You just fucked yourself, the man said.
I doubt that, Rick said. He lunged forward with the pipe, feinted, and then lunged again, and this time the man’s fist whipped out and struck him full in the face. Rick stood there a moment, the pipe still clenched in his fist, and Nat thought that it might already be over. You stupid fuck, Rick said, and in the next instant he was advancing down the street again, walking towards the man and slashing with the pipe, the man dancing backwards and sideways, his body all ropy sinew and muscle, like an older, harder, more tattooed version of Rick himself, and when he stopped and changed direction, flashing forward all at once, Rick’s motion was caught short and their silhouettes became entangled, the light turning red again as their twinned breath steamed the air like a pale cloud.
Nat had been following behind, holding the bat over his shoulder as if a baseball might come shuttling out of the dark toward him. It felt like a scene unfolding in a movie or a television show. And yet it was he who held the baseball bat and it was Rick before him who was caught now in some kind of choke hold. The man leaned back, Rick’s feet nearly off the ground, and in the next moment the pipe tumbled free of Rick’s grip and went ringing off the curb.
When he swung the bat it was without clear direction or thought. He brought it down at an angle and the man saw it at the final instant, turning away from the blow as the bat struck him in the long muscle of his lower back, the impact vibrating into Nat’s clenched hands.
There was a long yowl of pain and Rick stumbled forward out of his grasp. Fuck fuck fuck, the man yelled.
Nat lifted the bat again, the man stumbling in a tight circle but always facing him, his teeth drawn tight in a hissing grimace. He might have swung but then Rick was at his side. Give it to me, he said, and Nat did so, and Rick came forward, holding it above his shoulder.
Yeah go ahead, faggot, the man said. Hit me with the fucking bat again. That’s a fair fight. Come on tough guy.
When Rick swung, the man did not seem to understand at first what was happening, as if he believed that his words would end the fight, that Rick would simply turn and walk away. The bat struck him in the shoulder and this time he went down, sprawling onto the concrete of the sidewalk, his shadow a sharp arrow pointing up toward Nat as the light changed to green once again. And Rick swung and kept on swinging, the man arching, twisting in upon himself, his legs spinning in place as if he was pedaling a bicycle, and the sound he made was a long terrible moan.
Fuck you, Rick shouted, repeating it with each blow. Nat’s own voice had become a long chain of syllables pulling out of him in the adrenaline rush—Whoa whoa whoa—his hands on Rick’s shoulders, pressing him, trying to push him away, but Rick continuing to swing and kick and rage.
Stop, Nat said. The man was coughing and his exhaled breath contained within it a gurgling moan. Stop stop, Nat said. And then: Look at me.
And now Rick looked, looked from the man on the sidewalk to Nat.
That’s enough, Nat said.
Rick nodded and then looked back at the man one last time. The man did not move at all now, his shape curled into a tight ball, the tattoos that encircled his left arm seeming to dance up and down that path of flesh.
Don’t let us see you again, motherfucker, Rick said.
The street seemed to have flooded somehow, seemed to be underwater, as if he was pressed up against a curved glass wall. An aquarium. A bubble. And yet everything clear and bright and clean and you are a fish the color of silver night, moving through it, moving up through the stones, through a current you cannot even feel.
After a few steps they were both jogging up the hill and when they reached the car again they were panting and Rick’s grin was a bright white arc floating in the black air.
Christ almighty, Rick said, did you see how he fell?
The adrenaline that coursed through Nat’s body was like electricity. Like fire. He could not feel if he was smiling or not.
Don’t let anyone fuck with you, Rick said. That’s one thing I learned inside. That goes for you too. Fucking Atari thieves can go fuck themselves.
Yeah, Nat said. He thought of Mike. Of the Atari they no longer owned. Then he thought of the muddy watering hole. The water buffalo. The little birds that rode upon their shoulders.
Goddamn, Rick said, there’s nothing like a good fight to make you feel better about the world.
That’s the truth, Nat said, although he had no idea what either of them were saying at all.
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