I had my first challenge yesterday in the badass street of my own hometown. On the Boulevard, nonetheless. Ili and I were coming home after a long day's work. We'd stopped and had a small dinner at one of our favorite Italian restaurants and decided to get some gelatto for later. The Boulevard was deserted at seven o'clock on a Wednesday summer night, and I was able to park right in front of the store. When Ili got out of the car, a man approached her and started talking real close to her. He was a muscular little fellow, and as quickly as I could, I made my way around the car and moved between them. He was talking in a low, mumbly voice, and all I could make out was "I'm homeless."
He didn't look homeless, but those guys are often built like pirates and marauders, so who knows.
I said, "That's awful," and moved to go into the store, but he stepped in front of me and bumped up against my broken ribs. I saw red, as in the old days, but I was immediately aware that I could not take this fellow.
"What the fuck are you doing? Get the fuck off me," I said with a crazy eye. And he did. I don't think I look all that broken any more though I am not thick as I once was.
It bothered me the rest of the night. Hell, it is still bothering me. I would have said, "Hey, motherfucker, touch me again and I'm going to turn out your lights."
Ili is glad that I don't do that any more. But fuck me. I'm not.
I thought about my friends who do not act the way I do (which is almost all of them) and wondered how they would have handled it. They would have said little and simply moved away. But what would that teach the dickhead? I know he has been hit before, but not on the Boulevard, I'm sure.
Whatever. I have to go to therapy and lift three pound weights now. I will do it with ferocity, I'm sure.
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