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Bums, |
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Butch did not start the riot.
I know, because when the riot began I was sitting right next to Butch,
in the basement cafeteria of the Third Street Mens Shelter.
It was August and the city was miserable hot. I was just picking at my
tray of food when a Chinese man stood up at the far end of our table and
yelled something that sounded like, "Gung-ho!"
Another Chinese man stood up across from him. Both wore sleeveless tee
shirts and striped boxer shorts and rubber sandals. They looked like brothers.
The first one pointed at the second one, his hand shaking with rage. "Two
wacka dong!"
The other crossed his arms over his chest. "Ling-cod-dung!"
I heard Butch say, "Uh-oh."
We both watched as the first Chinese man swept up a bowl of green Jell-O
and smeared it into the other one's face. Blinded by the Jell-O, he scrambled
over the table, knocking aside trays and plates and glasses, and grappled
onto the first one.
And that's when the riot began. Within seconds, every man at our table
but Butch and me was fighting. Then every man at every other table in
the basement cafeteria was fighting. Plates were being smashed, trays
thrown, metal chairs kicked over. I crouched low, ducking all the fists
and elbows and flying plates.
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This story will appear in Velocity Nine Stories of People In Motion Autumn 2008 Published by Green Flash Publishing |