The night I met a street fighter

"I'm from Bawston."

I met a street fighter once. 

No word of a lie.

A fist-flyin’, bruised-up, fightin’ man. 

He had long, wispy hair, a busted lip, puffy eyes, and breath that reeked like a moldy sandwich. 

I met him on our last week on the island, at Cane Bay beach, St Croix. 

The Drunk Dumplings were on the mic, they strummed their Spanish guitars and played sweet melodies in between sips of cabernet from the bottles they stashed at their feet. 

It was peak island energy. 

Until the streetfighter entered the scene. 

I’ll have you know that the moniker was not earned but self-appointed. 

“I’m a street fighter,” he said, as he looked me dead in the eye. My hand was still shaking his.  Maybe he was sizing me up thinking I might wanna go a round or two with him. 

When we first arrived he and his wife were in the midst of a high school spat with another couple who was sitting a few chairs closer to the stage, sipping bud lights and smoking cigarettes. 

One couple was talking too loud according to the other couple, and that’s what started the argument. I don’t know who was right, but we unknowingly sat in the middle of the argument, next to the streetfighter and his wife, and so they assumed us to be their allies by way of proximity. 

They explained the situation to us like we a) cared, and b) were supportive of their aggressive response. 

Neither were true. 

“I was just sitting here minding my own damned business when that b*tch up there starts shooshing me and telling me to pipe down,” said the streetfighter’s wife. “B*tch, I’m from Bawston, she doesn’t know what she’s getting into. I will f*ck her up.” 

“I hear you, babe, damn straight,” the streetfighter said. 

Mel and I shared a quick glance. What had we walked into? 

The street fighter's wife kept on yammering. Reminding us that she was from Boston, and then that she was a black belt in some kind of martial arts. She was saying all this loud enough for the other couple to hear, which was clearly intentional and had the desired effect of aggravating the situation further. 

The Drunk Dumplings shared looks between themselves but never stopped playing. 

Eventually, the passive-aggressive heckling from the streetfighter’s wife roused a response from the couple in front and they rose from their chairs to trade barbs back. 

The two men, the streetfighter and the local Bud drinker were in each other’s faces, yelling and pointing as bits of spittle flew from their mouths. 

The Drunk Dumplings played their joyful Flamenco tunes. 

Just when we thought the melee would break out, the street fighter's wife returned from the bar with a round of Buds as a peace offering. 

“This ain’t worth it, I’m on my goddamn vacation,” she said. 

The night carried on and eventually, Maala started playing with the streetfighter’s kids. Yes, he had kids, lots of them too. I counted five but there may have been more. 

So as Maala and his kids played, I inevitably returned into the street fighter’s orbit. I paid my parental dues and made idle chit-chat, engaging in some reluctant back and forth.  

He was five rums past drunk and his breath carried with it a stench that could tip a cow. 

“I just like to laugh, man,” he said. His mangy hair was falling over his eyes and a strand or two got caught in the cut in his lip. “I’m a lover at heart. I just wanna have some fun and enjoy myself. That’s what it’s all about.” 

I mustered as much interest as I could while trying to avoid the direction of his breath.

“Yeah, me too,” I said. Or something to that effect. I was focused purely on herding Maala back to the car so we could go home. 

Maala finally relinquished her interest in playtime and made her way back to Mel. 

I was left to wrap things up with the street fighter himself. 

I offered my left hand for a fistbump. “Alright man, we’re outta here. Have a good night.”

His smiling demeanor snapped into a glaring rage and he squared his shoulders to look me dead in the eye. 

Perplexed at the sudden aggression but also tired of the bullshit, I met his stare with a look of my own. What now?

With eyes burning on beer and rum, he poked me in the chest with his finger and told me to never use my left hand to greet another man—handshake, fist bump, or otherwise. 

“Why?” I asked, with the enthusiasm of a deflated balloon. 

“Because in prison everyone wipes their arse with their left hand, so it’s pretty f*cking nasty to use that to greet someone.”

Of course, I should’ve known.