The Neighborhood Watch

January 23, 2016 at 11:30 am (Cussed Dumbers)

"I TOL' YOU..."


Friday and Saturday at the Nightclub Store are often memorable, for the unique and varied clientele that wander through town. NBA players, fans from other states wondering where to line up to see Kobe. The nightclub regulars, who I’ve seen every weekend for the last decade. The Dirt Urchins, who sit in piles near mini-marts and liquor stores, spanging and hustling.

Then there are the dumb-shits who come to town to get drunk and cause trouble. Careful what you wish for!

As the midnight hour approached, I changed from workshirt to vest and hoodie. Giggles was running five minutes late, so no early bus for me. I stood near the front of the store, passing the time of night with Fagin, a pointy-bearded Dirt Urchin, and Kayo, a longtime customer and, until recently, a resident of the crazy-hotel around the corner from the store. Fagin has been 86ed by most of the crew, but he’s always contrite and expedient with his in-store visits, so I don’t push it. Kayo and his crew have had run-ins with Rumpole, who 86ed them. Southie told me I can do what I want on my shift, but to watch them. No problem. I’ve patted down Kayo’s girlfriend (upon request) a couple times. I hate to admit it, but I wish she’d appear to misbehave more often. Short answer, I’ve not caught them doing anything wrong, yet, so I will continue to make money off them.

Aw shit, here comes the Coca-Cola truck. Are you kidding? A fucking Coke delivery at Friday midnight shift change? Lovely. If I weren’t the veteran c-store cashier I am, I would be stressing. I took a deep breath and prepared for a bout of craziness.

Instead, we got a bout worthy of Bumfights.

As I stood on the sidewalk awaiting Giggles to come around the corner so I could begin my departing sequence, a lone Hispanic gentleman stumbled up the sidewalk. It took less than a second to know I would not be selling him any more alcohol. (I hadn’t sold him any to begin with, I’d not seen him before.) He stopped in front of Kayo and I, and mumbled something in Spanish. I picked out the words pendejo and puto.

Sorry, no time for drunken shit-talking. “Move along now,” I said, and shifted my attention back to Kayo.

The Hispanic gentleman, who will now be known as Pendejo, said something to Kayo. “HEY! Get outta here,” I stated more firmly.

“Mutter mutter puto…” and he kicked me, right above the knee.

“Why, you stupid cocksucker,” I believe was my retort. I heard a “Whoa!” from both Fagin and Kayo. Kayo took a step back, and I retreated into the store, long enough to ditch my jackets. I don’t want to spend half an hour explaining all the things in my pockets to law enforcement…

I stepped back to the threshold of the door, blocking his entrance. He made a couple furtive motions toward me. Fagin came up, got into the middle. “Just go away, dude. He’s gonna kick your ass, just GO AWAY.”

Pendejo would have nothing of it. He seemed encouraged that I took my coat off, in that ‘Ooh, we gonna fight now’ vein. No, we are not. But you are not going to touch me again either, motherfucker.

It was about that time a most incredible thing happened. Kayo, with his two bad hips and foot black from infection, took a step forward, swung his cane across his chest and hit Pendejo square in the jaw, knocking it sideways like a Rock ’em-Sock ’em Robot.(I swear I heard the “Whzzz!”) Before Pendejo could even fathom what had happened, Kayo brought the cane back down, clipping him on the side of the head and shoulder. “OW! You hit me! Call la polizia!”

“Oh, fuck off you big pussy! Where’s your fight now?” Fagin was an odd cheerleader, but nothing compared to Kayo.

‘HE TOL’ YOU TO GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE, NOW YOU GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!” I have only seen Kayo lit up one other time, and he got right up in the grill of a giant black dude, snorting like a mad bull, telling him that outcomes would be unpleasant if he didn’t back the fuck off. I now know that Kayo can swing a mean stick as well.

Both Kayo and Fagin departed, not wanting face-time with la polizia.

Clean and Safe pulled up, asking if I wanted to press charges? He’d gone down the block in front of the bar where all the poker players and tough-guys stood outside to smoke. He’d garnered attention from both bouncers and customers, one of which, a Native American youth with a jailhouse mentality and a headful of Four Loko, was more than willing to give Pendejo another English lesson. Seems the harder you hit him, the more English he knows. In my case, Pendejo’s kick was more of a brushing, and since he was looking at eight hours on a cold concrete floor at detox, I felt justice had been served.

On a stick.

1 Comment

  1. 8of9 said,

    2 weeks since your last post,
    2 weeks, twöœ weeəķķs, ţțøø wëěķķ§.
    / total recall reference.
    *scurries into dark corner*
    pleace can has?

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