And on and on it went. Their high-pitched voices like nails on a chalkboard. And not fingernails. Real nails, the kind you hammer with.
It started around eleven in the morning, waking me from a deep slumber. I laid in bed, trying to ignore it, to somehow get back to sleep.
“Fish out of water!” one of them screeched and then they all yucked it up.
I lost it.
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you fucking kids! Shut up now or I will shut you up! Forever!” I yelled out my window.
Silence. Then crying. Lots of crying. And the sound of an adult male getting really worked up about what I had just said. Woops.
“No, I’m not gonna calm down. Who the hell does he think he is? Yelling at my kids like that? I don’t care, Barbara, I’m gonna go up there and give him a piece of my mind!”
“Yeah, you come up here, toughguy, I’ll kick your fucking ass!” I thought, as I instinctively pulled the covers up a little higher.
“OK, well when you get back, I have to go out to the van and change Rashawn’s diaper,” replied the woman.
Rashawn?? Oh shit, was this a black guy? Why couldn’t I have just kept my mouth shut? Or at least gotten out of bed and closed the window? I’m sure that would have cut down on the noise by a pretty significant amount.
BANG BANG BANG!
“Hey, asshole. Open up!”
Judging by his voice and the force with which he knocked on my door, I figured I was in trouble.
“C’mon, toughguy. You were talking all big before, let’s see what you got!” He persisted.
Well, certainly, he would give up and go away, forgetting all about this after a few minutes, right? I mean, Rashawn’s diaper needed changing!
But no, he kept at it. Knocking and banging and yelling and making all sorts of crazy threats.
I crept up to the peephole, indeed, he was a very large man. I’m not sure if he was black or hispanic or what, but he definitely wasn’t white. Maybe Samoan or something?
“Hey, I see the light of the peephole, I know you’re looking at me, asshole! Come on out here, so I can kick your ass!”
Busted. Great. Time for some fast-thinking!
“You’re gonna kick my ass?” I asked, meakly.
“That’s right, bitch. Now open up. I can wait all day.”
My thoughts drifted to poor Rashawn and his poop-filled diaper, but I figured it was best not to provoke him anymore.
“You’re gonna kick the ass of someone with cancer?”
Silence. That seemed to work!
“Well, I…” he stammered.
“Look, I didn’t mean to yell at your kids, but the chemo pains are really bad, especially in the morning,” I offered, as way of a semi-apology.
“Oh. OK, look, I’m sorry. I’m not gonna beat you up. I’ll have the kids keep it down. Sorry. Bye.”
And off he went!
Now, if I had chalked this up to dumb luck, learned my lesson and went on my way, I might not be writing this blog from the sling I have to sleep in, standing upright, so that my vertebrae will heal correctly.
But never one to learn my lesson, I went about my life, pretty much the same way, just on the look out for any big Samoan-looking guys around my building.
A few weeks later, I was playing touch football with some friends in the park.
Wouldn’t you know it, there’s a ton of little dipshits running around all over the place, interfering with our game. No parents in sight.
I was right in the middle of my patented play-action fake when this little bitch runs right into me, fucking the whole thing up.
She starts crying. So I demand some accountability from someone.
“Whose fucking kid is this? We’re trying to play a fucking game here!”
“It’s my kid, asshole!” came the booming, familiar voice, from behind me.
Before I had even turned around, I knew who it was. I also knew I was in for some serious shit.
“So you’ve got cancer, huh, dicklick?”
“Dicklick??!” How dare he!
As he shoved me backwards, a good fifteen feet or so, I decided that he was, in fact, definitely Samoan.
So he kicked my ass, but I got some good ones in there too. I mean, it was pretty even for a while, until I accidentally hit his four year old daughter in the face with a stray punch. After that, he kinda lost it.
So really, if you think about it, I lost one fight, but I won the other, which means everything evened out.
I mean, sure, I’m in the hospital, but his daughter almost died!
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