Chapter 8

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i heard some loud yelling coming from outside. i was trying to use up what was left of the afternoon to type. a parking lot lived next door to our house, and occasionally youths gathered in it. i looked out the back office window into the lot. three young African American guys formed a moving triangle. one took off his t-shirt as he walked, occasionally cussing. another was in a wife-beater ranting loud. almost a chant. the third remained silent and stayed back, holding a tall soda.

the two vocalists stopped moving. they proceeded to yell at the top of their laryxnes.

“shes MY bitch, fool,” Wife-Beater shot out.

“WAS your bitch,” Bare-Chested rang, starting to circle.

“get it THRUYRHEAD!”

he proceeded to clock his opponent square in the face. i heard the contact from inside my house! Wife-Beater punched back, opting for a body-shot. i called to Brian to come see, and we raced together to the front office to get a better view, as the triangle in circular fashion had proceeded to move northbound.

what wed missed in our race was whateverd made Wife-Beaters face bleed. there was a three-inch gash by his right eye and blood to show for it on the white cotton.

the two men sparred in total abandon. they made contact after contact, with each others faces and trunks, for the most, over and again. they seemed trained. they protected their faces and entered into a hypnotic dance. you could hear the hits. they were good enough to be real boxers.

Tall Soda wandered away from the fight. he kept looking over his shoulder to spit. at no time had he interjected.

 “what the fuck! he is peeing on our fence!” i whispered to Brian.

“he is not!” Brian stage-whispered, “but, oh, yes he is!”

Brian got it in his head that Tall Soda saw us see him through the window screen.

“dont be paranoid!” i laugh-scolded, half believing.

we tip-toed outside the front door, soundlessly catching the screen door. the two ovus crept into some foliage, wisteria, mainly. to spy. there wasnt much left of the show. Wife-Beater took off his blood-stained top, threw it over his shoulder and gripped it with a finger, heading east towards Lee. Bare-Chested headed south, towards Cedar. he never broke his illegible rant and did not chance to look back. hed left his t-shirt where it lay by a couple of cars. Tall Soda took a last sip, set down the can and got on his cell. as the call went out he turned a glance to me and Brian.

he waved with a smirk.

shit!

but he casually ambled away, mere inches at a time, his heavy pants held up by one artfully-cocked hip bone, in a studied cool, so to say.

we could have called the cops. we had been petty voyeurs. the skill with which they boxed had been really impressive. hell, it was intoxicating! to rationalize our complicity, we told each other were we to call now, Tall Soda might retaliate.

“we could have called from the jump,” Brian thot aloud.

“what, and miss that show?” i laughed.

“no, we did the right thing,” Brian stated, “holy shit!”

“holy shit!”  i agreed.

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