, I block them out and wait for the elevator. Whatever their deal is, I couldn’t care less about it.

The elevator dings. I let them step in first, following them in. Press the button for my floor. go back to the book. Out of the corner of my attention, I hear “Feel my arm, dude,” but don’t register it. Whatever shenanigans they’re up to, they’re more than welcome to engage in them. I’m off in a few floors anyway.

Suddenly a bicep is thrust under my nose. I look up, confused, and backpeddle the memory a little. I vaguely recall a request for someone to feel someone else’s bicep. Ah. Apparently that was all me. I’M supposed to feel this drunk, machismo-and-Pabst-fueled idiot’s bicep.

I feel the bicep obligingly. It feels like a bicep. It’s not large, or in any way worthy, in my opinion, of showing off to complete strangers. Still, it IS a bicep. Fits right on his arm and everything.

“Very nice,” I say with a nod. Taking this for the admittal of his Herculean powers that it most assuredly was, he commences to flex his meager business all over the elevator. “You see, man?! you SEE?” he says, as if my bicep-squeeze was the final piece of evidence to tip the scales. “I can look out for you, man. I will fuck… shit… UP!” Again, he flexes all over the place. I’m not exactly SCARED. He’s not that big. However, I am apprehensive, since he IS, big or not, clearly all about fighting.

The skinny drug addict friend, noticing my confused stare, pokes HIS bicep in my face.

“Here, here! Feel MINE now!” he says, all nervous laughter. He’s hoping to diffuse what has apparently now becoming a situation, God bless him. The elevator’s on the third floor and climbing.

“Well, that one’s nice too,” I say, feeling like their mother. (”You’re BOTH my little heroes!”) I am bewildered and just want to get back to my book. Mainly I’m unclear what it is they want from me. A fight? Friendship? More bicep-touching? Trophies for “Best Fighting-Type Drunk-N’-Stuff Guys”? I’m baffled. They REALLY didn’t have the enormous size to back up what they’re bullshitting here.

“Brother—I want you to do me a favour,” says the “big” one. He’s still, against all reason, flexing all over the place.

“You got it,” I say, trying not to smile.

“I want you to spell ‘okay’ backwards.”

Sixth floor and climbing.

“Alright,” I say, thinking. “Y… A… K… O. There.”

“THAT’S RIGHT!” he says, punching the side of the elevator. “K.O.! K.O., baby! I am a fucking DEATH warrant, brother! I am a –”

It is precisely now that he figures out I haven’t actually spelled K.O., and have thus, accidentally, made him look like a complete and total idiot. His eyes cloud. Close into slits. Whoops.

“You some kind of smart guy?” he says. Drug addict looks at the floor.

“I guess,” I say. “That’s how it’s spelled and everything.”

Ninth floor. My floor. The elevator stops with a jolt and the doors open.

“I think it’s time for you to go now,” he says, pointing ominously at the door. “I’m tired of you.” It’s obvious he’s trying to salvage a little tough-guy dignity in front of his friend, making it out like he’s ORDERING me off the elevator. It’s kind of sad, really. It was the floor I’d WANTED to get off on. I’d pushed the button for it. But no. We had to play it like I was slinking out of the elevator early to avoid the big bad man and his big bad not-terribly-impressive biceps.

“Sure,” I say, exiting.

He nods. All is right with the world.

“I’m sure you two want to be alone with your biceps, anyway,” I can’t resist adding, and am pleased to see him lunge at the door just as it closes.

Morons. I am many things when I’m drunk, this I admit. But if I ever start going up to people asking them to feel my arms, I want you to hit me in the head as hard as you can. Promise me this. Promise me I will never be on my drunkest day as punishingly stupid as that guy.