Buddy One and I used to go to Ozzies together. We'd drink and sing and generally make merry. One night, though, the peaceful environment was corrupted with ignorance and ended with blood running on the streets.
How does something so right go so wrong? Allow me to explain.
BO (nice shortening of the nickname... you're welcome!) and I wandered in and saw a fella wearing a Michigan shirt. We'll call him Michigan. BO had recently purchased a Detroit Tigers hat and I have found that only Australians like me more than Michiganders, so we took a couple minutes to talk to him. Nice guy. Kinda plump, but a nice guy.
BO and I (at this point I might just see how often I can use "BO" in this story) took a seat in the singing area and saw our buddy, Black Karaoke Buddy, there. ("Why that nickname?" you might ask. Well. He's black and he's our karaoke buddy.) We had a good time, singing our songs and singing along when other people sang theirs... standard stuff.
Standard, that is, until it was Michigan's turn to sing. He chose Vanilla Ice's generation-defining "Ice, Ice Baby"... which is both extremely repetitive and, at times, challenging. Challenging, especially, for guys who have had some alcohol and don't really know the words that well. Guys like Michigan.
In any case, we were singing along. BO, BKB and I. Michigan's buddy was watching and leaned in to our table's flight zone and declared (seemingly good-naturedly) to BKB these fateful words:
"Keep that up and they'll have to revoke your card!"
The three of us heard it. BKB, probably (unfortunately) more used to this racist sort of stuff, didn't make a big deal out of it. I, being me, don't make a big deal out of anything that doesn't involve some sort of typographical error.
BO, however, took umbrage. He looked at us with an "Is he SHITTING me?" kind of look on his face. He then swiveled in his chair and told Michigan's buddy, known in this blog as Racist, that it was not cool and not to be racist. Whether Racist heard or not is unknown, but further incidents at Ozzies were avoided.
At Ozzies, they were avoided.
Somehow BO and I started talking to four chicks at the end of the night. Not only is that a lot for us to bite off at the end of the night, but they were professional softball players and lesbians. But I was drunk and had nothing better to do, so the six of us wandered over to another bar for a final drink before closing.
Unfortunately for ignorance and oppression, Michigan and Racist were at the same bar. We got our drink and BO, looking down at the end of the bar where Racist was sitting, stated in a rather loud voice, "There's that racist motherfucker!" And when prompted by the professional softball players to explain, he elucidated by stating, "That guy is a racist asshole!"
Which obviously cleared things right up.
Unfortunately, sometimes to make an omelette you need to break a few eggs. BO did not go for the Eggbeater-based omelette. He was going for the real deal, and that involved breaking some eggs. And some blood vessels. (Ick. Maybe the thought of breaking eggs with blood vessels in them isn't such a good image; I don't like blood in my breakfast foods as a general rule.)
Racist heard the proclamations. Rather than trying to clear up the matter, though, he took extreme umbrage. He returned that he wasn't a racist. He cursed back at BO.
And things were taken outside.
With the four professional softball players still in tow, BO and I went outside and took a right on Queen Anne... heading back to vehicles and (in my case) apartment.
Michigan and Racist were right behind us. Racist and BO were talking and at some point the two got closest enough for one punch to be thrown, and one punch was enough for BO to drop Racist.
BO kept talking, but he caught up to me and the professional softball players. Michigan was restraining Racist, who was raging and wanted a piece of BO. (Of course, as it turns out, he did NOT want a piece of him, but it seemed a good idea at the time.)
It would have been easy for us to disperse. For BO to take his 1-0 victory and for the professional softball players to go their own way (go their own way...) but easy is not always best, most just, or most fun.
BO kept yapping. We could see Michigan holding Racist back and it was simultaneously admirable of Michigan, idiotic of Racist, and hilarious to watch.
A pair of black guys walked past and BO told them that he'd just dropped a racist guy, and one of them rolled up his sleeves, as if he were going to drop Racist if he made it past the Michigan defensive perimeter.
Fortunately for everyone, as Racist made his way slowly up the block to our position, all non-involveds left... just the six in our party were left, waiting, when Racist charged.
BO stood his ground and Racist waded into a short flurry of punches that staggered him. He lurched backwards and fell onto the sidewalk. His head hit pretty hard, and in my medical opinion, he was concussed.
He popped up, though, with a bit of the ol' "I've just been concussed" crazy-eyes... and blood streaming down his left arm. I'm not sure how or where it came from, but he bled a lot in a very short amount of time.
Seeing a bleeding dude who'd just had his skull bounce off the sidewalk pop up ready for more of an ass-whooping, the professional softball players skee-daddled. Leaving just Michigan, Racist, BO and me.
Michigan was at the end of his rope. He was a decent guy who didn't want to see his friend get beat up. He started talking--pleading--with me to leave and to take BO with me. Of course, I wasn't going to risk my hide by getting in between the two guys, especially since my friend was winning. I calmly explained that I lived very close and that THEY were the ones who ought to leave, especially considering Racist had started it all.
Michigan tried to explain his perspective, and he managed to dig himself a nice little hole as he recounted the matter:
Michigan: My friend saw your friend singing my song, and--your african american friend might have been gay, I don't know, and he--
Me: What?
Michigan: He might have been gay, and he--
Me: Uh... he's not gay, first of all, but who gives a crap if he is?
Michigan: OK. He might not be gay, but my friend...
I kinda tuned him out there. He could sense it, and he started pointing the finger at me, personally, for not keeping my friend under control.
This conversation was taking place on the street corner. Where were BO and Racist? They were in the crosswalk, circling and talking and taking one another's measure... at least BO was taking Racist's measure... Racist might have been counting the hallucinations the bruises on the back of his brain were causing.
As I spoke to Michigan, I was keeping and eye on the in-the-street hostilities to ensure that BO was doing OK. I didn't want to escalate things with a four man brawl for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that I'm the worst fighter on the planet.
Or at least that's what I thought. Then I saw Racist finally make his move.
He rotated his hips so he was in profile, facing BO. He then did two weenie little sidekick things towards BO's stomach. One missed entirely and the other connected, but it (shockingly, I know!) lacked any sort of power.
After the two kicks of fury, Racist didn't change tactics. He went to the well, as it were, once too often.
The third kick was one that BO was ready for. When it approached, BO caught it and sort of twisted Racist, who hit the pavement like a concussed ton of bricks.
If BO were a trained fighter, I think Racist could have ended up in the hospital at this point. As it was, BO got a couple more licks in before Michigan finally pulled the bloodied but still outraged Racist away. Racist, at that point, claimed he was going to go get a knife and kill BO.
*yawn*
BO and I wandered back to my place to cool down. He had blood on his shirt and various spots on his upper body. Seen, in part, here:
Racist was taller than BO, Racism had the reach on him, and Racism had the cultural and institutional inertia.
But Racism lost. Big time.
No comments:
Post a Comment