Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches — literally
I’ve been knocked out twice in my life. The first time was while I was working at my Pop’s service station in 1972. Back then you pumped gas, checked the oil, and washed the windshield. One frigid February morning, it was too cold to wash windows. The cleaning solution I used would only leave the windows worse by freezing on contact. I assumed, incorrectly, that people knew this. After putting in two dollars of Sunoco 190 in a car with a couple of guys in it, I went to the driver to collect the money. He looked at me with anger in his eyes and said, “Wash that window, boy.”
I turned on my heel to go get my towel and solution. I wanted to oblige him even though I was pissed about it. I woke up on the floor with a ripped shirt to see my father threatening the guy with a hefty wrench. The man left without paying. Dad chewed my ass over it. He assumed I was at fault in some way.
The second time was in the parking lot of a Burger King where I’d gone for lunch. Another customer who had pulled in next to me accused me of giving him “dirty looks” and punched me in the head. I was down for the count and came to, bewildered. The man was gone. What had I done to provoke him, I thought?
