I looked at the aluminum flashlight in my hand and muttered a curse. There was a long knife tucked in my belt, hidden by a scarf that was wrapped around my waist like a sash. I knew every curve on that blade, since I'd made it myself, but I dared not reach for it. I stood in a group of punks armed with melee weapons against a similarly armed group, only that a few of them had swords. Brandishing my knife would only escalate the situation, and that was the last thing I'd wanted. Particularly in the light that one of the hotheads had a sword and was clamoring for blood with wild eyes and bared teeth. There was a hothead in our group, too, with a retractable metal baton. Here were the front lines of gentrification, and I was on the wrong side. Great.
There had been neighborhood kids throwing stones at the people who returned home from a show which had just ended at the house I'd been crashing at. Apparently this wasn't the first time, and one of the punks charged out, stripped to the waist with a baseball bat. Not quite comprehending the situation, I went out. By the time I came to the end of the block, he had one of the kids shaking in fear on the ground, sitting with straight legs, looking petrified at the end of the wooden bat. He was being held there for the police. The rest of the kids fled into the housing complex where they lived.
Before I knew it sides were formed, mostly white against black. Punks versus longtime residents, us against them. There were bats, a staff, batons, knives, and swords, and of course, the hotheads on both sides spoiling for a fight. Oh right, and I had a flashlight in my hand. Granted, it was a sturdy flashlight, but it held exactly three double-A batteries, so it was a little larger than a typical mini-maglite. Not exactly an ideal counter for a sword, but I know there's a saying about lemons and blinding people with lemonade or something like that. I also know I could have left, but you just can't leave friends in a situation like that, 'tis the hobo code.
The other side's hothead, raised his sword and struck the ground with it, dulling the tip, so that the jagged edge glinted in the streetlamp light. Some of the people on his own side cringed. Our hothead seemed to only be encouraged by this. The lines had been redrawn now, as it became clear that all of us had a common enemy: the hotheads on our own sides. I don't want to fight, a woman armed with a cutlass yelled out, we don't want to fight, and all of us silently entered a pact to stop the spark that the hotheads desired. Unfortunately, silent pacts require these unspoken rules that make everything so complex and difficult.
It would have been best if the hotheads could fight without involving the rest of us, but I suppose bloodlust loves company. Deescalation is a slow and tedious process, in case you're wondering. It involves reciprocation, even of the smallest gesture, and at any point it can be derailed. Eventually it came to physically removing the hotheads from the scene, so I had to push our hothead back, and was he pissed. "You don't live here," he growled, "this isn't your fight."
Well, he was right. How can it be my fight if there isn't any? I was ready to beat his ass, though, for nearly getting me into a fight with swords when I had just a flashlight. Jerk. The police came after nearly everyone had left, and one cop yelled that he couldn't keep coming here for every little thing. I can't, he sighed, I just can't.
There had been neighborhood kids throwing stones at the people who returned home from a show which had just ended at the house I'd been crashing at. Apparently this wasn't the first time, and one of the punks charged out, stripped to the waist with a baseball bat. Not quite comprehending the situation, I went out. By the time I came to the end of the block, he had one of the kids shaking in fear on the ground, sitting with straight legs, looking petrified at the end of the wooden bat. He was being held there for the police. The rest of the kids fled into the housing complex where they lived.
Before I knew it sides were formed, mostly white against black. Punks versus longtime residents, us against them. There were bats, a staff, batons, knives, and swords, and of course, the hotheads on both sides spoiling for a fight. Oh right, and I had a flashlight in my hand. Granted, it was a sturdy flashlight, but it held exactly three double-A batteries, so it was a little larger than a typical mini-maglite. Not exactly an ideal counter for a sword, but I know there's a saying about lemons and blinding people with lemonade or something like that. I also know I could have left, but you just can't leave friends in a situation like that, 'tis the hobo code.
The other side's hothead, raised his sword and struck the ground with it, dulling the tip, so that the jagged edge glinted in the streetlamp light. Some of the people on his own side cringed. Our hothead seemed to only be encouraged by this. The lines had been redrawn now, as it became clear that all of us had a common enemy: the hotheads on our own sides. I don't want to fight, a woman armed with a cutlass yelled out, we don't want to fight, and all of us silently entered a pact to stop the spark that the hotheads desired. Unfortunately, silent pacts require these unspoken rules that make everything so complex and difficult.
It would have been best if the hotheads could fight without involving the rest of us, but I suppose bloodlust loves company. Deescalation is a slow and tedious process, in case you're wondering. It involves reciprocation, even of the smallest gesture, and at any point it can be derailed. Eventually it came to physically removing the hotheads from the scene, so I had to push our hothead back, and was he pissed. "You don't live here," he growled, "this isn't your fight."
Well, he was right. How can it be my fight if there isn't any? I was ready to beat his ass, though, for nearly getting me into a fight with swords when I had just a flashlight. Jerk. The police came after nearly everyone had left, and one cop yelled that he couldn't keep coming here for every little thing. I can't, he sighed, I just can't.
