Under New Anger Management

Tony sat next to me in a mandated course in anger management. There was no particular reason why I selected a seat in the back of the classroom, but since I was the first to show up for the 9:30 class I had my choice of where I wanted to be in a room full of wife-beaters and women who do more than kick their husbands in the balls when they get rubbed the wrong way.

In they came, one at a time, all victims of a horrendous court system that had somehow outwitted their bipolar natures.

Tony sat in the back row next to me. There was no question about whether or not he was guilty. One look at his big Puerto Rican hands and I knew he was capable of throwing more than sliders and curve-balls.

The social worker who ran the four- hour class started things off by pairing us in two and asked us to interview one another on the circumstance which had led us all to a course in cooling down.

I was coupled with Tony.

His “bitch-ass” girlfriend started beating on him first, or so he claimed. They were shopping in Washington Heights and some broad checked him out. He did nothing but walk up the sidewalk while minding his own business when another women started salivating for him.

“Oh, yes. I know how that can be,” I said like a reporter for the New York Times. “You must get that all the time,” I said while edging him on for more dirt.



“I swear to God, Papi. You don’t know what it’s like for me and bitches. They always get so jealous.”

“So did you end up hitting her back and that is why you got arrested?” I asked.

“Yes. Look at the scratches on my fuckin’ neck though. I had to defend myself.”

“That’s a damn shame,” I said while hoping to keep the interviewing on him.

“So wassup wit you? Did you and your bitch get into it too?”

“Hmmm, well, I guess you could say that.”

“What happened, Papi?”

“My lover fucked around on me and I tore up his clothing,” I explained in the deepest tone and butchest way possible.

He smiled and seemed interested so I kept going.

“The bastard is an absolute man whore,” I said.

“Yes, my bitch is a slut too,” he added.

“And they get pissed at you when someone checks you out?”

“Hell yes! Ain’t that some shit?”

The class leader asked us to give the account of our partner’s unmanageable anger to the remainder of the class. This allowed for other victims in the class to comment on ways the situation could have been avoided.

Tony offered me a piece of Bubble Yum and we cracked at the back of the class and giggled at the broads with big door-knocker ear rings as their dirty laundry was aired by a total stranger in the class.



I told Tony’s story perfectly. I started out by asking everyone in the room “Isn’t this man fine? I mean really...he’s buff, got a great smile and who in the world would not take a second look at him walking down the streets of Washington Heights?”

The room burst into laughter. Even Tony laughed at my re-cap of his arrest.

Tony turned the tables on me when it came time to report on my rage of anger.

“Take a look at this man,” he said. “If you were married to him would you cheat on him?” he asked.

The girls in the room shook their head, rattled their earrings and licked their lips at me.

“Hell, I wouldn’t either and I’m straight,” he said while cracking the room up.

The four hours were a lot of fun and went by quickly thanks to Tony and I.

We were released with our certificates for the court and Tony Vega followed me out of the gates of Pratt Institute where we went to take our course.

“Where you headed Papi?” he asked.

“I don’t know for sure. I’m staying with some friends so I don’t want to go home until later this evening.”

“You want to chill out?” he asked.

We jumped on the G train and made a connection at Hoyt for the A and took the express all the way uptown to his mother’s house in Washington Heights.

She fed us both and we spent the afternoon smoking a blunt on a fire escape wondering if we really did have anger issues or if perhaps we were just too damn good- looking for the rest of society to accept.

He may have been waiting for me to make a move but I didn’t. I kept looking at those big hands holding that little brown blunt and grew more and more paranoid as the day dragged on.

I realized that if Tony were my man, I’d scratch out the eyes of any broad who tried to take him away from me and knew then that I had learned something at anger management 101.

“Until we meet again, padre,” I said to my friend from anger management as I left. I thanked his mom for the plate of rice and beans and headed out the door of the tenement building stoned off my ass.

“Stay away from the Puerto Rican chick hanging out downstairs under the fire escape on your way out the door,” he said while laughing hysterically. “That’s my girlfriend, the one who had me arrested.”

“I’ll be sure not to tell her we were trading baseball cards,” I said to the man I stopped on third base.