I’ve never read the book “Fight Club,” nor have I seen the movie. Nonetheless, I’m well aware of the fact that the first rule of fight club is that there is no fight club.
That’s my first problem.
Recently, a building in the picturesque New England town where I reside underwent a minor transformation. What was previously an abandoned hair salon (according to the faded letters on the door) became an abandoned hair salon with some sort of plastic tarp covering up the large front windows. Now, I’m generally not a big fan of the abandoned-hair-salon-with-tarps-taped-to-the-windows look but this one piqued my interest for some unknown reason. Each day, as I drove past the former salon, I would steal a glance or two in a vain attempt to figure out exactly what was going on in there.
First, I saw a refrigerator and a hot water heater. Interesting. Next, I spied some clothing and racks. Intriguing. Finally, I noticed some free weights and dumbbells. My mind quickly jumped to three possible conclusions: illicit repair shop, underground boutique, or storage facility. These were all reasonable explanations but they were all too safe for my liking. I knew there was more to this story and I was determined to crack the case wide open.
A few weeks went by with no action. But like most cases, I got a solid lead right when I was starting to give up hope.
Never give up hope, kids. That’s the real lesson of this tale.
It was a warm spring day. The kind of warm spring day that makes you wish that it was slightly earlier in spring. Driving by the former salon I noticed right away that something was different. The door was open! I discreetly pulled over to get a better look.
Inside were a group of men. I’d call them thuggy looking men, but that would be judgmental of me. From what I could see, a few of these men were actually lifting the weights. As suspected, this was no innocent storage facility. To make matters worse, a couple of the hooligans looked like they were itching for a fight. And that’s when it hit me. Fight Club. The abandoned salon was a real life fight club!
The evidence was overwhelming. Tarps on the windows, weightlifting and ruffians: the three classic signs of a Fight Club. But evidence wouldn’t be enough this time. I’d need proof!
That’s my second problem.
You see, I really want to break this story. Think about my credibility as a journalist if I could prove the existence of a Fight Club on the North Shore of Boston! I’d be huge. We’re talking international celebrity here. But how can I prove it?
My problem is that I’m not really that good at fighting. Sure, I earned my green belt in karate back in 1984, but these days I prefer the art of verbal sparring. And I’m pretty sure that the only way to get into a Fight Club is to fight your way in. Otherwise, they’d just deny that it’s a Fight Club, per the aforementioned rule.
So there you have it. I’m almost positive that I’ve discovered a real live Fight Club but I need a little help in proving it. If you’re interested in this assignment (and half the credit!) please feel free to contact me and I’ll slip you the address.
Fight Club! Fight Club!