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Watched some poor fuck get checked at the gas station this morning. This was up at the Hooker Chevron on Memorial right up the block from us. I was refueling the ride prior to my work commute, a cup of coffee shy of fully awake and staring vacantly off into space towards the station. On one side of its doors the station's manager was leaning against the wall having a cigarette, he looked like a Pakistani Joe Pesci in a green sweater and worked there damn near 24-7 as far as I could tell. He was talking to this kid, a lanky brother insulated in a black puffy coat who was also smoking. The two were laughing about something and that's when a voice boomed out across the parking lot with a fury straight out of the Old Testament.
"You playing me, N_____?"
My eyes joined the others in narrowing in on the burly man in a bright red Atlanta Hawks sports jacket stomping towards the Hooker Chevron. Face warped with rage, a single finger thrust forward guiding him directly towards the lanky kid.
The kid looked away, then down on the floor, then with towards his buddy the station manager who suddenly couldn't see him and then finally across the few yards where I stood mute on refuel duty.
I glance over at the pump. I'm five dollars deep and got at least another ten to go.
"I said you playing me, N___?" The man in the red Hawks jacket arrived shouting, his finger zeroing in on the kid's dome.
The kid mumbled something. An apology and denial both. Some folks are wired for fight. Some flight. But there are a few unlucky bastards out there who lacking the instinct to bolt or swing try their hand at playing dead or invisible or generally trying to ride out the savagery in the hopes that the civilizing powers of humanity will intercede on their behalf.
Forgetting two things about the human animal in the face of conflict within the pack. They will not get involved if it doesn't concern them or theirs directly and at the same time they are unable to look away from the prospect of a violent spectacle.
The man in the red Hawks jacket bounces his finger off the kid.
"You picked the wrong N____!" he shouts throwing a forearm to the kid's throat and pinning him to the wall.
The kid squirms for freedom. The old station manager continues to smoke as if nothing was happening. A modicum of foot traffic begins to build up around the Hooker Chevron. Some stagger-bum fuck-up takes a swig out of a brown paper bagged bottle and yells for blood. Two kids who should be in school clutch their skateboards while filming the whole scene on their smartphones.
The pump read $10 and counting...
and the man in the red Hawks jacket throws a punch straight into the kid's face. There's no sound. No impact thud like in the movies, no grunt from the victim nor even a struggle the kid is just riding it out, neither seeking escape nor retaliation. Another punch.
"You picked the wrong N____!" The man repeats a few times between blows and then the station doors opened. An old lady clutching her lottery ticket shambles out. She walks past the commotion a few steps before registering it off the peripheral of her glasses.
The man in the red Hawks jacket freezes his next shot to the kid's face, gives the old woman a cold hard look that would freeze a wolf in its tracks but leaves granny lotto here unfazed.
He steps back, bounces a finger off the kid's dome and repeats his warning about not playing him nor mistaking him for the sort of man that would stand for such disparagement of character. The burly man in the bright red Hawks jacket stomps off, still shouting.
"Y'all just going to stand there and let that man get beat in front of your shop?" The old woman chastises the station manager.
In response the station manager takes a drag off his cigarette and crushes it beneath the first of the steps he takes back into the Hooker Chevron. The kid in turns picks up the cigarette he dropped when the whole incident began and continues puffing away as if nothing happened. The foot traffic resumes its course. The piss-bum laughing and hooting away with instant replays to anyone who might be listening.
"And you officer!" Granny Lotto looks over at me with sharp fury through her thick glasses. "Why didn't you arrest that man or at least break up the fight? You like to act all big driving around our neighborhood but when folks actually need some help you just stand there doing nothing."
$15... close enough and I cut off the nozzle, screw on the gas cap and snap the flap locked.
"I ain't no cop." I'm tempted to tell her what the man in the red Hawks jacket told the kid. You got the wrong one. Instead I tell Granny Lotto before opening my door ready to hit the road while putting as much distance as possible between me and this scene vibing straight out of Flannery O'Connor by way of the Wire.
"You ain't no man is what you are." She replied. "Not when you don't have a gun and backup you ain't."
"Ain't nobody that counts as anybody that don't have both, ma'am." I shrugged and before sliding into the driver's seat. "At least not around these parts."
Whatever her reply was it was drowned under the roar of the V-6, damn near full and roaring to go. I pop out of Park and drive my happy ass on out of this not so comic misunderstanding.
"You playing me, N_____?"
My eyes joined the others in narrowing in on the burly man in a bright red Atlanta Hawks sports jacket stomping towards the Hooker Chevron. Face warped with rage, a single finger thrust forward guiding him directly towards the lanky kid.
The kid looked away, then down on the floor, then with towards his buddy the station manager who suddenly couldn't see him and then finally across the few yards where I stood mute on refuel duty.
I glance over at the pump. I'm five dollars deep and got at least another ten to go.
"I said you playing me, N___?" The man in the red Hawks jacket arrived shouting, his finger zeroing in on the kid's dome.
The kid mumbled something. An apology and denial both. Some folks are wired for fight. Some flight. But there are a few unlucky bastards out there who lacking the instinct to bolt or swing try their hand at playing dead or invisible or generally trying to ride out the savagery in the hopes that the civilizing powers of humanity will intercede on their behalf.
Forgetting two things about the human animal in the face of conflict within the pack. They will not get involved if it doesn't concern them or theirs directly and at the same time they are unable to look away from the prospect of a violent spectacle.
The man in the red Hawks jacket bounces his finger off the kid.
"You picked the wrong N____!" he shouts throwing a forearm to the kid's throat and pinning him to the wall.
The kid squirms for freedom. The old station manager continues to smoke as if nothing was happening. A modicum of foot traffic begins to build up around the Hooker Chevron. Some stagger-bum fuck-up takes a swig out of a brown paper bagged bottle and yells for blood. Two kids who should be in school clutch their skateboards while filming the whole scene on their smartphones.
The pump read $10 and counting...
and the man in the red Hawks jacket throws a punch straight into the kid's face. There's no sound. No impact thud like in the movies, no grunt from the victim nor even a struggle the kid is just riding it out, neither seeking escape nor retaliation. Another punch.
"You picked the wrong N____!" The man repeats a few times between blows and then the station doors opened. An old lady clutching her lottery ticket shambles out. She walks past the commotion a few steps before registering it off the peripheral of her glasses.
The man in the red Hawks jacket freezes his next shot to the kid's face, gives the old woman a cold hard look that would freeze a wolf in its tracks but leaves granny lotto here unfazed.
He steps back, bounces a finger off the kid's dome and repeats his warning about not playing him nor mistaking him for the sort of man that would stand for such disparagement of character. The burly man in the bright red Hawks jacket stomps off, still shouting.
"Y'all just going to stand there and let that man get beat in front of your shop?" The old woman chastises the station manager.
In response the station manager takes a drag off his cigarette and crushes it beneath the first of the steps he takes back into the Hooker Chevron. The kid in turns picks up the cigarette he dropped when the whole incident began and continues puffing away as if nothing happened. The foot traffic resumes its course. The piss-bum laughing and hooting away with instant replays to anyone who might be listening.
"And you officer!" Granny Lotto looks over at me with sharp fury through her thick glasses. "Why didn't you arrest that man or at least break up the fight? You like to act all big driving around our neighborhood but when folks actually need some help you just stand there doing nothing."
$15... close enough and I cut off the nozzle, screw on the gas cap and snap the flap locked.
"I ain't no cop." I'm tempted to tell her what the man in the red Hawks jacket told the kid. You got the wrong one. Instead I tell Granny Lotto before opening my door ready to hit the road while putting as much distance as possible between me and this scene vibing straight out of Flannery O'Connor by way of the Wire.
"You ain't no man is what you are." She replied. "Not when you don't have a gun and backup you ain't."
"Ain't nobody that counts as anybody that don't have both, ma'am." I shrugged and before sliding into the driver's seat. "At least not around these parts."
Whatever her reply was it was drowned under the roar of the V-6, damn near full and roaring to go. I pop out of Park and drive my happy ass on out of this not so comic misunderstanding.
