The Best Defense is an Ex-Con Named Jim

You know what it's like, 3 a.m., and you're lying there, dreaming the impossible dream of actually dreaming, trying to trick yourself into slumber, and your brain starts tossing random memories at you just for fun, and you figure you might as well relive a few because it's not like you're actually going to fall asleep anyway with the Needy Cat (who has magically sensed you're awake and unlikely to move) laying on your chest, pawing at you desperately for attention? Or maybe that's just me; it's probably best not to be presumptuous. I'm told that some people can go entire years without being sat on by desperate house cats at 3 a.m.

Probably a fair representation of
my mental card catalog at 3 a.m.

Anyway, while petting the Needy Cat, my brain went back into the Junior High section of the mental card catalog (filed between "Inner Circles of Hell" and "Just Kill Me Now") and pulled out this little treasure. For most of us, even those without Needy Cats, many of the Junior High cards are perfect for 3 a.m. review, because they're stained in embarrassment, smeared liberally with social failure, and tinted the pale greenish hue of cringe. In a random act of kindness, however, my brain selected the story of How I Learned Self-Defense.

The experts are all very, very clear on the art of self-defense. Don't make yourself a target. Be aware of your surroundings. Wear sensible shoes. Make a lot of noise. Run away. Fight if you have to, but concentrate on making yourself a challenging target. Buy some pepper spray. Trust your instincts. Get security to walk you to your car.

The experts never met my father. (If they had, they would have likely implemented all of their own advice. He was kind of a scary dude.)

Portraits in Extreme Awkwardness:
A Stone Cold Clarinetist,
Circa 1983

So, let's set the scene. I'm twelve years old, staying with my dad for the summer in South Texas. Tall for my age, frizzy spiral perm. I am not athletic. I am so not athletic that when my mother tried to corner Coach Bailey in 7th grade to see about getting me into basketball, the coach talked her out of it by saying that some people are just not meant to play competitive sports, probably the first and only time in recorded history that a coach has tried to talk someone out of physical activity. I am the nerdy kid who bikes into town to the library to check out stacks of murder mysteries every week and practices the clarinet for hours. My lifetime record in flex arm hang is .0009 seconds and on a good day, I can do at least ten push-ups, as long as you let me keep my knees on the ground. Sarah Connor I am not.

One day, I was reading another Agatha Christie novel in the office of my dad's welding company, Universal Fabricators. He called me outside and introduced me to Jim, who was either a client or a drinking buddy, or possibly both. I'm not entirely sure I want to know how they knew each other, frankly. It is perhaps a comfort that Craig's List didn't exist in the 80's.

Anyway, Dad pointed out that, as a young woman, I might at some point need to defend myself from overly fresh dates. So, logically, he found Jim, who had fortunately been recently released from prison for an unspecified violent offence, to teach me to defend myself from frisky suitors, rapists, or what have you.

Kind of like this book, except without
the unnecessary three letters
in front of the word"violence"

There we were, on the concrete parking lot of Universal Fabricators in July, ready for a one-hour, hands-on mini-class. Both of my instructors were clearly of the opinion that the best defense was a good offense. We started with a brief review of soft tissues and how to pull, twist, and pound them (Lesson 1: Inflicting Pain on Your Handsy Date). Next, we looked at joints and how to make them bend in ways they were never intended to (Lesson 2: No Means Do-It-Again-And-I-Maim-You). There was a lengthy digression into the face, and how difficult it is to continue aggressively groping your date after she has gouged out your eyeballs and smashed in your nose (Lesson 3: You Should Probably Stop Making Out and Call an Ambulance and Also Pick Up Your Eyeballs Before the Cat Gets Them). The final lesson was entirely theoretical, because both of my instructors acknowledged that, regrettably, as a preteen girl, I was unlikely to ever actually produce enough force to kill a man, but, being thorough, they instructed me in the technique (Lesson 4: Hello, Jail!), just in case I should ever bulk up and have a date who was undeterred by his aching groin, broken knees, and missing eyeballs, and I had enough adrenaline and/or murderous rage to go Uma Thurman on him. I would imagine these lessons would have also served me well in prison, had I ever actually used them.

What amazes me most about this particular memory is that at the time, it did not seem all that odd that my father had found a violent criminal to teach his preteen daughter how to kill a man. This is either a reflection on either my father's level of crazy or my own tolerance for "odd."

Needless to say, I've never had cause to use any of the valuable instructional content in that long-ago lesson. The only overly frisky date I had suffered a firm hand removal, followed by a swift and decisive telephone break-up, followed by a couple of really awkward months of being ignored in Calculus, and that was pretty much the end of it. I have teen and preteen daughters, and I don't plan to put an ad on Craig's List ("Wanted: Scary ex-con to teach the use of force to minors, must produce proof of violent criminal record"). I'm fairly sure most of that lesson has faded into oblivion (besides the part about the eyeballs, which was too disturbing to forget).

Nevertheless, at 3 a.m., my brain can still pull out that file from the card catalog and convince me that, should the need arise, I may somehow still have the knowledge to kill a man, despite being completely unable to deter a fifteen pound Needy Cat...which is at least a more empowering memory than most in the Junior High section.

Go ahead and try to move me, I dare you!