In the midst of conversation with an old lady at the bus stop which consists mostly of her bitching about the construction on the street and the way it has affected the bus lines and my empathetic nods in response to her repetitive complaints, a café chair floats by, just behind her head, in a magnificent arch interrupted only by the metal fence protecting the aforementioned construction site. Once I recover from the astonishment of seeing a flying chair, I realize that it wasn't magic, but a bloody-faced, cauliflower-eared Young Man who had launched the chair, attempting to hit his Middle-Aged opponent--both half-grimacing, half-smiling, rejoicing in this opportunity to roleplay a boxer fighting for the title, or at least one of those Hollywood honkytonk anti-heros you see chucking chairs in bar fights on screen.

Most of the people waiting for the bus or hanging out around the metro entrance, take a break to watch the fight unfold, with a blasé fascination for the inexiplicable punches, tackles, and kicks. I haven't seen anything like this since high school. As any good pacifist should, I tend to speak disdainfully about the rubber necking phenomenon, denouncing all types of violence and the sick, yet uncontainable human enthusiasm for it. But this time, and God strike me down for hypocrisy, I too enjoyed the scene.

It wasn't so much the flying chairs (the Young Man with the broken nose was wrestling another chair out of a waiter's hands), the bloodied knuckles, or the incomprehensible, slurred shouts that got me; It was the incredible level of passion. The men were not speaking French or English, so it was impossible to discern the cause of the dispute that spilled out onto the sidewalk like a stream of dog piss. So my imagination started churning, trying to think of any reason that could possibly cause two men to react so emotionally and physically. Was there a woman involved? (a burly Parisian waitress has just pushed the Middle-Aged laughing, bleeding man into the cafe and shut the door. Young Man is being restrained by a waiter and an honorable passing citizen.) A "Your Mama..." joke? (the Young Man walks away down the street, and hides behind the metal fence of the construction site.) Did one of them owe the other one money? Insult the other's manhood? (The middle-aged man forces his way out of the cafe, much to the relief of the shocked cafe patrons). Can such passion simply be explained by the effects of alcohol? (The Young Man emerges from his hiding place, takes off running down the sidewalk toward the Middle Aged Man and tackles him from behind. Two members of the metro gestapo look on.)

What fascinates me most is that I don't think I am capable of drumming up enough anger, passion, and emotion to physically attack someone. I think that any violent act on my part would be defensive (thanks to self-defense class in high school, I am well-versed in the ancient art of grab-twist-and-pull). I hate to admit it, but I am slightly jealous of this unbridled gut response. My brain is slowly wiping all of the irrationality from its limbic center. I am a living example of human evolution towards gray aliens with enormous heads and formidable intellectual powers and absolutely know physical strength or ability to reproduce.

The bus arrives and I board with the old lady who seems unphased by the fight, and regretfully leave the rumble behind.