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Before I was a Stag I was a Penguin at Clark Community College in Vancouver, WA. A high school friend and I rented an apartment together at St John’s Estates, a low income apartment complex that would have been better named Meth Place. My neighbor, big sexy Erving, a fellow basketball player, had this roommate, Cedric, who is the biggest douchebag I know to date. I once walked in on his chubby little fingers stealing from our freezer. He had the door open and when I jokingly patted him down I found plastic sealed steaks in his waistband. The grapevine tells me he has a decent business in Seattle these days stealing credit cards. In May of my freshman year I dropped Erv and Ced off at the apartment after playing some ball. Before I had a chance to drive away, Ced jumped onto my car, putting a 230lb dent in the front left panel of my sweet 1996 Turquoise Ford Escort… the LX model. Being the gangster I once was, I couldn’t let this slide. I slid out of the door, a smooth criminal, walked over to Ced’s much nicer, newer, Nissan Maxima and introduced it to the bottom of my Nike’s. My philosophy: a broken arm is a broken arm no matter how pretty the lady is. Ced didn’t share that philosophy.
When Ced came close enough to witness the damage to his car, he immediately turned around, strutted to my Escort and started putting size 12 dents in the best Christmas present I’ve ever received. Things were escalating quickly. Now I’m not a thug, nor have I ever been one, but I did keep a knife in my glove compartment for practical uses. And while Erv pulled Ced from my car I jumped in to find it. Yet what I came out with was far from a knife. The idea of actually stabbing someone didn’t sit well with my conscience, so instead I grabbed a heavy glass spaghetti holder sitting in the passenger seat. I’m not entirely sure why it was there, but I do remember it was noodle-less, much like my decisions that day.
Ced realized I had a “weapon,” and with this burst of energy broke free from Erv, running into the house. That’s when I started getting nervous. He could have grabbed a knife, a gun, a crossbow, shit, another spaghetti holder for all I knew, but it didn’t matter. The pride inside of me couldn’t run away. Then, well, you know those moments that aren’t really funny but then something so ridiculous happens you can’t help but laugh? I didn’t laugh then, but when Ced came flying out of the house with a can of Pam, the crowd of ghetto bystanders collapsed with laughter. I mean, dude ran at me with a can of Pam. A can of Pam that you grease the skillet with before making blueberry pancakes on Sunday. Are you kidding me? He didn’t even try to spray me- I guess an oily Alex would be more difficult to fight.
What Ced did end up doing was chucking the yellow and red can at me, which took an excellent Matrix dodge to avoid. He followed the throw with propositions to fight and a whole lot of shit talk about how he was going to knock me out. He probably would have if I tried to see him one on one. Chief had clubs for arms. Lucky for me though, in third grade I learned fighting huge people isn’t smart when now Nebraska lineman Ndamukong Suh whooped me worse than the Stags did Pomona this year.
Eventually things started to simmer out when it became clear I wasn’t going to give myself up for a beat down. My heart rate was slow as I began leaving the parking lot, feeling emasculated in a dented Escort- no scars to show, glass spaghetti holder on my lap. And then… BOOM!! It sounded like a gunshot and everyone dropped to the ground except Ced who was now barreling towards my car. The sound: The can of Pam exploding under an old Caddy tire. It was almost as loud as the sound of Ced’s tree trunk legs smashing my right door in. He literally sprinted and did a flying drop kick to a moving car. I wish I had a video of it because he was thrown to the ground and popped up like a wide receiver too embarrassed to be concussed. I stopped just out of shock for a second then drove away, but in hindsight I probably should have backed up and ran over his punk ass. We don’t always make the best decisions though. I made it home shortly after and sadly realized you can’t pull out a dent if the metal has actually been stretched. Fucking Ford.
I now look back at that day and think, man, I don’t know If I’ll ever be around crazy people like that again. Folks at CMC were simply raised to be too nice. So in the future, maybe invite a crazy friend down to start some nonsense? This guy needs some stories and I know a few people that could use a dent or two.