Saturday Night's All Right

Whether it's in the sense of verbal altercations or actual fisticuffs, I don't get in many fights. In fact, I've only been in one as an adult (January, 2008, defending a friend; I lost, but didn't lose eyes or teeth, so it's fine).

Saturday night I went out with Politica. We went drinking and dancing in Belltown, and we walked the mile or so back to our neighborhood.

It was an uneventful walk until we got about two blocks from my place.

I don't keep up on local politics, but there's been a push to allow more street vendors to sell food in Seattle. It's unclear to me whether the laws or regulations have actually changed, but there seem to be more of them popping up lately, and one of them happens to have popped up about two blocks from my place.

(It sells hot dogs, and while I'm sure the cream cheese-laden pieces are delicious, I don't plan on partaking any time soon. I keep my kitchen stocked with hot dog fixin's, and even I am not lazy enough to not be willing to make that short walk home.)

It was about 2:30 AM when Politica and I approached the stand, and there was a pretty good crowd for a Saturday. People were jibber-jabbering and eating hot dogs. Good stuff.

The crowd was, unfortunately, in our way, and there was not a lot of space to walk between them.

Now, normally I would dodge and move and avoid contact with anyone, but I walked past the first couple of people and, seeing that not ONE person had moved, I got a little aggravated. So I squared my shoulders and just walked forward.

Bumping, of course, into someone.

Someone, of course, who wasn't happy about it.

I'll admit I was not polite. I did not "give" as I walked, and as a result my should hit his shoulder harder than I otherwise would prefer to. Further, 99% of the time if I bumped into a person that hard I would turn and apologize.

But I was irked that they were obstructing the whole sidewalk and the rum in my system had given me precious little inclination to apologize for anything.

While I will admit that I was not polite, there was a marked overreaction on the part of the bump-ee.

I took two steps and then I heard the following gem:

"Do you want to fight?"

I know enough not to turn around. Although I listened for approaching footsteps as I kept walking.

"Do you wanna fucking fight?"

Was it an effort to goad? Was his rage building? I didn't know and didn't want to find out. I can't be goaded. We kept walking.

*splat*

We looked to our left and there, on the sidewalk, was a half-consumed hot dog bun. I saw cream cheese as I glanced down, and I'm not sure if there was meat left or not. I guess it doesn't really matter.

As I walked, I looked over my shoulder and shouted something about the guy wasting his money on a hot dog.

Some time later, as we were safely ensconced in my apartment, I reflected that I was really glad that the guy didn't hit me with that hot dog. I like to think that I can't be goaded, but a cream cheese hot dog hitting me in the back of my head and neck might have been enough for me to make an exception... even if it was to my detriment.