I / wish I could complain / more about the Rich / but then / All their / Chil / dren would line the streets / come to every show / No-one / Wants that
Snarling lyrics cut through the crowd like a blunt knife, kids on pills smack their lips oblivious to the taunt, kids on cocaine chew gum and kids on booze close their eyes and pretend they are on cocaine or pills. It’s 2003 in New York City and everybody is angry about something. A girl falls into me and tells me to watch it which tips my mood over the edge so I leave through the fire exit.
Outside the club a pair of storms are brewing. The sky is the arena for one and the taxi queue for another. A pair of young men wearing tight skinny jeans with matching bouffant quiffs are angrily arguing over a space in the back of a yellow cab.
“Look buddy – I’ve got witnesses here who will back me up, this is my cab, I’ve been in line for almost fifteen minutes.”
This is accompanied by a sharp jab to the ribcage of the rival.
“Witnesses? It’s a fuckin’ cab, chill man, you can get the next one.”
An open palm push into the chest of the first man.
“You’d better back off.”
Another open palm push into the chest of the first man.
“Push me again.”
A laugh from the rival – well, a sneer, a jeer, he asks his friend to hold his beer and begins to take off his jacket. It’s tight leather and the air is damp, either the jacket has shrunk or his arms have swelled and for a moment he’s unable to roll the sleeves down past his wrists, briefly incapacitated in a scenester straight jacket. The first man should have seized the opportunity to strike but instead laughs and lights a cigarette. It’s a mistake that costs him as the rival quickly frees himself from the leather cuffs and squares his shoulders –
Before he is able to land a blow the second storm breaks and the heavens open. It’s heavy rain, the sort that makes a small indent in your skin and makes you wonder if it is in fact hail, and the onset is so sudden that both men are briefly distracted for a second. There is a collective groan as the onlookers screw up their faces and raise jackets over their heads. Nobody has brought an umbrella ‘cos who brings an umbrella to a gig? I take refuge against the red brick wall, the wind is coming from behind the building so it mostly keeps me dry. I recognise Nancy from school in the crowd and relish the opportunity to talk to her about tonight, she might even smile at me.
The rival turns to re-don his jacket which is held patiently by his accomplice (lover?) and the first man makes his move; a swift shove to the shoulder blade. The rival stays on his feet.
“You got somewhere to be?”
It’s a bad line – they’re fighting over a cab after all – but the provocation works. The accomplice holds out the jacket but he doesn’t take it. The first man senses he may have made a mistake and the rival’s chest rises as he inhales deeply through his nose. His white vest is flecked with raindrops. Suddenly –
He turns on his left heel, swinging his body weight through the rotation and channelling it into his arm, he punches through the air through the rain through the gasps of the crowd and connects with a dull thud into his target – the chin of the first man. His fist briefly flares with pain as the knuckles slam into bone and his wrist is jarred by the resistance it has met. The rotation continues until his torso is bent in an exaggerated post-punch contortion. His hair is now out of place.
The CRACK in fact belonged to a lightning strike less than fifteen miles away. The crowd gasp, some of them jump, unsure what has shocked them more, and the first man is knocked backwards. His feet slip on the now damp concrete and his legs struggle to support him; he falls into the onlookers, flailing his arms behind him. They catch him with a collective sigh and haul him upright again. Nancy looks bored now.
The slam of a car door. The rev of an engine. The slush of tyres.
The rival has taken the cab and is making his escape.
The first man’s jaw hurts – his teeth feel a little loose and he thinks he has bitten his tongue in shock. He can taste blood. To make matters worse the rain has caused his hairspray hairdo to flatten like candy floss held under a tap. A few onlookers murmur “are you alright man” or “that guy was a real dick” but the platitudes don’t help relieve the pain in his jaw nor the embarrassment in his gut.
I put my headphones in to drown out the sound of the club and set off down the street, the opposite direction to the victor of the fight. The rain has soaked through my converse to my socks and my feet are cold. I remember that I have homework to finish and begin to wonder why I came out in the first place.