Trouble can usually be expected when darkness rules on a mean street in a rough part of town. In such situations we expect the worse and are pleased if fate determines that stressful happenings will not cross our paths. Unfortunately, adversity will oft time sneak up and smite us during the most benign of circumstances. Such was the case in Cornerbrook, Newfoundland outside a Wal-Mart Store. Three punks provoked me and I was initially caught unawares. It was on a busy Saturday and I was telephoning home from a pay phone in front of the store when the punks started shaking the booth violently.

I am no longer young. My time of magnificent response has passed. No revolver is holstered at my hip and no blue uniform proclaims my authority. These punks did not know I had spent thirty plus years on the streets. They cared not a damn. I was obviously perceived as old, weak and vulnerable or these hooligans would not have decided to give me a hard time. The sensible thing to do would have been to walk away and to live another day and enjoy my rights as a grandfather. No one would suggest that such action was cowardly. Sure, I would consider myself a milquetoast, however, eventually that too, would pass. These kids were approximately a quarter of my age. They were healthy, fit and looked very big. On the other hand with my years of training and experience I thought maybe, just maybe, I could come out ahead in this incident. Unfortunately, there was no back up available. To win I would have to play the game perfectly and at some point ride a tiger. When that point was reached, when there was no going back, could I survive such an encounter without injury? What was the correct solution? How would my brain and body react? Why was I slowly weighing the consequences, evaluating my chances and running through various possibilities? Was I actually relishing this confrontation? I was scared, of course. Was I taking the situation too lightly? All those years of street experience were egging me on and not allowing me to turn away. I remembered my father’s remarks that only fools get medals. Which way would the pendulum swing? Either possibility would be a first. Would discretion and common sense let me turn and walk or, for the first time on “Civy Street”, had a riderless tiger stealthily meandered into this window of my existence?

Of the three punks, one tall and hefty fellow continued to slap the booth. The others had given up and were sharing a roach.

I evaluated the youth:

• Could I physically take him on and win a prolonged altercation? No.
• Could I produce a well-aimed blow and fell the brute? Maybe.
• Regardless of the law, the Queensbury Rules and Dudley Doright, the first person to strike another with a solid blow, usually the very first punch, will win the fight 99% of the time. If my first blow was not sufficient to knock this sucker down, could I out run the long-legged punk? No.
• Was I being ridiculous even considering a fight? Definitely, yes.
• Should I prepare for a possible donnybrook? Another definite yes.

I carry a spare set of keys with me when I travel. They are on a lace around my neck. The keys are not only a back up for lost items but also an easily accessed weapon. The keys are jagged by manufacture and when on a lace give you another 12 inches of arm length. If swung at the face they can discourage most attackers. The injury caused is sufficient to initiate a retreat. I took the keys off my neck and looped them on my left hand. My other set of keys was placed between the fingers of my right hand so they protruded as ugly knuckle-dusters. This weapon was hidden in my coat pocket. I now hoped I would not have to use them but felt secure in their presence and position.

Yes, I know these thoughts were basic and almost animal like. I offer no excuse. This was required thinking to ensure survival.

I stepped out of the telephone booth and was immediately face to face with the punk.

I was now riding a tiger.

Rules in these situations are: Do not show fear. Do not raise your voice Stand sideways to your opponent because you are then a smaller target. Stay out of the opponent’s area of reach until you strike. If possible, divide the opposition. Ensure your back is not exposed. Take the first positive action. Once the objective is obtained, leave immediately.

My heart was beating so fast that I thought it would explode.
I had decided previously what to say so I slowly articulated the words:
“You are an as***le, son. Fortunately, I don’t deal with children, clowns, fools or virgins and you fall into every category.”

The roach smokers roared with high-pitched and unnatural laughter. The punk coloured and then as I disregarded a cardinal rule and turned Matador style to walk away, he yelled, “Old F****r!” It didn’t matter; the game was almost over.

With every tendon stretched, all muscles tightened and nerves jangled, I awaited a hand on my shoulder or a blow to my back. The laced keys turned into a weapon were out in front of me and hidden from the punk. If needed, they could scar a cheek or puncture a testicle. It seemed an eternity before I eventually reached my car then, at long last, I turned and unlocked the door. I now faced the punk some 20 yards away.

Yes, I was “ghost scared” throughout this incident. It was at least fifteen minutes before I calmed down and it took half an hour to return to a normal and rational thought process. The chance taken was far too risky for the final effect. To have placed myself in jeopardy, with the possibility of injury, simply to win a pathetic point was ridiculous. Regardless, I was pleased with myself. Unbelievably, I realized it had been exciting to be on the mean streets once again.

Mind you, The editor and chief constable, my wife, Donna, does not believe me. She thinks I would try such shenanigans again. I know I won’t because I’m now too old, too slow and too comfortable to do such foolish things without getting paid for them.