Steven Thomas - Criminal Carma

“Fuck off,” I said harshly, before Mary could respond.

The grins dropped off both their faces.

“You talking to me, bitch?” the mouthpiece said.

“I must be,” I said, giving Mary a hard shove toward the sand to get her clear. “You’re the only loudmouth piece of shit I see.”

The little guy did an impressive back flip and landed in a crouch, cocked and ready for action. The big guy took a step toward me.

“Whud you wanna do?”

I paused as if reconsidering and raised my hands to shoulder level, palms toward them.

“I’m not going to do anything,” I said. “You guys look too tough. Let’s let this cop handle it.”

As I said that, I extended my left hand, pointing off to the side and behind them. At the same time, I shifted my hips so that my weight rested heavily on my flexed right leg and my right hand hung down to the level of my knee.

Both sets of eyes followed my left hand as it pointed, and both heads swiveled to look for the cop. As the big guy’s head turned away from me, I brought my right fist up from way down low in a good old-fashioned roundhouse, pivoting my hips and hitting him in the temple as hard as I have ever hit anyone.

He dropped like a sack of cement.

When the white guy turned back toward me, responding to the thunk of my fist on his friend’s skull, I was following through, swinging my right leg forward and planting it, toes toward him, holding my left fist low behind me and my right forearm upright in front of me, guarding my solar plexus and my face.

As the little guy charged me, I snapped a back fist in his face to throw him off balance and pivoted again, opposite, stepping forward with my left foot and swinging my left fist in a second roundhouse that was a country cousin of the first one.

He was quick and ducked to one side so that I only hit him a glancing blow, but it still knocked him down. When he bounced back up, he jumped sideways like a jackrabbit, put two dirty fingers in his mouth, and gave a piercing whistle. Immediately an answering whistle came from the crowd to the south and the other three acrobats came running.

Two were black, one Asian. All three were muscular and, after they saw their boy down, mad as hell. For a bad moment I thought I might get my ass stomped in front of the girl. But we were next to the weight pens, and two big lifters who had witnessed the altercation ran over and took flanking positions on either side of me.

“Beat feet, niggers,” the biggest one said. His naked pecs were the size of dinner plates, his biceps like thighs. The hip-hop boys didn’t want any part of him. They helped their friend up and retreated.

“We’ll get you, motherfucker!” the mouthpiece said when he and his crew were at a safe distance, pointing at me with a look of fury on his rat face.

“Thanks, guys, you saved me,” I said to the lifters.

“Anytime, bro,” Humongo said. “I don’t like those guys, anyway. Thur always causing trouble around here.”

“Nice moves,” the other one said, giving me a thick-necked nod of approval before rocking back into the weight pen.

I looked around for Mary and saw her standing by a palm tree at the edge of the sand with her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide.

“You okay?” I said, walking toward her.

“Yeah,” she said, coming to meet me. “Man! You really laid that guy out!”

“Just a lucky punch,” I said, playing it to the hilt.

“I don’t think so,” she said, looping her arm through mine and walking close beside me as we continued south. Most girls like guys who will fight for their honor, especially when they win, and it felt intimate again between us. But I knew Baba was still lurking in the background, exerting his mystic gravity on the girl.

Ahead of us to our right, a crowd was gathered on the beach, facing a man standing on a temporary stage who was speaking into a microphone. The crowd’s back was to the ocean, the speaker’s to the boardwalk. As we came closer, the sound of his amplified voice clarified into words.

“… lose essential housing and see rents on what’s left go through the roof. It will change our neighborhood so completely that we won’t recognize it anymore. And for what? So a corrupt city councilman and some greedy out-of-town developers can make a killing and rich people can have another fancy hotel to stay at on the weekend? There are plenty of fancy hotels, but not nearly enough affordable housing.”

The speaker was Walt, the artistic Baby Boomer from the ashram. This was the protest I’d read about in the paper. Clearly, Baba Raba’s role in the development was not known or the aging hippie would not have been doing karma yoga for him that morning.

“Hey, that’s Walt,” Mary said.

“Let’s hear what he has to say.”

I stopped beside a concrete wall that bordered the sand and half-leaned, half-sat on top of it with my feet wide enough apart for Mary to stand between my legs. When she leaned back against me, into my arms, I had one of those moments of supreme happiness that Vedanta offers, not just through the channel of meditation but through the aperture of love, a sense of true ananda , escape from the boundaries of both time and self. The feeling made me think of Kim Henner, my first girlfriend, who I was crazy about in fifth grade. I remembered the first time I held her and gave her a tentative kiss out behind the shed in her backyard. That was my earliest taste of the magic that can be in the union of male and female. I had not thought about that moment in many years, but it turned out I had not forgotten it, either.

When I wrapped my arms around Mary, pulling her closer, she snuggled against me, pushing her buttocks into my groin. A dizzy wave of desire washed through me as all the blood in my body rushed to the spot. It felt like my genitals were about to explode. Her sensitive ass felt the change and she turned her head to look back at me over her shoulder, smiling.

“Easy, big boy,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Can’t help it.”

“It’s okay,” she said, shifting her butt slightly from side to side, rubbing it against me. “I like to know a guy has a strong drive.”

“… tax breaks that make it a bad deal for the city, any way you add it up,” Walt was saying as I tuned back in to his exhortation. “The city council is in their pocket. If we don’t organize to stop this, we are going to lose our shops, our homes, and our way of life. Do you want that?”

“No! No! Fuck them! Boo!” the crowd shouted. There were at least a hundred angry people standing in front of the stage, all of them potential opponents of Baba if his role in the resort deal should happen to somehow mysteriously leak out.

One particularly booming boo caught my attention and I looked over to see Budge standing at the edge of the boardwalk. He was wearing his AWOL shirt and carrying a Rite Aid bag.

As Walt resumed his speech, Budge turned away from the platform and saw me. We exchanged a nod and he trudged over.

“Hey, Rob,” he said. He looked hungover.

“Hi, Budge. What’s going on here?”

“They’re trying to fuck up the surfing, same as always,” he said. “Build a big hotel with a marina. Walt’s trying to stop it.”

“How did last night turn out?” I asked him.

He shook his head mournfully. “It got purty drunk out.”

“Your girlfriend spend the night?”

“Was I with a girl?”

“Yes,” I laughed.

“She musta gone home. Who’s this?” His bloodshot eyes had been darting quick looks at Mary while we talked, starting with her ankles and working up to her alert face.

“This is Mary,” I said. “Mary, this is Budge.”

“Hullo, Mary,” he said.

“What are you AWOL from?” she asked.