How About a Nice Howareya Punch?

March 23, 2014 at 1:11 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly)

People ask me, “Aren’t you scared?” when crazy incidents happen at work.

For the most part, no. I have seen (and done) a lot in my thirty-plus years as a cashier. I had another ‘first’ last week, in fact. (More on that later.) What happened, that wasn’t a first, but hasn’t happened in a long time, is…

I got punched in the face.

It was a typical Friday night, about 10:30 PM. I had a line of Canadian tourists buying as much wine as they could carry. (Our expensive-to-us store is half their price back home. Hammertime!) As I rang up a lovely and her tween daughter, and angry man who looked like Spike Lee all-cracked-out marched to the front of the line, picked up a Busted! Magazine and said, “I’m gonna stand here and read this.”

“No, you’re not. But for a dollar you can take it with you?” I smiled at him.

“FUCK YOU YOU WHITE-ASS PIECE OF TRASH! FUCK YOU! I’LL CUT YOU UP YOU FAT FLASHY MOTHERFUCKER!” He was spitting and flailing and mad as hell, not gonna take it anymore.

“You need to move on, sir.” I said it in a low, calm voice, and returned my attention to the customers.

“I’LL SEE YOU OUTSIDE YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT.” He was jumping around, now out on the sidewalk.

“Wow, you are one cool cucumber,” said the Canadian lady I was servicing.

“They say that all the time. They’re always tougher from half a block away. I tell people I have scabs on my soul.” I worked through the line, sold about $200 worth of wine, then stepped outside to observe the typical Friday night mayhem.

A bum pile to the left of the door, the smoking area of the nightclub to the right. I pulled out my phone and began texting a friend when I saw Spike Lee approaching me again. He was still mad.

“It’s rowdy tonight. I don’t think you’d like it here tonight.” I pressed send, dropped my phone into my pocket, and gave my attention to my new friend.

He walked up to me, said something angry and crazy. He held up his prison inmate ID card, and punched me in the jaw.

There was a time I was willing to scrap a bit. Those days are long gone. Fighting anymore is getting the violence to stop, as fast and as furious as it takes. Or not.

One can simply turn and walk away. Which I did. I retreated into the store and called 911.

“What a pussy! He’s calling the cops!” Spike Lee had a friend, a regular who looks like Samuel L Jackson with fucked-up teeth. I always hated his ass, so, him calling me a pussy? Cool. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, and you, you mouthy cocksucker, just became anyone. 86ed.

A couple hot girls walked in, bought gum and asked for a cigar. You wouldn’t believe how hot I find young black girls who smoke cigars these days, but that too is another story. Even as my jaw swelled, I was still exercising my eyes. I took in an eyeful, carded her, two days past eighteen. Her eyes got big as dollars when one of the street bums came into the store and started reliving how well I took a punch.

And he’s right. I haven’t been hit full-on since about 1987. I was worried my head would shatter like Mayor Dave’s. Ice in a bar towel slowed things right down.

My angry friend moved on. Sam Jackson did too, as did the bum pile. No one likes talking to the “real police.” Fifteen minutes later a patrol car pulled up, lights flashing. The officer got out, walked up the the guy who looks like a giant Travelocity lawn gnome and asked, “Are you Charles?”

“Over here, sir.” I waved.

He took my info, asked if I wanted to press charges?

“Nah. I’ll cooperate if you catch him, but don’t go on a hunt. I think he just wants to go back to prison, and at this rate it won’t take him long.”

I like being on the positive side of the cops. Like most downtown officers, once they talk to me in an official capacity, they have a minor epiphany: “I see you all the time down here. Now it makes sense.” They see me cruising the streets and sidewalks, talking with cops and criminals alike, and both groups tend to give me a collective WTF?

Kiss it better...

Kiss it better…

I am fine. Got a little bump on the chin that gives me a bit of Bruce Campbell jawline. Got a good story I’m already tired of hearing. I been keeping it quiet, because my wimmens get worried when things like this happen, but I figured I’d better tell Angel.

Out of the shower, hair slicked back, I snapped a selfie wearing only my new watch. (More on that later, as well.) “I owed you a naughty pic, and wanted you to hear it from me. I got punched in the face last night. Crackhead jailbird wanted to “make me pretty”. Missed, hit jaw. Little swollen, I am fine. Hugs!”

She texted back immediately, “Motherfucker! Want me to go find him???”

People LOL all the time, but I still LOL picturing her chasing Spike Lee down the Avenue with an empty forty.

“No dear. I am fine. I will let you kiss it better, tho.”

Then, as a quick follow-up: “And if that trick works, I will also tell you that he kicked me in the nuts… 🙂 “


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