And he turns around.
In the dog world, Astin would be called a dominant biter.
Then I hear, “Somebody ought to kick your ass.”
Now there’s fear-based aggression in the mix.
“But nobody’s going to.” Astin pulls a handful of napkins out of a bent dispenser.
“We might.”
There’s a couple of grimy guys who look like they’ve been digging a grave. They wear the same kind of sunglasses and the same kind of Timberland boots with the laces undone. They’re probably on the football team, and they’re probably not very good.
Astin strolls toward them. Gets close. Too close. Right into their space.
“Just wait your turn,” says the big one, who’s wearing an Alhambra High T-shirt.
“No.”
From behind the counter, a cook pleads, “Don’t cause trouble, Astin.”
He doesn’t even turn around. “I would never do that, Billy. I would never cause trouble for you. If it comes to that, we’ll take it down the street. So here’s the question — is it going to come to that?”
Alhambra says, “There’s two of us, and your buddy doesn’t look like much.”
I don’t move. Astin glances at me. “Leave him out of this,” he says. “It’d take more than you two to make me need backup.” Then he opens his hands, shows them the palms first, then the other side so they can see he’s not hiding a big ring or brass knuckles or a bomb. “Just good old-fashioned fists,” he says. “We’re not gangbangers.”
I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of this, and my stomach turns over a time or two.
“Astin!” The cook pounds on the counter with the palm of one hand. “Your food’s ready. Come and get it.”
“Fellas?” He appeals to his foes. “Last chance for glory.”
They look at him, then at each other. And then away. One of them grumbles, “Next time, fucker.”
Astin just laughs, slaps down a twenty, and takes the cardboard tray. I fall in beside him, and we head for the nearest table.
I ask, “What was that about, anyway?”
“I didn’t want to wait in line.”
I shake my head. “You’re really something.”
He shrugs. “I just like to mix it up, you know? And I’m not scared of getting beat on. Most guys are. They’re afraid they won’t be pretty anymore.”
Astin puts the food down. He settles in, sitting backward on a folding chair and putting both elbows on the scarred wood.
“What’s it like to be you?” I ask.
“It’s okay, I guess. Megan says I’m totally predictable.”
I watch those two guys from Alhambra stop by their truck, turn around, and stare at us. Glare at us. I tell him, “I should have stepped up before. I should have said I’d fight, too. But I was scared.”
“Do you know how?”
“To fight? Get serious.”
“Then you’d just be in the way, wouldn’t you? For the record, though, and we’re just talking here — when was the last time you were heads up with somebody?”
“That I got in a fight or that I just got hassled?”
“Who hassled you?”
“Mostly this guy in my old high school. Scott McIntyre.”
“Not the douche-bag quarterback who led the Titans to a memorable three-and-eleven season?”
“I didn’t go to any games, but yeah. That Scott McIntyre. He and his crew never left me alone. I mean never. I mean every day.”
“I hate that shit. If I’m riding and I see some like middle school kids throwing it down and it’s three against one, I am off the bike and right in their faces.”
“Astin, you just picked on two guys you never saw before.”
“That’s different. They were bigger than me. Together they were, anyway. That would’ve been a fair fight. You against McIntyre, there’s no way. He was a jock and you’re . . . what were you, anyway?”
“I sold kitty litter.”
“There you go.” He waves at somebody he knows who’s sitting a dozen yards away. Then he asks, “Were you just smarter than him or what?”
“Than Scott? Anybody’s smarter than Scott. No, I was just one of
In the dog world, Astin would be called a dominant biter.
Then I hear, “Somebody ought to kick your ass.”
Now there’s fear-based aggression in the mix.
“But nobody’s going to.” Astin pulls a handful of napkins out of a bent dispenser.
“We might.”
There’s a couple of grimy guys who look like they’ve been digging a grave. They wear the same kind of sunglasses and the same kind of Timberland boots with the laces undone. They’re probably on the football team, and they’re probably not very good.
Astin strolls toward them. Gets close. Too close. Right into their space.
“Just wait your turn,” says the big one, who’s wearing an Alhambra High T-shirt.
“No.”
From behind the counter, a cook pleads, “Don’t cause trouble, Astin.”
He doesn’t even turn around. “I would never do that, Billy. I would never cause trouble for you. If it comes to that, we’ll take it down the street. So here’s the question — is it going to come to that?”
Alhambra says, “There’s two of us, and your buddy doesn’t look like much.”
I don’t move. Astin glances at me. “Leave him out of this,” he says. “It’d take more than you two to make me need backup.” Then he opens his hands, shows them the palms first, then the other side so they can see he’s not hiding a big ring or brass knuckles or a bomb. “Just good old-fashioned fists,” he says. “We’re not gangbangers.”
I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of this, and my stomach turns over a time or two.
“Astin!” The cook pounds on the counter with the palm of one hand. “Your food’s ready. Come and get it.”
“Fellas?” He appeals to his foes. “Last chance for glory.”
They look at him, then at each other. And then away. One of them grumbles, “Next time, fucker.”
Astin just laughs, slaps down a twenty, and takes the cardboard tray. I fall in beside him, and we head for the nearest table.
I ask, “What was that about, anyway?”
“I didn’t want to wait in line.”
I shake my head. “You’re really something.”
He shrugs. “I just like to mix it up, you know? And I’m not scared of getting beat on. Most guys are. They’re afraid they won’t be pretty anymore.”
Astin puts the food down. He settles in, sitting backward on a folding chair and putting both elbows on the scarred wood.
“What’s it like to be you?” I ask.
“It’s okay, I guess. Megan says I’m totally predictable.”
I watch those two guys from Alhambra stop by their truck, turn around, and stare at us. Glare at us. I tell him, “I should have stepped up before. I should have said I’d fight, too. But I was scared.”
“Do you know how?”
“To fight? Get serious.”
“Then you’d just be in the way, wouldn’t you? For the record, though, and we’re just talking here — when was the last time you were heads up with somebody?”
“That I got in a fight or that I just got hassled?”
“Who hassled you?”
“Mostly this guy in my old high school. Scott McIntyre.”
“Not the douche-bag quarterback who led the Titans to a memorable three-and-eleven season?”
“I didn’t go to any games, but yeah. That Scott McIntyre. He and his crew never left me alone. I mean never. I mean every day.”
“I hate that shit. If I’m riding and I see some like middle school kids throwing it down and it’s three against one, I am off the bike and right in their faces.”
“Astin, you just picked on two guys you never saw before.”
“That’s different. They were bigger than me. Together they were, anyway. That would’ve been a fair fight. You against McIntyre, there’s no way. He was a jock and you’re . . . what were you, anyway?”
“I sold kitty litter.”
“There you go.” He waves at somebody he knows who’s sitting a dozen yards away. Then he asks, “Were you just smarter than him or what?”
“Than Scott? Anybody’s smarter than Scott. No, I was just one of
Similar Books
