A discussion came up one day as to whether Johnson was trying to get even with me for the accident thing by knocking my hat off. Let me set the record straight, there usually was no “getting even” with me. No sir. That just wasn’t going to happen. But I can think of one time where that axiom was not exactly true. The one time in question occurred with my roommate, Tony Di Anzo’s purple “shitbox” car. The one time that I recall occurred when the starter failed in Di Anzo’s magnificent purple beast. It was either the second or the third time his shitbox broke down, but I cannot remember which. But it was definitely the time when the starter failed. I had warned him before he bought the damn piece of shit that the starter was just one more thing on a long laundry list of shit that was wrong with the purple monstrosity. But it sure did look nice. I told him that. I said, “Di Anzo, that sure is one fine looking purple piece of shit.” In fact, that is where I drew the line. It looked good, but that was all. That purple car was an utter piece of crap and I said so. Except the word I used wasn’t crap. I said, “That car is a shitbox. Do not buy it. He bought it anyway and all of the maintenance nightmares that went with it. Basically, the word “shitbox” caught on with our extended crew around the barracks. That crew included myself, Lockner, Smith, Jones, and this kind of hillbilly-looking dude whose name I cannot remember. We all started calling the purple money eater a shitbox and the name stuck. We all started calling Di Anzo’s car a shitbox. Even the hillbilly-looking dude called Di Anzo’s car a shitbox, but only when Di Anzo wasn’t around. Why? Di Anzo was a sixth-degree black belt in Kung Fu, and the hillbilly-looking dude was scared shitless of him. I told him to weaponize instead of being afraid because Kung Fu couldn’t beat cold hard steel. I said, “Every time steel goes up against Kung Fu, steel wins. Make sure you arm yourself with a bunkbed adapter and swing fast. And make sure you swing first and hit him. He was still scared shitless. Well, one Saturday, we were all standing around drinking beer and shooting the breeze when Di Anzo went rushing out of the barracks toward the parking lot. He jumped in the purple beast and we all heard a “click, click, chchchchchchchcchchcchchk, click. RRRRR, RRRRR, click, click, chchchchchchchcchchcchchk, click.” I yelled down, “I told you that damn starter was a problem in that shitbox, Di Anzo. That right there was a classic case of “broke-dick starteritis” if I’d ever seen one. Well guys, that’s Di Anzo’s shitbox for you.” Right about then, Lockner started shouting, “Di Anzo’s got a shitbox! Di Anzo’s got a shitbox! Di Anzo’s got a shitbox! Di Anzo’s got a shitbox!” Over and over and over, he kept shouting that one phrase. All of a sudden, Di Anzo came running across the parking lot about 100-miles-per-hour. Yeah, I know what you’re going to say. No human being can run that fast. Well, believe me, that day, Di Anzo was running that Damn fast. And his face was beet red. His face was nine-shades of red, he was so damn pissed off. He looked like he was out for blood. If you looked closely, you could even see steam rising off of him, he was so damn pissed off. He came over to where we were just steaming and fuming and said, “Who in the hell called my car a shitbox?” So, I said, “Well, come on, Tony, you know, I told you that car was a shitbox and you shouldn’t outta buy it. So, I guess I called it a shitbox. Sorry. Not really, cuz that piece of shit really is a shitbox. Know what I mean?” “But that wasn’t you who called it a shitbox cuz I know your voice. It was someone else. Who in the hell was it?” By this time, Lockner and the hillbilly-looking dude had left. They had moved to the second-floor balcony of another barracks. Only Smith, Jones, and I were still standing there talking with Di Anzo. Lockner started yelling again, “Di Anzo’s got a shitbox! Di Anzo’s got a shitbox!” And Di Anzo looked around dumbfounded unable to believe his ears. “What the hell?” he muttered in confusion as he looked around. “Where did that come from?” Then he spied Lockner and the hillbilly-looking dude. He pointed straight at the hillbilly-looking dude and said, “You did it, you bastard! Now you’re going to get it.” And Di Anzo took off like a jet across the lot between the two barracks buildings. He leaped 15 feet into the air if he leaped an inch and nailed the hillbilly-looking dude square in the face with a flying kick. We all screamed, “HOLY SHIT! What the hell?” And the hillbilly-looking dude’s nose burst forth with gushing blood. And blood went flying everywhere. Smith ran to get a towel for him as the rest of us said, “Di Anzo, what in the hell did you do that for? He didn’t do anything.” Di Anzo said, “He called my car a shitbox.” We all yelled, “No he didn’t, you dumbass. Now someone has to take him to the hospital. Are you going to take him? Wait. That’s right. Your shitbox won’t start will it?” “Hey Mastas, will you help me fix my starter?” “I can’t dumbass. You just broke his nose and somebody has to take him to the hospital. My car works. Does yours? Will your car start? No? That’s what I thought. Gee, I guess I can’t. No can do, Di Anzo. Somebody has to take this boy to the hospital? You really outta get that damn shitbox fixed. And, by the way, it is a shitbox, I don’t care what anybody says. And you should not have broken an innocent person’s nose, you dumbass.” “Well, if he didn’t do it, who did?” “I don’t know, Sheerluck, why don’t you try opening your eyes and looking around? There aren’t that many people out here. Di Anzo had demonstrated yet again how circumstances can easily become exercises in futility.
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