On Private and Public Shame

I possess a photograph of myself that was taken near midnight on New Year’s Eve two decades ago. I’m on the dance floor at a nightclub and my then-girlfriend has an arm around my shoulder. She is speaking directly into my ear in a stern and purposeful way, trying to impress good sense into a self-certain young man with bulging muscles, blond tips in his hair and an obscene amount of alcohol in his system. The expression on my face is blank: I can hear what she tells me, but I’m not listening because I’ve already made up my mind. The guy who casually groped her as he squeezed past us moments before is destined to greet the New Year in an inauspicious way.

I turn to my girlfriend, smiling, and reassure her that I’m not about to do anything stupid. When the next song begins, I indicate that I’m going to get some drinks. I move away in the direction of the bar, just in case she’s watching, then circle around the outer edge of the dance floor. After a minute or two, I locate the man, push through the crowd, and grab him by the shirt. Here, my memory becomes a little vague.