Archive for June, 2002


Monday, June 3rd, 2002

what would you have done? do a little math. then get the shit beat out of you. stupid meat heads.

what do you do when six meatheads cross the street in front of you?

well, i wouldn’t know about you, but he sped up.

anger, shouts and incredulousness passed between them and the inches that kept them from the danger of one ton of pain. hey man, i’m just along for the ride. their heads are made of meat so they don’t understand the position i’m in. i smiled, not at their inconvenience nor their near death at the hands of my belligerent friend behind the wheel, but at my own nervousness.

i’ve looked into their eyes. i saw the adrenaline. the beer. the excuse. we turn right at the corner and the situation is abated. again we turn right at the corner. and i see them. we’ve been out flanked, its a classic move. i think these meat heads might have a college education.

eye contact again, pink meat dripping blood, dilated cornea blood vessels. my window was open and it was too late. a dull thud and a tingle as his body hit the car and his fist hit my neck and shoulder. it was a sloppy punch, but what do you expect from a guy throwing a punch at a car.

luckily the spit missed.

we go straight through the light and the tingle turns to warmth. i felt disappointed, in a way, that it won’t leave a bruise. we turn left at the corner. i know what might happen. driver boy is laughing, but they weren’t on his side. left at the light.

halfway down the block i make eye contact. i smile. he doesn’t like my apology. his arm went through the open back window missing the one ducked back there. a shout. a missed punch. and a fine mist of spittle, i wonder where he’s been.

by now this light is red. i look in the side mirror back down the street from whence we came. silhouettes come towards us. quietly i say turn on red. we don’t move. turn on red. what now? yes. we crept forward a few inches. right now? yes. by now he’s running. yes, on red, right now. we go, but not before we wait for him to get close enough so that he thinks he needs to keep on running after us.

the game is over by now. our intrepid captain has had enough fun at their, and our, expense. he laughs, we grimace. some bravado is shown but in the end we are the ones who had the armour.

later on i tell of my own botched attemts on grabbing the arm of the one who actually hit me. of wanting to hold on to his arm as we drag him down the street. of rolling the window up. and i realize i’m no better than the rest of them.

i make eye contact in the vanity mirror. i see my own pupil. dialated. dripping fresh, red meat blood out of a gaping severed vessel.