Call The Bluff
by j.charles @ textproductions
“…and I suggest you step the fuck off before I turn your slim ass into blood work.”
Fuck yes! Look, I’m not a G. Not even a lower case g. but that is some straight up “g” shit. There is no way to deny it. Yeah…,yeah….,oh yeah! That’s right. It’s your boy j.charles. and quite frankly I’ve got a story to tell. It’s about respect. It’s about loyalty. It’s about standing for self. Standing for cause. Standing for my big bad ass self parachuting directly into the middle of a knife fight, eyes all focused. What the fuck did I do to get here?
I was chilling with Pheez’s girlfriend that night. He had gone home early. The reason was a parentally imposed curfew that was the result of being convicted of dispensing counter cultural substrate. I was partying like a fucking rich kid. Stayed out that night entertaining his psycho (as fuck) girlfriend and one of my severely best friends, Dr. Funk, as well as bitch’s fat white friends. From now on I refer to her as psycho ass bitch. Sometimes with a hyphen. Deal with it. That’s her fictional name, and she deserves it.
Any rate, the scene takes place in the parking lot of a bar. The bar shared a parking lot with the U.S. postal service branch in 94559 of Napa, California. So it was a public parking all night long, and we drank beers. Oh, did we drink beers. None of us were technically of the drinking age of my time, but who has that ever stopped? After all, it was the very late twentieth century and it was our responsibility to drink it into muther fucking extinction. I did a good job, myself. It worked. You have me to thank.
Homeboy walks into the scene from across Second St. into the jagged juniper lined parking lot. I knew what he was before I could even make him out. That certain swagger. The way he held himself ( I’m hard. So what if I’m five foot nothing, bitch!).
Drunk, stoned, and cocky. Those four words describe sooo much of my life after fourteen. But now more than anytime I believed them. More specifically, I believed it. cocky. Which is what I do best; better than you. I was twenty and fucking loving it. I reached into my right hand pocket (stage left). I caressed the Kershaw spring loaded knife perched in my fifth pocket. “Wouldn’t be the first time” I told myself as a nervous smile revealed my pearly white teeth. My head lowered to grant my eyebrows the horizon.
Homeboy had some words for stupid dumb bitch. She had some words for him. really not worth quoting, so feel free to conjure and fill. He got a little too physical for your boy, and I decided to eject my first of two audible in the entire scene. It was simple, like my aggression. It stated clearly and obviously my lack of patience and intention; “step…the fuck off….kid.” this shit was an invasion of my being at this point.
Homeboy pulled out a knife almost directly after I called for an end to his bullshit. As soon as I saw silver metal from his pocket refract parking lot light, it withdrew into Homeboy’s fist. I withdrew mine from my fifth pocket. My kershaw said “snap”. So I decided to follow in chorous; “I suggest you step the fuck back before I turn your slim ass into bloodwork.” The smile was sincere now. I wanted to cut a motherfucker up. Homeboy was slightly stunned.
“What’s up, bitch? Guero. Cracker. You want a knife fight? Bitch.” I stood in silence as response, ready to strike as soon as Homeboy moved a god damned muscle.
Do it, I thought. Please, do it. My meditation was interrupted by a familiar defense: “I’m calling the fucking cops, you dumb muther fuckers.” Shit! apparently the whole block heard Homeboy’s threats. They were calling the cops, and I heard it. But I couldn’t look away. I was stuck here. I was stuck in between a stupid fucking decision maker and a promise.
“What the fuck is wrong with your friend?” Homeboy inquired of Dr. Funk, standing directly behind me, undoubtedly palming the Kershaw I had bought him. His had a graphite blade.
“…….uh, I think you pissed him off. And I’m really sorry.” Which is why Funk is behind me. Because he knows it’s for real, and so is he. “I hope you’ve got King Kong balls.”
“Come on, then, bitch. Do it.” Homeboy kept on running his mouth. I kept on watching. He was nervous, and I expected him to throw his dad’s buck knife at me soon. I dropped my line of sight down even further, down to his hand. I looked like Lucifer’s fucked up brother at this exact second, and I knew it. My canines showed through my clinched smile now. My entire body fell victim to the adrenaline produced in the process of fight. And I looked at Homeboy. His demeanor resembled a small child unsure weather something is worth crying for or not.
Homeboy drew his knife up, turned it on himself, and walked away toward the bar. I instantly relaxed and realized. Psycho-bitch exchanged final words with homeboy. So did I. mine were slightly less caustic than hers. “I sure hope you just killed yourself, homie. Otherwise I’m going to do it for you, kid.” Homeboy fell onto the sidewalk and then into the gutter, resting seemingly motionless.
I still hadn’t seen any blood, and fuck that. I had a lust. As I broke from the group I heard the geese telling me to come back, to put the knife away. I replied with a calm and measured “No, fuck you.” Sorry girls, but a job is a job. And mine isn’t done yet.
“Do it, dog.” I will, Dr, Funk. I walked up to homeboy. I kicked his knife from his hand and put mine to his throat. No blood. Bitch. I had already won, but I wasn’t done yet.
This is where I start to hate me. I stood up, looked around and realized we were two blocks from the police station, which gives the police more than enough time to be here by now. Then I kicked Homeboy in the ribs. Then repeatedly kicked him in the ribs. Until I just felt bad. Then I walked back to the gaggle of dumb bitch’s geese and Dr. Funk for departure.
“We need to fucking go, dude. They’re calling the cops.”
“They already did, Funk. They already did.” We walked to the 635 csi and left, unspotted. Un detected.
I left knowing that no matter what the threat I have the mental capability to inflict severe harm. Homeboy learned that things aren’t always what they seem. Funk learned nothing new, and Pheez realized just who exactly j. is.
I almost felt bad for Homeboy after the adrenaline started to fade. On the one hand, he did pull a knife on me for a fairly reasonable request. On the other hand, I wasn’t really defending myself when foot hit ribcage. And I can guaran-god damn-tee that my intentions weren’t for show.