I’ll just say from jump, that this story has no point other than the fact that I live in a suburban neighborhood with manicured lawns, old people walking their dogs, and little gangsters. Apparently.
Really, I am a patient person.
From these blog posts it may not actually seem like it, but I really do practice a profound amount of temperament on the day to day. And I’d even go a step further and say that I don’t really over-react to much of anything. I’m chill. I’m cool, baby.
But sometimes I think, “that may have been a step too far.”
This is one of those times.
First of all, I don’t particularly like unsupervised children. They’re evil. They’re reckless. And I get that there are people in the world who love small humans and believe them to nature’s gift to the world. But I’d rather be in a room that smells like stale vagina and paint, than come across a rogue child.
But sometimes it can’t be avoided.
So I’m long-boarding around my neighborhood cause it’s a good way to be an active millennial without pretending that I enjoy running, or whatever form of exercise, that actually kills you, slowly, on the inside.
There’s a nice summer breeze; clouds rolling across sapphire skies; the sound of me kicking and rolling against the solid pavement; calm, ya know. And as I’m boarding along, drama ensues. Five or six eleven-year-olds spot me.
“Hey!” one of them shouts, sitting atop his bike, from the protection of – presumably – his parents home.
Now, I’m a few blocks away from the actual street that I live on. So it’s not like I know his parents, or him for that matter.
But I ignore all of them and keep rolling.
These little mother fuckers squad up. They pedal their little asses over and block me from continuing about my business, forming some kind of blockade in front of me so I can’t continue.
No for real. I had to drag my foot, stop me and my long board, to engage a group of eleven year olds.
Now, let me dial down the drama a bit. They were like, eleven. So it’s not like I was about to be jumped or anything. If things actually did get violent, it would be the equivalent of a Neo fight scene – no problemo – in Matrix Reloaded.
For real. I’m 25. I’d fuck an eleven year old’s life up.
So it wasn’t like my heart was racing and I was clenching my fists, preparing for the fight of my life. I was annoyed that I had been stopped by a group of kids.
“Nice board,” says the kid who had hailed me before. I assume this is the leader of the bunch.
“Yep. I like it,” trying to make this quick.
“Where’d you get it?” he asks.
“I don’t know, probably Amazon,” I say as I start making my way past their little blockade of bikes.
Guys, this kid grabs my long board and attempts to rest it from my hands.
“Lemme’ see it.”
My patience instantly red-lined.
You ever been so god damn mad but can’t react because societal expectations limit you? My sense were heightened. I could see the pale freckles fading into his complexion; his stupid blue eyes; I could smell the ball cheese, the body odor, the must, of an 11-year-old who had been biking around outside all afternoon; his sweaty, punk ass; I took in the stupid fucking jean shorts and his dumb ass American Dad T -Shirt with the acronym FBI spelling out ‘Federal Boobie Inspector, with Stan Smith posing like a Charlie’s Angel in the ‘F.’
I wanted to break my fucking long board over this kids head.
But I couldn’t. Cause he was eleven. And that’s entirely too young to have the ass whooping that you deserve, but not the one you need right now.
Tell you what though. I grabbed his fragile little wrist and squeezed hard enough to see the panic start to form in his eyes. Like, just hard enough for him to realize that I wasn’t going to break it, but I could.
Once the bitch started to come out of him… The 11-year-old, I mean… I let go and just kind of casually said:
“Bro, fuck off.”
Which, yes, in hindsight is a step too far. But really, screw those kids. I’ll be damned if I’m harassed by a group of 11-year-olds on a street called Yellowood.
But yeah, I get it it. That was probably a bit of a psychopath move.