Two nights ago, toward the end of a very slow shift and in the middle of debating whether or not to stay a little late, I decided to have a cigarette to contemplate the matter. I walked out the door and crossed the alley to sit on the curb closest to the street.

It’ll only take me fifteen minutes, twenty max.
Breathe deep. Flick the ash.
Why is that guy outside The Deuce standing there, just holding his junk?
Oh great. Eye contact. How many cigarettes do I have?

“You lookin’ for a frien’,” he asks as he sashays his way over. He is much taller than me, much broader than me, much blacker than me. Disheveled, wearing somewhat baggy, bluejean shorts, a belt, and a large t-shirt, I can’t tell if he is homeless or if he simply missed laundry day. He would be intimidating if he didn’t have the “come hither” look in his eyes.

“No, not really,” I say with slight dismissiveness, hoping to end the conversation quickly.
“What chu lookin’ for tonight,” he asks with a twinkle in his eye.

Does he have weed he wants to sell me? Coke? X? Commodities frequently pitched on the streets of South Beach.

“Nothing. I just want to smoke this cigarette.”
“Then you must be lookin’ for trouble,” he replies.

I run through what he can possibly mean by trouble in my head, given his demeanor. I’m still sitting there, looking up at this giant of a man looming over me.

“I’m just taking a break from work, trying to smoke a cigarette.”
And then he presents his argument:

“See, if I was you, I woulda said I was lookin’ for a frien’. Cuz if not, it mus’ mean you lookin’ for trouble.”

I notice a shift in his facial expression. His look of flirtation has turned to angry psycho rage. Shit. Really don’t want to deal with this. I realize I am at a disadvantage, sitting low to the ground in front of him. I stand up and on the curb. I am now only slightly taller than him.

“I just want to smoke my cigarette, man.”
“Oh, you gonna stand up now?!” He is in my personal space. He backs up. He comes close again. “What? You gonna run now,” he asks. His voice is raised. He is agitated.
“Just leave me alone,” I finally say. I look away from him and pull on my cigarette, trying to breathe deeply with it. Hoping he’ll just leave.
“You gonna call the cops now?”

Sigh. He’s not leaving. The tension is growing. I finally turn to just walk away and hopefully finish my cigarette in peace. And as I do so, this complete stranger cocks back and punches me in my ribs.

“Mother FUCKer,” I mouth out in shock and pain. Are you serious?! FUCK, that hurt! “What the fuck?!”

He is still talking, saying something or other. He begins to dance around, fists clenched, as if we were in a cage match, all the while glancing nervously all around for any nearby cops.

I can’t believe he just punched me!!! Who the hell does that?!
I turn once more and begin to walk back to the shop. He’s still talking, yelling, whatever the hell it is that he’s doing. I check over my shoulder to make sure I’m not going to get jumped from behind. I throw my cigarette out and go inside.

I decide to stay late. As I work, I think about what just happened. Seemingly out of nowhere, just utter crazy. What the hell was that? I think about where that came from, what possible chain of events could lead that man and I to that exact moment. I know what got me there, but what the hell got him there and in that state?

After about five minutes, it registers with me that I really didn’t get to enjoy that cigarette. So I go back out; back to the curb, sit in the same spot, and smoke another cigarette. I continue to turn the situation over in my head.

In all actuality, I got what was naturally coming to me. I didn’t try hard enough to diffuse the situation. I could have simply had a conversation, albeit a strained one, without getting sucker-punched. But I was really tired and just wanted a moment to myself. Who knows? Maybe I wanted to get punched.

But then if I put on my magic “everything’s beautiful” glasses and look at this from a different angle, it’s a solid win: He seemed to be happy with having either a friend or trouble, and I didn’t want a new friend so… we both got what we wanted. Win-win. Only my ribs still hurt.

Really don’t enjoy the bad crazy. Have GOT to stop pulling it in.

But hey!

Look at this! From the other end of the spectrum of life: Fabi in high heels and a skirt, doing her own “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” moves. (Video/editing/music: me, of course.)

(Feed people, link here.)