When someone is described as having a Napoleon complex, I can’t help but think how much of an asshole Napoleon truly was. I figure Napoleon’s buddies came up with the phrase one night during a poker game where Napoleon was conspicuously left off the invite list. Claude would throw a tantrum because Pierre forgot to bring the butter for the croissants, then Jean-Jacques would berate Claude for being such a Napoleon. Everyone would laugh as they puff the last drag of their cigarettes before a sudden hush falls over the group and eyes dart back forth from each others’ gazes.
The Napoleon in question came in the form of a diminutive Puerto Rican who, when every time he spoke, gave the impression of an irritated chihuahua. It came as no surprise to me when he marked his territory on several occasions as we were making our way back from the bars to the apartment. He reaffirmed his newly claimed ownership of the patch of urine stained sidewalk: “Yeah that’s right mother fucker”. Looking down at his crotch, I wasn’t sure what he was referring to as mother fucker, taunting the concrete corner of the building that has silently accepted its domination, or complimenting his diligent penis for following orders.
Apparently unsatisfied with dominating inanimate objects, the Latino Napoleon, who I shall name Napoleon 1 to avoid referring to him in amusing racial expressions, sought bigger conquests, or at least as big as his 5′2″ self. The victim was a middle aged Filipino man (Napoleon 2) who I estimate about 5′3″ tall, the one inch advantage probably being the source of jealousy and conflict. Napoleon 2 drew attention to himself by yelling at a second floor apartment which clearly must have upset him somehow. This was good enough reason for Napoleon 1 to start a fight. Besides, he had already claimed the building as his own.
With neither one backing down, the clash of Napoleons was under way. People stood around and watched as Napoleon 1 beat down Napoleon 2, wondering when their popcorn was going to arrive. I thought this would be a good time to interject before Napoleon 2 would require a rhinoplasty. My mistake was assuming there is some room for reason in these situations. Call me crazy for thinking there is no need to prove a point by repeatedly ramming a fist into someone’s face. Having interrupted his fun, Napoleon 1 took issue with me. “What, you wanna fight too?” has asked, and I thought my response was appropriately easy to understand, “No, I’m trying to calm things down”. Something about his response told me that he didn’t quite understand: “Oh so you wanna fight me bitch?!?”.
I should have realized that I couldn’t trust someone who when asked what his favorite color was, responds belligerently as if he was told his mother was a whore, even though she probably was. I thought things had calmed down, and I made the mistake of turning away to help the bleeding Napoleon 2. Next thing I knew my glasses had inexplicably exploded off my face, and the first thing I thought was “oh no, not again”. I am notorious for finding the most creative ways to break a brand new pair of glasses, one of which includes washing my hands and not even touching my glasses. So it is no surprise when my glasses just happen to fall apart on my face.
Then it dawned on me that I had been punched in the face. Coming to this brilliant realization, I turn around to look for my assailant who may be looking to throw a second cheap shot, but Napoleon 1 had now set off running. I wasn’t so much upset at getting hit in the face, though it would concern me more if the puncher was someone who could actually crack an egg with his punch. What pissed me off was that my glasses were dented, and yes, this was a brand new pair. At least I can add another creative method to my list of “How to break a brand new pair of glasses”.
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