McGinn: Before you fight, call me so I can watch

McGinn

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By Andrew McGinn, Staff Writer 6:00 PM Thursday, September 29, 2011

Sometimes I’m in the Congo, watching Bambuti pygmies wash down a breakfast of termites with a 2-liter of Mountain Dew.

Other times I’m in the Amazon Basin, crouched in bewilderment as the Korubo engage another tribe in a fight, fearful that somebody might have a blowgun or a Glock on them.

Physically, though, I never once have to leave Springfield.

What some people would call a staring problem, I classify as amateur anthropology.

I’m a people-watcher.

In the olden days, I’m what they probably would’ve labeled a voyeur — but these days, people are so consumed by their Droids and BlackBerrys that they have no clue they’re being watched.

And, you know, about as soon as I typed that, I realized how creepy it sounds.

Perhaps I should clarify.

I could never knowingly wear the skin of another person.

I’m not a pervert, either.

I mean, I am.

But I practice a great deal not to make it obvious.

“Amy,” I once asked my wife, “if I glance at your chest like this, is it noticeable?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

I’m actually more interested in studying strange behavior.

I also realize that “strange” is a matter of opinion, but living in Springfield this long has made for the most spectacular field study.

On one hand, I kind of feel like Jane Goodall in the wilds of Tanzania.

On the other, as I was dragging my garbage can to the street recently without a shirt on and wearing Batman pajama pants that I had cut off to make shorts, it dawned on me that I could just as easily become Kevin Costner in “Dances With Wolves,” too.

But any time you have such a heavy concentration of, ahem, colorful creatures in such a small area, you’re bound to witness a good deal of volatility.

I learned that not from National Geographic, but from “Star Wars.”

Springfield has always seemed less like Madagascar and more like Mos Eisley. Before moving here almost 12 years ago, I hadn’t witnessed a good ol’ fistfight since, oh, eighth grade or so.

I can’t believe the number of grown adults around here who resort to fisticuffs — but I’m more than happy to watch.

On my morning walk just the other day, in fact, I observed two guys yelling at each other.

My pace became slower and slower until I finally just sat down on somebody’s sidewalk steps to watch. (So if you looked out your window and saw some pudgy guy sitting on your steps wearing cutoff sweatpants and a shirt that said “Say No to Kryptonite,” it was only me.)

The tall grass from the foreclosure next door provided the right amount of cover for me to study this time-honored show of studliness.

Another time, on the way back to work from lunch on Bechtle Avenue with a co-worker, two men were arguing right there in the middle of a busy intersection.

That’s when I spotted the telltale sign that something good was about to go down — one of the men tore off his shirt.

I immediately made my co-worker turn her car around.

These things never quite live up to expectations — typically, a couple of punches are thrown before both parties call it quits — but there’s a certain thrill factor in seeing two men potentially lock antlers like bull elk during the rutting season.

Seeing two women go at it is a special treat — like seeing an albino elk in the wild.

Sometimes I do question whether I should even be watching.

There was the time, for instance, that I stood and watched two teenage boys duke it out on the midway of the Clark County Fair.

I’m to the age where I probably should’ve stepped in and put a stop to it.

But the truth is, I had an imaginary $20 riding on the kid with the peach-fuzz mustache.

Contact this reporter at amcginn@coxohio.com.

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