Sunday, October 25, 2009

24/7 Behind the Tussle for the Texas Instrument Pt. 4

It was starting to look really bad for him. I am not beating him handily but I am connecting more than he is and even the haymakers he manages to block are sending him reeling into parked cars (ok, one parked car). Like I said I am heavy handed and lord knows what kind of adrenaline is flowing at this point. It is the same adrenaline that allowed me to feel no pain during the fight but wore off the following morning and begged me to ask the questions “ Why do my eyelashes hurt?” and “I don’t remember being punched in the navel. Why is it swollen?” Adrenaline is a hell of a drug!! I am being punched in the face intermittently by the way and he is actually calling out the shots after they connect (“Got ‘em”). A few more jabs to the grill and wouldn’t you know it, his sneaker comes off again. This time, I did my best Adam Vinatieri impression and launched his Jordan bouncing and skipping about 20 feet down the street (must’ve been a bitch getting those scuff marks out.) After kicking his kicks down this road , I stood there and let him retrieve his sneaker, once again, to the amazement of everyone. As he is walking down the block (on the good foot) to retrieve his battered Nike, his boys are starting to laugh at him. He was losing the fight physically but that wasn’t what was causing the most damage. The extraneous shenanigans surrounding the melee was giving his ego a public beating and the fact that I am still giving him a fair shot is not helping. He retrieved his sneaker, squared up and we went at it again.



A couple more punches exchange and a couple more connect. Then I think one really connects because this is when he stumbles and falls back into the aforementioned-parked car. I don’t know why I’m being coy about this so I will call it what it was. I believe I punched him in his f*ucking face!! As he ricochets and recovers, he pauses for a second and I think I almost see the words “to hell with this” flash across his forehead. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the concealed weapon of choice at that era in street crimes, your friend and mine, the box cutter, affectionately know as the “shank”. Oh shit! Wasn’t ready for that one. So I took a few quick steps back and I am scared shitless but I don’t run. Can’t do that anymore. As ignorant as it was, I would’ve rather gotten stabbed. One of my boys calls out my name as if he is Obi Won Kenobi and readily tosses a distreesed Luke Skywalker his light saber i.e. his butterfly knife. So we are even again, only this time, it’s a knife fight. Now in my mind I felt like I caught the knife in one sweeping motion and unraveled it like a professional Stabologist. Thank goodness for selective retention. As I was recently reminded, it was more of an “oh shit, what the hell do I do with this?” juggling kind of motion. How did I end up starring in the off Broadway rendition of West Side Story anyway?


All that was missing was some tight jeans, a pack of Kools rolled up in my shirt sleeve and some dancing Marias and we were good to go (Jazz hands.)



As we assumed the position for slicing and dicing each other up, a mutual acquaintance of ours who had witnessed the entire debacle transpire literally stepped in between us and refused to let us continue. He seemed be the only one in attendance who believed that multiple stab wounds to the sternum was not a reasonable means of retrieving one’s calculator. We disbursed at that point but hung around school afterward to play ball illegally on the roof. About a half hour had passed and when I returned to the entrance of the school , wouldn’t you know it, he is standing right in front as everyone exited. Most students were oblivious that we had been fighting the period prior but they were all about to find out. I literally walk about 10 feet away from him and commence talking all kinds of shit “What’s up now? Why’d you pull a shank out on me?" I am carrying on but he doesn’t budge, he doesn’t answer. What makes it worse is at that point, a girlfriend to one of his boys makes her opinion publicly known and it is as equally audible as my tirade. She turns to him and says “You ain’t gonna fight him?” He is not moving, he is not speaking. At that point, I gave up all hopes of a rematch and entered the school, passing no more the 2 feet away as he leans on the gate. He is not moving, he is not speaking.


The next day arrives and he is no where to be seen. Word has spread as word often does in high school and I am receiving all kinds of congratulatory high fives from other students who don’t like these dudes but also from his own boys of all people and I am disgusted. How are you guys a crew but you are congratulating me for beating your boy’s ass? There is something to be said for the loyalties of teenagers. Correction, there is something to be said for loyalty period. A few more days pass and he is still no where to be seen. He has apparently transferred from the school and the legend of Crazed Afrykan is born. The story has taken on a life of it’s own. Like an old CB radio with shotty transmission, only certain bullet points are audible with each transmission ….”Sneaker came off….. kicked down the street. …. pulled out a shank…got his ass beat so bad he transferred….” Score one for nerds everywhere, almost. I still failed trigonometry and chemistry and the bastard still has my calculator but at least I now had street credibility that spanned approximately one street long (my cred expired the day I graduated fyi).

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