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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!”
“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.
“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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