A Year Of Living Stupidly

13. Shh. It Gets Real

A/N: Remember when I said 'when in doubt, laugh?' There may be a phrase or two that some readers will find offensive if separated from context. It can be a cold, cruel world.

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I'm twenty-nine years old and I'm shivering.

It's cold. God, I'm stiff. My head. This bed is like a rock. It feels like the world's hardest breadcrumbs stuck in my side. When did we eat? My eyelids are bright red from the sun. I don't want to open them. Hasn't she heard of curtains? Where does she live, anyway? The traffic is so loud. Goddamn, that car sounds like it's inside the room. Do they have to slam the doors? Must be her roommates. Can't they knock? They just barge right in?

Ow! What the fuck was that? Ow! Jesus, it's bright. Okay, okay. Eyes opening. Just give me a second to focus.

"Told you he not dead," someone says.

Trouble has one, two, three, four roommates. All black dudes, dressed like gangstas. What a bunch of Hollywood poseurs. They're so tall. Are they standing on the bed?

"What the fuck you doin' here, white boy?" One demands. What's he talking about? I can't be the first guy she's brought home. Hold on. Let me get up. Where's the edge of this goddamn bed? Ow! Did you just kick me?

"Stay the fuck down," someone orders.

"Wait, wait, wait!" come my first words of the morning. Wait—this is no bed. I'm on a sidewalk. Where the fuck am I?

"You some kind of faggot?" Another gangsta asks. Why would he say that? Because I'm naked?

"Fuck yeah, he's a faggot," a skinny gangsta says.

"Let's kick his faggot ass!" These may not be poseurs after all. I've lost track of which gangsta is threatening what. Doesn't matter because the faggot ass-kicking has commenced. Sneakers light into me from every corner–Legs POW, Back POW, Chest POW! How do I get out of this? Curl up. Go ahead, crack a rib or two; just leave The Brains out of it. Does this mean I'm getting jumped into their gang? I'm pretty sure I'm going to pass back out. Somebody whistles. The beating instantly stops. Thank you, whistler.

"What the fuck y'all doing?" A fifth voice demands of my attackers. No one answers. An electric motor whines and bicycle tires roll across the sidewalk toward me.

"You find a naked white boy on this street and you think the smart thing to do is beat his ass?" The other gangstas mumble and shuffle their bloodstained kicks. Oh, Kicks. This is why they call them that. My body aches. I bet it will feel worse tomorrow.

It hurts even to get up on one elbow. Who put an end to the attack? My rescuer goes by 'Reality.' He's African American and does not look at all pleased with his crew. I assume they are his crew. Their body language suggests that he's the boss. Is that a wheelchair? It is. He's a handi-capable gang leader. Good for him.

"Shorty," Reality orders the skinny one, "Give this white boy your pants."

"Why me?"

"Because you 'bout the same size. And I done told you to."

"I can't give him no pants," Shorty complains. Reality repeats the order.

"Give him yo' pants." I sense Reality is losing his patience. Shorty shuffles his feet and then explains that he can't give the naked bleeding faggot white boy his pants because he's not wearing any drawers. The other gangstas laugh. I appreciate Shorty's hesitation. I'm not wearing any drawers, either. But Reality doesn't care. He explains as any good leader would, that if the police patrol this street—which they do often—and find them surrounding a naked white boy they've kicked the living shit out of, it would not bode well for them. He really said that; or words to that effect.