Sunday starts with somebody yelling under my bedroom window. Usual stuff: motherfucker this and that, I’ll get you nigger, and so on.
He’s still shouting out free-form challenges to no one in particular. He comes to a late-model Ford parked at the Marathon station, rummages around in it for a while, slams the door as hard as he can (the force of this almost pushes him over), then goes to the pay phone nearby. It doesn’t look like he’s making a call, more like he’s pounding on the phone, trying to get a response from it.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
I open the window a crack, and sure enough, he’s cursing and bashing at the phone. He holds onto the receiver and pulls and swings on it, like a fish caught on a hook.
When I see this punch I have the usual rush of fear: oh God, a fight, how long, will it escalate . . . ? But no, it’s one good, swift punch and that’s that. I don’t recognize the black guy either, and he doesn’t look especially scummy or dangerous, like a lot of the guys–black, white, Hispanic–who hang out on this “drugstore” corner. He could be a student, or maybe a low-level wage slave. Young anyway, well-groomed, good posture, firm stride–good, strong punch!
Now the man is walking around without his shirt. His face looks battered, and there is blood running down his bare chest. He wipes at it with the T-shirt, but his chest is soon smeared with blood again.
I decide to make my move. I go down and meet them as they’re on the way back to their car. “I’m the one who called,” I say. They seem only mildly interested to meet me. “I saw him take a knife out of his car,” I say. “That’s when I called.”
“The guy was yelling around the corner for half an hour before I called you guys,” I say. “Then I saw a black guy go up and punch him. I called when I saw the knife.”
