his involvement. When I stop, Ivy is upon me, aiming that knotted fist at my head. She’s clearly not a fighter, though, and her punch, telegraphed for a country mile, swings past me as I move around it and in, suddenly, reflexively, grappling with her and pinning her where she stands. She attempts a sort of mule kick, ideally targeting my balls, but I expect this, and her kick too sails wide. As she struggles against me, I tighten my grip, demonstrating that I can hurt her if I choose. She redoubles her efforts, though, and I scream “Hey!” into the side of her head as she thrashes. Finally, she goes slack and I release her, taking a step backward in anticipation of a further assault. I can see in her eyes that she wants one, but maybe she can see in my eyes that I want one too, and it doesn’t come.
“What the fuck was that about?” The energy courses in my veins, adrenaline circulates in my blood naturally, and it feels good.
“You got me fired, asshole.”
Everything slows just a bit. “What?”
“You complained and they fired me. On Friday.”
“I didn’t tell them to fire you.”
“Well, they did. They said you were their best customer and that because I was rude to you, I was a goner.”
“You were rude to me.”
The fire in her eyes diminishes slightly. “I was having a shitty day.”
Royal, in defiance of my order, envelops her in a sudden bear hug that neither she nor I see coming. Lifting her aggressively, not afraid to exert brutal force against her tiny frame, the broad man carries her toward the street.
“Put her down, Royal,” I command, unexpectedly concerned for the girl’s safety.
“Nothing doing, T. This bitch ain’t welcome on Factory property.” Royal spikes her onto the rough concrete of city sidewalk, where her tiny body crumples upon impact.
“Fuck, man!” I chide Royal, shoving ineffectively against the expanse of his shoulder as I move to help her up.
“Fucking assholes,” she yells, feral once more. She pushes back off me, standing unsteadily, and there is blood. She slaps at me, and it displaces pebbles from a cut on her palm. Frothing, but holding back tears, she spits, connecting her saliva with my cheek. She looks to Royal, thinks better of it, and limps down the sidewalk.
“Tom, come back inside, man, your Cokes are on me,” Royal says, and he is calm, as if it all didn’t just happen. I wipe the spit and know I should listen, just let her go, and wipe her drama from my memory banks.
A girl like her, she’s used to the rough stuff.
And then I find myself walking again, pursuing now.
“Tom, man, forget that cluck,” Royal gripes, but I’m already gone.
“Hey,” I yell after the girl, Ivy, this time softer. “Ivy.”
“Just leave me alone,” she says, heavy between snuffles, and splits between two European men, who are no doubt headed in the direction of the Candy Factory. They grin oafishly at me as I pass between them, closing the gap on Ivy.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, and stop, deciding that I’ve gone as far as I’m willing to go. She senses the chasm between us and stops as well, turning to face me.
“I didn’t deserve that.”
“I know.”
“I could file charges.”
“For what?” I ask, not coldly, but not pleasant either.
She takes a meek step back in my direction, not quite trusting. “Why did you follow me?”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess.”
She glances at her hands and knocks some more pebbles from them. “I’m fine,” she maintains, and her steely edge returns. Deciding, she turns once more and begins to walk, calmer now.
Here, I am at an impasse. I definitely don’t want to go back to the Candy Factory, but I don’t know this girl,
don’t want to know this girl
, my brain corrects me, and yet, “You hungry? I’ll buy you dinner.”
—
She eats quickly, gripping her fork and keeping her wounded hand to the side of her plate, at the ready, as if I might try to take it from
“What the fuck was that about?” The energy courses in my veins, adrenaline circulates in my blood naturally, and it feels good.
“You got me fired, asshole.”
Everything slows just a bit. “What?”
“You complained and they fired me. On Friday.”
“I didn’t tell them to fire you.”
“Well, they did. They said you were their best customer and that because I was rude to you, I was a goner.”
“You were rude to me.”
The fire in her eyes diminishes slightly. “I was having a shitty day.”
Royal, in defiance of my order, envelops her in a sudden bear hug that neither she nor I see coming. Lifting her aggressively, not afraid to exert brutal force against her tiny frame, the broad man carries her toward the street.
“Put her down, Royal,” I command, unexpectedly concerned for the girl’s safety.
“Nothing doing, T. This bitch ain’t welcome on Factory property.” Royal spikes her onto the rough concrete of city sidewalk, where her tiny body crumples upon impact.
“Fuck, man!” I chide Royal, shoving ineffectively against the expanse of his shoulder as I move to help her up.
“Fucking assholes,” she yells, feral once more. She pushes back off me, standing unsteadily, and there is blood. She slaps at me, and it displaces pebbles from a cut on her palm. Frothing, but holding back tears, she spits, connecting her saliva with my cheek. She looks to Royal, thinks better of it, and limps down the sidewalk.
“Tom, come back inside, man, your Cokes are on me,” Royal says, and he is calm, as if it all didn’t just happen. I wipe the spit and know I should listen, just let her go, and wipe her drama from my memory banks.
A girl like her, she’s used to the rough stuff.
And then I find myself walking again, pursuing now.
“Tom, man, forget that cluck,” Royal gripes, but I’m already gone.
“Hey,” I yell after the girl, Ivy, this time softer. “Ivy.”
“Just leave me alone,” she says, heavy between snuffles, and splits between two European men, who are no doubt headed in the direction of the Candy Factory. They grin oafishly at me as I pass between them, closing the gap on Ivy.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, and stop, deciding that I’ve gone as far as I’m willing to go. She senses the chasm between us and stops as well, turning to face me.
“I didn’t deserve that.”
“I know.”
“I could file charges.”
“For what?” I ask, not coldly, but not pleasant either.
She takes a meek step back in my direction, not quite trusting. “Why did you follow me?”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay, I guess.”
She glances at her hands and knocks some more pebbles from them. “I’m fine,” she maintains, and her steely edge returns. Deciding, she turns once more and begins to walk, calmer now.
Here, I am at an impasse. I definitely don’t want to go back to the Candy Factory, but I don’t know this girl,
don’t want to know this girl
, my brain corrects me, and yet, “You hungry? I’ll buy you dinner.”
—
She eats quickly, gripping her fork and keeping her wounded hand to the side of her plate, at the ready, as if I might try to take it from
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