Member-only story
PERSONAL ESSAY
The Solitude of a Compulsory Wrestler
A brief note on fighting for your blessings
The skinny young boy leaned over his bicycle handlebars to hide his face, then swept out in anger, trying to knock the phone from my hand. His black bowl-cut hair swirled across his dark eyes, and while his chubby sidekick started rambling excuses, I dodged the punch in a lucky move and continued filming.
”We were just looking, my brother has the same model, and maybe this one was for sale so, if we knew what we wanted, we could come back tomorrow, to speak to the owner, and my brother, I could take it with me, you know, to show them what we’re looking for.”
I pass here daily, twice if I need bread. The narrow alley of the local mechanic with its dead-end backyard, cramped with batches of vintage mopeds and overused scooters. Still untouched by the constant changes on the main street. Now, I’m three steps in, blocking the exit for these wannabe delinquents while recording their every move.
One angry. One grasping straws. Then me. Losing my temper for a cause that wasn’t mine. All of it mixed into an incoherent English and Catalan ramble. None of it made sense, and the idea of scaring two boys from the we-record-everything-generation with the concept of filming seems futile in…