An American Lion

Kittens Fighting For Supremacy

There used to be a man who paraded up and down the street where I worked. I called him Mr. Insane Homeless Person. He wore an orange sweatshirt and garbage bags—fifty or sixty garbage bags—and he threw urine at people who didn’t give him change. He bit a man on the ankle who worked in our client services department and the man had to have a rabies shot in his abdomen. Or was it tetanus? I’m certain Peej would remember, were he around to tell me the answer.

Then there was this fellow called Mr. Phlegm. He was constantly spitting and clearing his throat and swinging a bag full of old, broken calculators around. He was usually dressed in coveralls and a poncho—does anyone remember seeing him? They say he was an accountant with Arthur Andersen back in the days when AA was actually a choice place to work. Some say he lost his mind working on a client that had ties to the movie business—movie business accounting is more of a leap of faith into the unknown than it is a matter of actually tracking numbers and making them add up.

Mr. Phlegm had a “bumfight” one day with a man who wore two orange roadcones on his shoulders and called himself “No Parking Zone.” I invented the term “bumscuffle” and I always thought that what we were seeing was more of a scuffle, not a fight, but I digress.

They commenced to fighting one day as I was walking to lunch with several of my slap-happy and useless junior partners. This was in the days when, as I have pointed out, unattended bodies were abundant, helicopters were shooting at people who tried to swim in the Hudson River and there were no cops on the streets. Mr. Phlegm blinded “No Parking Zone” and threw one of his road cones onto a passing garbage truck. They grappled for a while, threw weak punches that drew catcalls from those of us who can appreciate a decent bumfight and then scrambled into an alley after the Chinese restaurant threw out their morning trash. I wish I had had the foresight to film these daily brawls in the streets of New Jack City, as it was once known. I could have made millions marketing these delightful bumfights-type videos that people love so much. Whatever happened to those? I wish I could lay my hands on some.

The ideal video contains violence, screaming, blood and an abundance of cheering from people who instinctively cover their face any time the camera swings around towards them. If I have time, I will go into the editing bay and help with the editorial decisions that go into structuring a good video. I will add sound effects, like cracking stalks of celery and smacking a big slab of ham with a wooden spoon each time a combatant hits their opponent. I’ve heard bones break in real life, and they make a distinctive sound. Unfortunately, most Americans have never been involved in lethal hand to hand fighting and don’t understand what things really sound like. Take it from a badass like me—it sounds like something from another planet.

Another excellent sound effect is the sound a frying pan full of hot grease makes when it hits a saucepan full of marbles. The underlying soundtrack is also important. Rather than use classical music or showtunes, I use a pre-recorded loop of heavy metal songs, sped up and distorted with a Q-tip placed on the tape machine rollers. It does not sound bad, actually. Disturbing, of course. But bad?

Not really, not really.

One of the most gripping and audacious bumscuffles I ever saw was in Times Square. Never mind why I was there. Grubs McGee and Wheelchair Sam faced off against each other for a full half an hour before one of those rent-a-cops on a horse broke it up. Grubs used a pliers, a shoe and a trash bag to knock Wheelchair Sam off his game. Wheelchair Sam, for those of you who haven’t been to New York City, was an iconic fixture in the neighborhood. He claimed to have had his legs taken off by a sadistic interrogator in a North Korean prison camp.

Actually, he was a forgetful diabetic. I do not relish the days of watching bumscuffles and placing small wagers on the outcome with complete strangers. I do not miss the days of weirdos and freaks being in charge of who could walk on whatever part of the sidewalk. There is no nostalgia for the days of wondering whether to shoot someone in the leg and run for the nearest brightly lit bodega. New York City is now a liveable place, and Rudy made it so. I used to relish the thought of Rudy being President.

Finally, let me address the issue of wagering on a bumscuffle. Wagering on bumscuffles is not a crime per se, at least, not if the two parties engaged in said transaction do so without intent to profit outrageously and then work behind the scenes to encourage the bumscuffle or to affect its outcome. I have been known to toss pieces of plywood, detached rebar or heavy stones towards combatants and yell at them to ‘cowboy up’ but I did so only because I believe in the spirit of competition.

I claim the mantle of having invented the word and the term “bumscuffle,” even though it really wasn’t that original. I just liked the term, because it sounded gritty without being frightening. Two bums, scuffling for petty cash, harmless, really. I went so far as to trademark the name, the rights in perpetuity, and the licensing of the term. I wanted “bumscuffle” to be another “Just Do It.”

Sadly, it never took off.