“Please.” Mitchell fell to his knees hands up between his face and the large angry man towering above him. “Please don’t. Don’t hit me.”
“You shoulda thought of that before sticking your dick between me and my girl.” The man pulled the end of his long beard to a point and dropped his empty beer bottle to the floor with his other hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Leave him be Charlie.” The woman with stringy back hair and sullen eyes grabbed him by the shoulder. “He didn’t mean no harm.”
“Shut up Nina.” Charlie whipped his arm behind him smacking her in the neck. She fell against the bar gasping for breath. “You don’t tell me what to do. Flirtin' ass slut.”
Charlie’s colossal fist launched through the smoky air at Mitchell’s trembling face. Suction created by the inhalation of every bar patron’s collected breath birthed a momentary vacuum. For a brief instant each hair on their bodies, every thread stitched into clothing tugged in the direction of Charlie’s terrified eyes. Ripples formed on the surface of each beverage. Tiny waves on boozy oceans.
The moment froze.
Mitchell retreated into memory.
Van Gogh Street Elementary School playground in 1978. Toughskin jeans and Star Wars iron on t-shirts. Barry Osten punching Mitchell in the cheek and chin over and over while other faceless children held him by the arms.
Blink.
Robert Frost Junior High quad 1983. Hair spiked with oily gel and Adam and the Ants t-shirts, torn holes and safety pins in a row from shoulder to belly. Doug McShane jumping from the hallway corner near Mitchell’s locker. Mitchell yelps in surprise dropping his books. Bending over to pick them up Doug slams a swift knee into his chest, grabs his belt throwing him headfirst into the wall. Concussion and a neck brace for a month.
Blink.
Kennedy High School bleachers 1987. Parachute pants and hip hop mix cassettes blasting from boombox speakers. Ty Dannings pushing Mitchell off the second bleacher into a row of nearby trash cans during lunch. Ty kneels on Mitchell’s back lifting his head from the ground with a handful of his shoulder length hair. He gently removes the already cracked glasses depositing them into a muddy puddle. With no previous sign of animus or argument between the two, Ty begins pummeling Mitchell about the head and face eventually cracking the right nostril requiring seven stitches, splitting the upper lip and breaking the right eye socket in three places.
Blink.
Mitchell peers deep between the callused knuckles and cracked joints of Charlie’s fist. In the fraction of a second it takes to throw the punch, he watches blood pulse through the thin veins just below the skins surface. The rattle of bones embraces his ear drums. Teeth wriggle loosely in the gums. Before the hand leaves his face, Mitchell feels the bruise begin to form.
His heart slows.
His breathing mellows smoothly.
Dizziness fades.
Eyesight sharpens.
He laughs.
Charlie grunts in confusion.
Mitchell’s stomach clenches. Not in terror, but with gulps of air to keep up with the hysterics. His throat burns from the sheer volume tearing it’s way upward from his gut.
The bar is still. No one speaks. No one drinks.The DJ stops the music.
Mitchell’s amusement is pure maddening joy. The laughter of a fool unafraid of death. Or pain.
Mitchell takes Charlie’s fist in his hands. Caresses between sausage fingers with the ends of his nails. A lover in courting. Charlie pulls away taking a step back. Mitchell turns his eyes up inside the lids.
“Again.”
“You shoulda thought of that before sticking your dick between me and my girl.” The man pulled the end of his long beard to a point and dropped his empty beer bottle to the floor with his other hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“Leave him be Charlie.” The woman with stringy back hair and sullen eyes grabbed him by the shoulder. “He didn’t mean no harm.”
“Shut up Nina.” Charlie whipped his arm behind him smacking her in the neck. She fell against the bar gasping for breath. “You don’t tell me what to do. Flirtin' ass slut.”
Charlie’s colossal fist launched through the smoky air at Mitchell’s trembling face. Suction created by the inhalation of every bar patron’s collected breath birthed a momentary vacuum. For a brief instant each hair on their bodies, every thread stitched into clothing tugged in the direction of Charlie’s terrified eyes. Ripples formed on the surface of each beverage. Tiny waves on boozy oceans.
The moment froze.
Mitchell retreated into memory.
Van Gogh Street Elementary School playground in 1978. Toughskin jeans and Star Wars iron on t-shirts. Barry Osten punching Mitchell in the cheek and chin over and over while other faceless children held him by the arms.
Blink.
Robert Frost Junior High quad 1983. Hair spiked with oily gel and Adam and the Ants t-shirts, torn holes and safety pins in a row from shoulder to belly. Doug McShane jumping from the hallway corner near Mitchell’s locker. Mitchell yelps in surprise dropping his books. Bending over to pick them up Doug slams a swift knee into his chest, grabs his belt throwing him headfirst into the wall. Concussion and a neck brace for a month.
Blink.
Kennedy High School bleachers 1987. Parachute pants and hip hop mix cassettes blasting from boombox speakers. Ty Dannings pushing Mitchell off the second bleacher into a row of nearby trash cans during lunch. Ty kneels on Mitchell’s back lifting his head from the ground with a handful of his shoulder length hair. He gently removes the already cracked glasses depositing them into a muddy puddle. With no previous sign of animus or argument between the two, Ty begins pummeling Mitchell about the head and face eventually cracking the right nostril requiring seven stitches, splitting the upper lip and breaking the right eye socket in three places.
Blink.
Mitchell peers deep between the callused knuckles and cracked joints of Charlie’s fist. In the fraction of a second it takes to throw the punch, he watches blood pulse through the thin veins just below the skins surface. The rattle of bones embraces his ear drums. Teeth wriggle loosely in the gums. Before the hand leaves his face, Mitchell feels the bruise begin to form.
His heart slows.
His breathing mellows smoothly.
Dizziness fades.
Eyesight sharpens.
He laughs.
Charlie grunts in confusion.
Mitchell’s stomach clenches. Not in terror, but with gulps of air to keep up with the hysterics. His throat burns from the sheer volume tearing it’s way upward from his gut.
The bar is still. No one speaks. No one drinks.The DJ stops the music.
Mitchell’s amusement is pure maddening joy. The laughter of a fool unafraid of death. Or pain.
Mitchell takes Charlie’s fist in his hands. Caresses between sausage fingers with the ends of his nails. A lover in courting. Charlie pulls away taking a step back. Mitchell turns his eyes up inside the lids.
“Again.”
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