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The Present
Carla
I double-check the directions on my phone and turn onto the next street. The GPS shows two minutes remaining. I cannot wait to get out of this car and stretch. A cold beer would be nice too.
A flash of light reflects off my rear-view mirror. Did someone just high-beam me? I glance in the mirror and the red Dodge pick-up behind me flashes its lights again, this time accompanied by a blaring horn.
Crazy New York drivers. The speed limit is 25mph but he’s all over me. So I do what any normal person would do. My foot eases off the gas. My speedometer now reads 10mph. “How’s that, asshole?”
And there’s the horn again.
The hotel comes into view. I signal and wait for the oncoming traffic to pass. I’m in the middle of making a left turn when the psycho behind me whips around me—on my left—causing me to slam on the brakes so I don’t crash into him.
“Are you crazy?” I scream out my window. Who passes someone on the driver’s side when she’s trying to turn? Is this really how people on Staten Island drive?
His truck is lifted so high I can’t see his face. “Learn how to drive!” he shouts.
“Good luck with your small penis, you overcompensating douchebag!”
He speeds away, massive tires kicking dust and gravel into the air.
I whip into the lot, park, and shut the engine. Loosening my grip on the steering wheel, I try to slow my breaths and calm down.
Welcome to Staten Island.
After I check in at the front desk, I ask the clerk to point me toward the nearest bar.
“I’ll take a Corona, please.”
I hand the bartender my fake ID and settle against the back of my stool. She pops the top off the bottle and slides it my way. I take a long swig.
“You don’t strike me as the beer type.”
I hold my hand up without looking at who the deep voice belongs to. “Save your energy for someone else, please.” Can’t a girl sit alone at a bar without being hit on?
“It doesn’t really take much energy to have a conversation, but thanks for your concern.”
I roll my eyes and take another few gulps of my beer. I pretend to watch the TV above the bar, though I can feel the stranger’s eyes on me.
“Who are you rooting for?” he asks.
“What?”
“The fight you’re staring at so intently. Who are you rooting for?”
“I’m not rooting for anyone. MMA is a barbaric sport. How these guys get paid mega bucks to beat each other up is beyond me. Just another testament to our Neanderthal society.”
“Those guys aren’t just beating each other up.”
I gesture toward the screen. “Those two dudes are throwing punches at each other. That guy is bleeding profusely from his nose. They certainly aren’t doing ballet.”
The stranger chuckles. “Okay, so they are fighting. But there’s more to it than that. It takes skill and training to do what they do.”
“Oh, look. Now they’re on the ground. That guy’s going to lay on top of the other one for the next five minutes. You’re right. Looks like they’ve had a lot of training.” I drain the rest of my beer and stand. So much for enjoying a drink alone.
“You should stay and watch the fight. I’ll prove to you just how much skill these guys have.”
I spin around to face the annoying stranger, allowing myself to look at him for the first time.
