Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Homeward Bound: The Hard Way
I’d had a long challenging day. My morning at home had not been tranquil and my ride to work had been soggy, time-consuming and enervating. My desk downtown groaned under a broad range of confusing and urgent (but not important) tasks. I stayed late to try to make some cognizable dent in the workload, and wound up waiting in the rain again for my bus home – a ride that was, thankfully, though not interesting or entertaining, at least was uneventful. However, I did have to continue riding on past my usual stop a half-block from my apartment to hit the bank out at 21st, and then work my way back home via a drugstore at 18th to get a humidifier for Zach (poor snotty kid) and then across Geary to Gordo’s to pick up supper. Finally, with Kel’s boiled chicken & guac and my super carnitas with dual sauces stashed in my messenger bag over my left shoulder and a big cardboard humidifier box in a plastic shopping bag, plus my ‘pod, in my left hand, I was finally ready for the five-block walk back to my home and the end of my day.
I wore brown boots, indigo jeans, and a sweater under my goretex shell; the hood was over my head, cinched down against the sodden gusts that still swept the dark streets. I felt spent, but couldn’t help noticing some commotion about half a block ahead of me, in jarring contrast to the charming bluegrass music to which I was listening:
It was at 17th, right at the corner, in front of the cheap smoke shop. Four young people had gathered – two slender, sort of slutty girls with tight jeans and big hair, a tall slim boy, and a shorter stockier one with a shaved head. They all seemed to be in their late teens. I couldn’t hear them but I could see that the baldie was mad. He took a swing at the tall boy and hit him on the jaw; the tall boy fell to the sidewalk like a narcoleptic. The baldie immediately started kicking him in the face and head.
I was two storefronts away, still unnoticed. I quickened my pace a little, strengthened my stance, and pulled off my earbuds with my laden left hand, leaving my right free. The tall boy was still on the pavement, face down, trying to protect his head; baldie was now down on one knee, slamming his fist into the other boy’s skull, pounding it against the sidewalk. He was shouting at his prone victim as he beat him, cursing him, promising to teach him to lie to him or touch his girlfriend. The two girls stood in shock, screaming inarticulately and ineffectually.
Baldie was striking out without martial discipline – his arm flailed high with each punch he buried into the other boy’s head as I reached the fray. I did not slow down as I stepped right up to them, looped my right arm under baldie’s, and let my momentum pull them apart, dragging the attacker off his victim with a swift sweeping move. Baldie stumbled backwards several feet before regaining his equilibrium and moving as if to step forward into another attack; I stepped in front of him with delts and jaws clenched and glared him down. “It’s over,” I growled with a deep quiet voice. “He’s down. Now leave.”
Baldie tried peremptorily to get around me, but I advanced a step or two toward him with each tack he took until he began to explain himself by means of resumed bellowings about infidelity and mendacity. “I don’t care about any of that,” I explained to him firmly, reiterating: “This fight is over.”
Baldie dropped his hands as the boy on the pavement slowly repositioned himself for greater cranial protection. He looked like he was hurting but he made no sound. Baldie walked with relative calmness to the downed boy and began to lecture him. As he spoke, his voice grew louder and more agitated. Within seconds he had doubled his fist again and started back into punching the other guy in the head.
I should have seen that coming, felt badly I’d let it happen. It wouldn’t happen again, though – I gave the kneeling attacker a hard push with my boot and he fell backwards. “If you get up and do that again, I’ll take you down and you’ll never get up again,” I nearly whispered, a few inches from his face. He rolled to his knees, got up, backed away, avoiding my gaze. One of the girls went to his side as he moved toward the boulevard crosswalk. He continued shouting threats and accusations till he was halfway across the street, and then turned and ran, the bimbo trotting after him as fast as her spike heels allowed.
The other girl sank to her knees next to the beaten boy, who still had barely moved. “Are you all right?” “I’m okay,” he replied unconvincingly. Two more people had gathered by now – a heavyset female pedestrian and the slightly-built merchant from the smokeshop. The woman advised the distraught girl, “He kicked him in the head. Should I call the cops?” The girl screamed, “Kicked in the head? You bastard! Call the cops! Call them!”
The pedestrian and the shopkeep both had their cellphones out. “Should I call the cops?,” each of them kept asking impotently. The girl was weeping now, crouched by the boy’s head. I turned to the bystanders, pointing to each in turn: “Call the police. Call the police.” Both finally responded to this imperative and started punching 911 into their phones. “This is finished,” I said, looking up and down the street one last time. “I’m outta here.”
“What if he comes back?,” the pedestrian asked. “He won’t,” I replied. “He left.” “But how will the police find him, then?” I pointed to the couple shuddering on the sidewalk: “They know where he lives.” I took a deep breath of the damp air and turned back to my homeward route, the vaporizer swinging clumsily by my side. It was a chilly night, but I was sweating pretty hard. When I got home I put the burritos in the oven and drank a nice cold beer. My day had finally come to a close.
True story.
