should have when talking to this human mountain.
“Jason, this is not the time to stand up for your” — hiccup — “character,” I whisper, finding a little clarity in my intoxication.
“My mate said you were talking to her,” the guy says, challenging him. His eyes are angry and shot with red.
“Well, sure, we had a chat,” Jason says with a shrug. “Mostly we talked about her wretchedly possessive and terribly unattractive boyfriend, which I take it is you.” I grab Jason’s arm, hoping to get him to stop talking. He rolls his eyes. “But I never touched her.”
“Like hell you didn’t,” the human wall growls. “I’ll make you sorry.”
“You don’t want to do that, friend,” Jason says, snarkily placing a hand on his shoulder.
“And just why is that?”
“Because my dad is a lawyer, and he’ll ruin your life if you lay a single fat finger on me.” It occurs to me right then that Jason is a little drunk, too, which can be the only reason he’s baiting this giant hunk of man.
“Piss off,” the guy says, clenching his fists.
“You know, I’m not particularly familiar with that British expression. Does that mean ‘Have a lovely night’?”
“Jason!” I hiss, willing him to cool it so we can leave. I’m becoming more and more aware of my own intoxication, and the realization that I snuck out to go to a party on a class trip to get this way is really starting to freak me out. The thought I don’t want to be drunk anymore, I don’t want to be drunk anymore runs on a continuous loop through my head as I grasp on to the railing on the stoop, trying to stay upright.
The British guy sneers at Jason. “It means I’m going to beat you into a bloody pulp and they’ll have to mail you back to your mum in a lunch box,” he says, rearing back a meaty fist. This makes me giggle a little, because it’s funny to hear a British meathead use the phrase “lunch box.”
Luckily, Jason ducks in time for drunken prep school Gabe to walkby and receive the full force of the punch. Poor kid can’t catch a break, but I suspect he’s so drunk he’s not feeling much of anything at this point. Blazer and tie flapping out like wings, his body goes flying down the stoop and into the street, where a group of Arsenal fans are heading en masse to the closest tube station from a pub. They’ve clearly had a few postgame drinks themselves and are none too happy to be taken off their feet by a couple of teenagers.
“Bloody hell! What do you think you’re doing?” shouts one of the men, grabbing drunken Gabe by the collar and shoving him back up the stoop and into the angry boyfriend, no easy feat. I’ve been completely rooted to the ground in shock, but as Gabe sails past me, I step back to avoid being taken out. I nearly topple off the stoop and into an ornately pruned rosebush in the process.
“Piss off!” the boyfriend shouts, clearly lacking a deep repertoire of comebacks. A crowd is starting to form as teenagers push their way out of the house to get a peek at the action. Angry Boyfriend grabs a beer bottle from one of the spectators and launches it at the middle-aged men now crowded on the sidewalk.
“You little pink-haired bastard!” shouts one as they rush up the steps to grab Angry Boyfriend.
“Get the little punk!”
“Piss off!”
“You’ll wish ya had!”
“Arsenal sucks!”
“You suck!”
“Kick his ass!”
Before I can even blink, a full-on street brawl erupts on the sidewalk, middle-aged football fans tangling with drunken teenagers. Fists fly, insults are shouted, and I feel a pain in my shoulder as someone grabs my faux-leather hobo and the handle snaps clean off. The contents of my bag scatter across the stoop and underfoot of the madness.
“Dammit!” I yell, dropping to my knees on the rough stone stoop in an attempt to gather what I can. I spot my phone perched on the edge of the top step, but as I reach out to grab it, I’m shoved violently from behind. I
“Jason, this is not the time to stand up for your” — hiccup — “character,” I whisper, finding a little clarity in my intoxication.
“My mate said you were talking to her,” the guy says, challenging him. His eyes are angry and shot with red.
“Well, sure, we had a chat,” Jason says with a shrug. “Mostly we talked about her wretchedly possessive and terribly unattractive boyfriend, which I take it is you.” I grab Jason’s arm, hoping to get him to stop talking. He rolls his eyes. “But I never touched her.”
“Like hell you didn’t,” the human wall growls. “I’ll make you sorry.”
“You don’t want to do that, friend,” Jason says, snarkily placing a hand on his shoulder.
“And just why is that?”
“Because my dad is a lawyer, and he’ll ruin your life if you lay a single fat finger on me.” It occurs to me right then that Jason is a little drunk, too, which can be the only reason he’s baiting this giant hunk of man.
“Piss off,” the guy says, clenching his fists.
“You know, I’m not particularly familiar with that British expression. Does that mean ‘Have a lovely night’?”
“Jason!” I hiss, willing him to cool it so we can leave. I’m becoming more and more aware of my own intoxication, and the realization that I snuck out to go to a party on a class trip to get this way is really starting to freak me out. The thought I don’t want to be drunk anymore, I don’t want to be drunk anymore runs on a continuous loop through my head as I grasp on to the railing on the stoop, trying to stay upright.
The British guy sneers at Jason. “It means I’m going to beat you into a bloody pulp and they’ll have to mail you back to your mum in a lunch box,” he says, rearing back a meaty fist. This makes me giggle a little, because it’s funny to hear a British meathead use the phrase “lunch box.”
Luckily, Jason ducks in time for drunken prep school Gabe to walkby and receive the full force of the punch. Poor kid can’t catch a break, but I suspect he’s so drunk he’s not feeling much of anything at this point. Blazer and tie flapping out like wings, his body goes flying down the stoop and into the street, where a group of Arsenal fans are heading en masse to the closest tube station from a pub. They’ve clearly had a few postgame drinks themselves and are none too happy to be taken off their feet by a couple of teenagers.
“Bloody hell! What do you think you’re doing?” shouts one of the men, grabbing drunken Gabe by the collar and shoving him back up the stoop and into the angry boyfriend, no easy feat. I’ve been completely rooted to the ground in shock, but as Gabe sails past me, I step back to avoid being taken out. I nearly topple off the stoop and into an ornately pruned rosebush in the process.
“Piss off!” the boyfriend shouts, clearly lacking a deep repertoire of comebacks. A crowd is starting to form as teenagers push their way out of the house to get a peek at the action. Angry Boyfriend grabs a beer bottle from one of the spectators and launches it at the middle-aged men now crowded on the sidewalk.
“You little pink-haired bastard!” shouts one as they rush up the steps to grab Angry Boyfriend.
“Get the little punk!”
“Piss off!”
“You’ll wish ya had!”
“Arsenal sucks!”
“You suck!”
“Kick his ass!”
Before I can even blink, a full-on street brawl erupts on the sidewalk, middle-aged football fans tangling with drunken teenagers. Fists fly, insults are shouted, and I feel a pain in my shoulder as someone grabs my faux-leather hobo and the handle snaps clean off. The contents of my bag scatter across the stoop and underfoot of the madness.
“Dammit!” I yell, dropping to my knees on the rough stone stoop in an attempt to gather what I can. I spot my phone perched on the edge of the top step, but as I reach out to grab it, I’m shoved violently from behind. I
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