By Logan
During my shift at Network Coffee House last Monday, one guest punched another in the face three times not more than six feet in front of me.
One
Two
Three
"Motherfucker. That'll teach you. Bitch.”
Did he spit?
Me: "Casper, you're out for a year and you need to go now."
Hollywood doesn't capture the sound of a face being punched, or the stupid, straightforward simplicity of violence.
How to describe violence? Mechanically? The rise and fall of a fist: one-two-three. From the point of view of the man assaulted? How he accepted the blows. How his arm came up to defend himself, but perhaps half-heartedly. How he shrank into himself after the assault. How he disconnected from everyone around him. Solitary. Or should we ask questions about the trauma of the man who did the punching? What spring feeds the well of this rage? What does it tell us about the brokenness of our human institutions?
Perhaps I could reveal my own fear. My hesitation to become a target for violence. How I hoped it would end. How I waited, looked for openings, for possibility, for reason, for support. How I pleaded, "Casper, please go now," and hoped his violence wasn't looking for another face.
Disassociating during the event, I observed myself: Is this good for me? How am I being changed? Is this normal? Who can understand this? My wife? My therapist? Perhaps the volunteers on my shift. Soldiers feel this way.
I don't tell my wife. Before she goes to bed she asks, "What's up? Are you doing okay," and I smile a little without feeling it and say, "Yes," without meaning it. "You know, just coming down from Network," I lie, but not because violence is on my mind. It is not on my mind at all. Somehow it is barely remembered. It is far from me.
I am far from myself.
I will process later in conversation, in writing, in daydreams. But at the end of the day on Monday, I'll lie awake until one or two in the morning dazed by vicarious trauma, intermittently wondering how Colin is feeling, wishing I could be present to him now but with the knowledge that I have nothing to offer but silence.