Tap, tap, tap. I rap my knuckles against the glass pane.
A young man opens the sliding door, his shoulders fill the door frame as he raises his eyebrow at me. I was not invited to the party, and even worse, I had beef with some people present—the man with the furrowed brow included. The greeter turns his head to shout toward his friends, maybe to announce that an uninvited guest has appeared, or to call out for help. Who knows.
I came for one purpose. I grab the handle of the door and lean back for leverage, my weight shifting. I lunge forward and land a blow right on his unsuspecting chin. He falls back onto a table behind him, where it collapses from his weight. No introductions needed. I walk in.
I was 20-years old then. I am now 36.
This story from my past is one of many marked by regretful acts of violence, revelry, and a restless search for purpose.
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