Chicken Sandwiches & Humble Pie

 

     I was twenty years old, and my bloodstream was about seventy percent tequila and thirty percent trauma. That particular cocktail made me a walking Molotov, ready to ignite at the smallest spark. Confidence wasn't the word for it- no, I strutted through life like an unhinged rooster in high heels, feathers puffed, chest out, daring anyone to come at me sideways. And trust me, plenty did. 

     The Steel Monkey night club was my church back then. Sticky floors, thumping bass, smoke that clung to your hair no matter how much shampoo you threw in it later. My friends and I worshipped at its alter with cheap shots, bad dancing, and the kind of laughter that could peel paint off the walls. We didn't go out to blend in; we went to announce ourselves. Every table, every floor, every goddamn bathroom stall knew we had arrived. 

     By closing time, the ritual was carved into our bones: pile into the car, music blasting, voices shrieking, and head straight to Burger King. Greasy chicken sandwiches were our sacred offering to the hangover gods. That night, like all the others, we pulled into the drive-thru like a parade of banshees. Singing, laughing, borderline screaming, we were obnoxious with a capital O. It wasn't just us though- the car ahead was just as loud, their windows rolled down, a chorus of drunken nonsense spilling into the night. 

     That's when it all unraveled. From their car, sharp and venomous, came the words: "Shut the fuck up!"

     That was it. No thinking. No pause. No filter. My whole body went rigid like a dog hearing the word "squirrel."

     I was rage wrapped in hoop earrings. My mouth went off before my brain even clocked in. "You shut the fuck up!' I screamed, shoving the car door open so hard it bounced back. In one motion, I was out, standing there on the cracked asphalt like some gladiator in platforms.

     Back then, I wasn't just a hothead, I was the whole damn furnace. I'd never been challenged, never been the one to back down. My fuse was microscopic, my fists faster than my words, and my words were already lightning fast. I was ready. Or at least, I thought I was. 

     Because then she stepped out. 

     And holy hell.

     This woman unfolded from the car like a myth come to life, some kind of curly-haired Goliath. In my tequila soaked vision, she was Paul Bunyan in Doc Martins, a towering oak tree wrapped in leather and fury. Her hair alone could've had its own postal code; thick, curly, parted in the middle like it was splitting the sea itself. She looked down at me, and I swear the air shifted. For the first time in my life, fear actually tapped me on the shoulder and whispered "Bitch, it was you, who should of shut the fuck up."

     She squared up, eyes locked on mine, and in the calmest deadliest tone I'd ever heard, she asked "Are you sure you wanna do this?"

     And here's the thing- I didn't. Not even a little bit. Not with my whole drunk ass soul. I looked up at her, swallowed whatever pride I had left, and squeaked, "No, I do not." Then I turned right around and climbed back into the car like a toddler sent to time-out. 

     That, ladies and gentlemen, was my very first slice of humble pie. And let me tell you- it went down like gravel.

     I worked at the hottest bar in the city. The Boo Pub. The kind of place that was bumping every night, where live bands met two dollar pints, and fights broke out faster than you could light your cigarette. I wasn't slinging drinks yet; I was the ticket girl at the front door. Cute little gig right? Except when the lineup stretched down the block, everyone sweaty, drunk and impatient, and you were the one standing guard with nothing but a roll of tickets and a plastic smile. 

     That night the line was massive, curling around the building. I was taking money and handing out stubs like a robot when I heard yelling. Loud, heated, angry yelling. My head snapped up like a meerkat. Out front, near the door, I saw Daryl- the doorman, built like a brick wall, quite literally- arguing with someone. 

     I squinted. And then my stomach dropped.

     It was her.

     The curly haired Paul Bunyan woman. The same Amazonian goddess I'd stupidly tried to square up with in the Burger King drive-thru.

     Daryl was holding his ground, arms crossed, voice booming "You're barred. You're not coming in here." She was protesting, hands flying, her voice breaking with desperation. "Come on, Daryl! Please. All my friends are inside. I swear I'll behave. Please!"

     And there it was- fate dropping me into the ring again, but this time without tequila armor. Just me, sober, small, standing there with a stack of tickets and the memory of my tail tucked between my legs. 

     I don't know what came over me, but my feet moved before my brain could argue. I left my post, pushed past a couple of drunk regulars in the line, and walked straight outside. My voice came out steady, louder than I expected. "It's ok Daryl. She's with me. I'll take responsibility."

     Both of them turned to look at me.

     Daryl's brow furrowed, confused. Hers- oh, hers lit up like someone had just handed her the winning lottery ticket. Recognition flashed across her face, and then, unbelievably, she smiled. 

     "You," she said softly, almost laughing.

     "Me," I answered.

     And before I could brace myself, she scooped me into a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. All that size, all that power, wrapped around me not with violence, but with gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered, over and over. "Thank you."

     From that moment on, we weren't enemies. We were allies.

     She became my unexpected protector in that wild, volatile world. Nights at The Boo were chaos- fights breaking out, people shoving, glass shattering, ego's colliding. But whenever she was around, she kept an eye on me. She'd saunter over, lean down with that untamed hair in her face, and ask "You good girl?" And every time, I knew she meant it. She wasn't just asking, she was watching. Guarding. Covering me in a way I didn't even know I needed. 

     The irony wasn't lost on me. The woman who could of destroyed me in a Burger King parking lot was now the woman making sure I was safe. Life's funny like that. Sometimes the people you fear the most end up being the one's who hold you up. 

     Looking back, that night was the beginning of something bigger than just a wild story to tell over drinks. It was the first time life cracked me open and showed me a mirror I couldn't ignore. My rage, my fire, my hair-triggered mouth, it wasn't strength. It was protection. It was a shield I wore because of everything I'd carried from my past, every wound, every scar I'd tried to bury under bravado. 

     But standing in front of her; wee, loud, reckless me against towering, calm unshakable her- I saw the truth. I wasn't untouchable. I wasn't even close. And maybe I didn't need to be. 

     She didn't have to hit me to knock me down. All it took was a question. Are you sure you wanna do this?

     That question has followed me ever since.

     Every time I've been ready to snap, ready to launch, ready to scorch the earth because someone crossed me, that voice echoes back. Are you sure? And more often than not, the answer is no. 

     That woman gave me more than humility. She gave me perspective. She showed me that strength isn't about swinging first or shouting the loudest; its about knowing when to step back. When to laugh instead of fight. When to choose connection over collision. 

     I will never forget that lesson, served hot and fresh in a Burger King drive-thru. And I will never forget her; my giant, curly-haired mirror who showed me, for the very first time, that sometimes losing face is the only way to finally find yourself. 

Written by Janine Reid