bunch of shots. Drank lots of beers. By the time the show was over, I was drunk. I used to be one of those people who get overly affectionate when they drink too much. It always embarrassed Daniel, since I’d do insincere shit like telling Candy Caine she actually looked like a woman, so he steered me out of Mary’s before I could get too sloppy.
We were cutting over on Cornelia to get to Halsted. The street was dark. One two-story courtyard apartment building followed the next. I slipped my hand around Daniel’s waist. I pulled him close to me. He chuckled a little, happy to get the rare bit of PDA out of me.
“You’re gonna feel like crap in the morning,” he said.
I don’t know where they came from. Four of them. They looked like kids from one of the better suburbs. Other than that, I couldn’t tell you much about them. They got between us. Calling names. Talking shit. I went into cop mode and tried to defuse the situation. Warning them off, which only caused two of them to start poking their fingers into my chest.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another of the guys bouncing an aluminum bat in his hand.
Twitching almost. Getting ready to swing. Daniel was yelling. I sensed the situation slipping into chaos. I reached for a gun I wasn’t wearing. Bat Boy reared back to swing. Frustrated, I grunted as I jumped for him. But the two who’d been poking at me grabbed me, while the fourth swung a punch into my stomach. The bat arced and caught Daniel square in the left cheek.
Down on the ground, screaming, Daniel holding his face.
Rage ripped through me like a wildfire. I kicked at the guys holding me, which made it hard for the one throwing punches. I wiggled and twisted trying to get away from them. Individually, I could have pounded the crap out of them. But working together, they had the upper hand.
Boystown - 29
The one with the bat stood over Daniel. He looked like he was going to take another swing.
“No!” I yelled.
Suddenly, Bat Boy got hit in the face with what turned out to be a potato. He stepped away from Daniel and looked around. A voice from above yelled, “Leave them alone you sons of bitches.”
A couple more potatoes flew by. This gave me an in, and I was able to pull away from the two guys holding onto me. I spun around, wind-milling my arms, and caught one of them in the chin.
He went down.
Between my lucky punch and the potatoes that continued to connect every so often, the guys started looking at each other. One of them said, “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here.”
The whole thing took two, three minutes tops. But it felt like it went on forever. They were gone, running down the street. Daniel was still screaming. Had screamed the whole time. I bent down over him.
“It’s okay. They’re gone.”
He took a couple of deep breaths and said, “Hurts like fuck.” He started moaning after that.
Loud. But at least it wasn’t a scream.
“Sweetie,” came the voice from above. “You want me to call the cops or get an ambulance?”
I turned around and for the first time looked at the guy who’d help us out of this mess. He was a queen in his sixties. His fire-engine red kimono hung open as he leaned out the window, revealing chalk-white skin and an emaciated frame.
“No, don’t do that,” I told him, flushed with embarrassment. I should have been able to handle this, I told myself -- as I would tell myself again and again.
“You sure? Your friend doesn’t seem okay.”
“We’re fine,” I snapped. “Mind your own business.”
The queen swore at me and slammed his window shut.
I pulled Daniel off the ground. He held his hand tightly over his left cheek and eye. I started walking him down the street. I didn’t feel drunk anymore. In fact, I felt completely clear-headed.
“We’ll get a cab and go to the hospital,” I told Daniel. “Just tell them you fell down and hit your head on the curb. We’ve been drinking. They’ll believe it.”
We reached Halsted,
Jan (ILT) J. C.; Gerardi Greenburg