“Yo, whatchu lookin’ at, boy?”
The challenge was delivered with a swagger and a snarl. I looked around, not sure if he was actually addressing me.
Sure enough, he was.
“Yo, you gotta problem, muhfucka? I’ll fuck you up, bitch! I see you lookin’ at me, like you betta dan me or sumpthin’. Fuck dat, bitch!”
It was quite amusing, really. First, because I had only casually glanced at him as he loudly complained at the ER nurse’s desk that he’d been waiting for two hours for a doctor to look at his stab wound, and second because this ghetto tirade was being delivered by a wannabe gangsta whose skin was a telling shade of suburban white.
And he weighed maybe a buck-thirty. Wearing a hospital gown with his ass hanging out. Not exactly intimidating.
“First, I wasn’t looking at you,” I explained gently. “Second, I think it’d be a good idea to calm down and be nice, or else that behemoth with the pepper spray behind you is going to throw you out of here.” I nod at the security guard who is just looking up from his crossword puzzle.
“Yeah, you betta back up, boyeee!” he crows. “You know I’ll fuck yo shit up!”
Okay, now he’s being annoying instead of amusing.
I sigh and and turn around to face him, still holding my aluminum clipboard. If need be, it’ll make a dandy crease somewhere up amongst those dirty blonde dreadlocks.
“I’m standing right here, kid,” I tell him. “And if you don’t chill your shit right now, someone in this hospital is likely to turn you over their knee and give you the spanking you so richly deserve. Might even be me.”
Before he can register how thoroughly he’s been dissed, a walking eclipse in a navy blue uniform rumbles, “Yo, there a problem here?” Officer Kolache has arrived.
“One of the other children poked him with something sharp on the playground, and he’s mad because the teacher hasn’t kissed his boo boo yet. What he doesn’t know is that he’s making a mess all over the floor.”
Officer Kolache looks the kid up and down and points, “You bleedin’ again, son. Now shut yo punk-assed mouf and go back to yo room if you want the Doc to take care of you.”
At that, little Marshall Mathers looks down at the rather insignificant bloodstain on his gown, and the blood trickling down his leg, and damned near passes out in his swoon. Officer Kolache catches him before he wilts, and patiently walks him on wobbly legs back to his room.
He shuts the door behind him, and shuffles back to his waiting crossword puzzle. “Assault victims,” he chuckles. “Give ‘em five minutes, and they’ll show you just why they got their asses whipped in the first place.”
