Her real name means Spring in Vietnamese, but I like her nickname better, which means Mountain, because I think it sounds prettier. She told me that she wasn't a heavy drinker, but she could've fooled me 'cause she'd downed two Millers, a Corona, and a few Jaeger Bombs already.
She was grinding on me on the dance floor. Some club downtown with no sign so I don't remember the name.
As we were dancing, a guy in a checkered button-up shirt appeared at the edge of the dance floor and stared at us, arms crossed. He was maybe five-foot-ten or so, spikey hair like every Asian from five years ago. He stared at us; mostly at me.
I walked up next to him and stared in the general direction that he was looking and folded my arms too, emulating his posture. I humored him, "What we lookin' at, man?"
He looked at me, unamused, "That's my cousin." He pointed at Spring.
"No shit?" I paused for a second. Then, I leaned in, as if to whisper a secret, "You got any others?"
It was an asshole-ish thing to say, and I know it. And I said it for no reason more than for the sake of being an asshole.
He punched me.
And I have the black eye to show for it. And a funny story, too.
When my boys crowded around him, I held them back with violent laughter. "Naw, c'mon guys," I urged them back, "C'mon, guys, I'm too old to be doin' this shit." I patted Don on the chest as I pushed some distance between him and the girl's cousin, "Look'it me, man, I'm rich. I'm makin' paper, dawg, I don't needa fight niggas like these."
I'd been spending too much time buttoning up my collar, trying to look professional and proper. Being stupid made me feel somewhat human again.
I got socked in the face and did nothing in retaliation, but I felt better about it than I had about anything else in a long time.
We walked away, me and the boys, the cousin standing there looking angry and confused, like his feelings had been hurt. With Spring under my shoulder.
