So this is New York...
Today I saw a man repeatedly hit another man with a baseball bat.
I had just missed my bus, twice. I missed it once, then ran after it down the street to the next bus stop, desperately clutching the clothes horse, frying pan, salad spinner and mixing bowl I’d just purchased from the Salvation Army. The bus pulled away again just as I reached the tail lights.
Standing there, sweaty in the soupy air, I caught a disturbance in the corner of my eye in the Halal meat shop across the road. Four or five Chinese chefs were furiously hustling two black men out the door. The men were resistant, remaining in the doorway of the shop, keen to verbally settle whatever difference they’d had. At this point, they were close to leaving and it could have gone either way. But it only takes one punch.
Something is said, some last straw, and I watch one chef at the back of the group just lose it. He charges, head down. One of the men trips out the door, leaving the other one trapped inside. He’s pressed up against the glass with fists pouring in from all five men in white. He fights his way out, but the scrap continues out on the sidewalk. The escapee has his fisticuffs up; as the chefs close in he’s shouting “Chill? Chill my ass! Chill my ass! CHILL MY ASS!”. There’s a chef on the floor, there’s running battles, there’s some flying kicks. They’re fighting in the street.
I just stand there gawping. Unconsciously, I’ve brandished the clothes horse in front of me as a shield; the salad spinner is ready in my other hand should projectile kitchenware suddenly be required.
At some point my bus must have arrived, but engrossed as I was in this impromptu street theatre, I don’t remember stepping on. I just remember the bus driver next to me watching and laughing. When he’s done laughing he bursts into song “So this is New Yoooork!! Concrete Jungle lalalala” and grins at me. Now separated from the reality of the situation by the windscreen I can see the funny side. But then the baseball bat appears.
The black guy retreats, his situation weighing in. Walking backwards, he trips on the kerb of the island crossing. Now he’s on his back in the middle of the intersection, all traffic stopped, everyone staring. He’s on his back in a street, and there’s a Chinese chef, angry and armed, standing over him. The hits begin, not full home-run swings, but strong enough to feel them on his legs and thighs.
“Where’d the bat come from?” I ask the bus driver.
“Where’s the police?!” He responds.
I look back and somehow the black men are escaping together up the road, taking a few more thwacks as they go. The satisfied chefs pull back, the bat-wielder fist bumping a passing cyclist as they return to their restaurant stronghold.
Our bus pulls away and I take a seat; the lady next to me knits a yellow bonnet. We drive on.
The weirdest part of this story for me is that when I told Steph her first response was “Well why didn’t you do anything?”.
“You mean, why didn’t I get involved in a fight which included a baseball bat?”
“Well you could at least have told them to stop.” Brilliant.
