Rhozier Brown - DC Noir 2 - The Classics

I leaned my back against the window and watched the rain water pour off the awning and splash over my shoes. I was standing in a puddle about an inch deep, but it hardly mattered any more. I was beginning to feel sick again. There was no sign of the bus. To take my mind off myself, I turned and faced the window, and I saw the woman dancing around the store with her arms outstretched and her eyes half closed. The men standing near the refrigerated case kept up a rhythmic clapping. She went on dancing around, having a marvelous time, while the man in the porkpie hat looked sullenly at the floor.

After a while, I turned around and faced the street again. I felt like a shipwreck hanging on a reef, or a piece of driftwood. I think I had a touch of delirium. I was thinking about what to do next, when the woman and the man in the porkpie hat came out of the grocery store.

“You deny that? You deny that?” he yelled at her. He was standing next to me under the awning.

“Go on, man. Go on. Go on,” she said, walking away from him and moving indifferently into the rain.

“Now, you deny that?” he said. “Now where you going? You come on back here.”

“You don’t own me, baby,” she said, walking on.

He gave a few preliminary grunts of frustration, and then he began to scream at her to come back, but she paid no attention to him. “You hear me? I’m talking to you! You come on back here,” he said.

Halfway down the block, she stopped and turned around, put her hands on her hips, yelled something obscene at him, and then stretched out her arms and began to laugh.

“Honey, you getting wet. Now, you come on back here,” he called imploringly.

She yelled something at him again.

“Now, honey, why you talk that way to me?” he yelled.

“Man, leave me alone. You make me sick,” she said, moving on.

“Come on, honey, you know I don’t feel good,” he cried at her in a sad whine.

The woman crossed the street quickly, and the man watched her, moving his mouth without saying anything. He seemed too tired to go after her. For a while, he stood with his arms folded and shook his head. He didn’t seem to know that I was there, even though only about a foot separated us. I was slightly behind him, still leaning against the window, when he turned around and looked surprised; then he closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes and looked angry.

“How are you?” I said.

“What you say?” he asked, putting a hand over his eyes.

“I said, ‘How are you?’”

He held his hand over his eyes, considering the question. “That ain’t what you said,” he told me finally, still covering his eyes.

“O.K., that’s not what I said.”

I looked down at my feet, at the puddle I was standing in, trying to ignore him. I noticed that he was wearing a ripped pair of black, misshapen shoes and no socks, and that his pants legs were rolled up a little above his ankles. Suddenly he jumped into the puddle I was standing in and splashed me. I couldn’t believe it.

“Now, what did you say?” he asked, folding his arms.

I didn’t answer.

“You trying to make a fool out of me?” he asked.

“I’m not trying to make a fool out of you,” I said. I looked down the street, feeling sick and desperate, but the street was empty and it was raining harder than ever.

“You mean you ain’t trying but I am a fool anyhow. Right?” he said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But that what you mean,” he said. “You a wise guy. Right?”

“I’m just waiting for a bus. If I insulted you, it was unintentional,” I said.

“Don’t give me unintentional. I unintentional you .”

He kicked the puddle, splashing my pants with water, and said he was going to knock me down. Then he stepped back, dropping his hands to the level of his belt, and measured me. I picked up my suitcase and moved it a few feet, setting it on a narrow ledge just below the window.

“Man, I’m gonna wipe you out,” he said, opening and closing his hands several times.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked very strong, and I am of medium height and rather frail. “Well,” I said, “you’re going to have the worst fight of your life.”

“You gonna give it to me?” he asked, smiling.

I told him that I was going to beat the hell out of him, and then I brought my hands up.

“Man, will you look at that!” he said. “This is gonna be some fun.”

He touched the brim of his hat, dropped his hands into position again, and, five feet away from me, began to bob and weave. “You come on in,” he said. “I’m a counterpuncher.”

I didn’t move, but watched him closely, keeping my hands high. I told him I was a counterpuncher, too. He began to circle me, and I turned with him. He kept on going through this little shadowboxing routine, paying only nominal attention to me. He looked very good, very agile.

After a few minutes of circling and jabbing and hooking at the air, he stopped and looked at me. “You looks terrible,” he said. We had maneuvered ourselves out into the rain, and the water was streaming over our faces. “You off balance,” he said.

I told him not to worry about it, that I had fast hands and a good punch.

“The only thing you doing right is standing up,” he said, shaking his head. He held up his hands in a truce gesture and walked over to me. He said he wanted to give me some basic instruction. He adjusted my hands slightly and pushed my head down so that it was protected by my left shoulder, and then he kicked my feet to a different position, saying I was standing flat-footed. “Now you looking good,” he said.

“Well, it feels unnatural,” I said, resuming my old position.

Then, to prove that my style was poor, he asked me to try to hit him. He said he wouldn’t try to hit me but would just give me a little demonstration that would do more for me than all the talk in the world.

“I don’t want to hit you,” I said.

“Don’t worry, you ain’t going to,” he said.

“Look, I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

“Come on, now,” he said. “You got to see what I mean to really believe it.”

So he began to bob and weave with his hands low, presenting his head as a slowly moving target. I watched his head bob for about thirty seconds, and tried to measure him. He kept talking the whole time. “You can’t get set, see. Now you see it, now you don’t. You all tied up.”

I pulled my right hand back a few inches, and he broke into a wide grin, and then, while he was grinning, I feinted with my right hand and came hard with a left hook, catching him squarely on the side of the jaw. He whirled around and pitched forward on the pavement, landing hard on his chest and then rolling over on his side. He wasn’t hurt. He grabbed his hat and jumped quickly to his feet, looking annoyed and embarrassed. “I’ll be goddam,” he said, one hand on top of his hat.

“I’m very sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Some rain got in my eye,” he said. “I ain’t seen your left.”

He said he wanted to give me a few more demonstrations, but I told him I’d had enough. I suddenly felt sick again, with the hot-and-cold business returning — the nausea and cramps and the rest. My legs became weak. Feeling I was going to faint, I walked over to the window and leaned against it. I decided to forget about the bus, for the time being, and go back to the men’s room in the gasoline station. I took up my suitcase and started to walk away, when the man trotted over and grabbed me by the arm. “Where you going?” he asked.

“I’m not feeling well,” I said, jerking my arm away. “Leave me alone.”

“Man, what’s wrong with you?” he asked, smiling. “You knock me down and you is mad.”