Beatdown

​“Hey, you!” I slur.
 
The boy gets out of his car and says: “Who, me?”
 
“Where’s the party at?”
 
He says: “No, man.  No party.  Just getting some smokes and going home.”
 
“Do you got a girlfriend?”
 
“Why, are you a fag or something?”
 
“No, it’s just friendly conversation.”
 
The boy shrugs.  “Whatever,” he says.
 
“What do you do around here anyway?”
 
“What’s it to you?”
 
“I just … I just, I don’t know, why does anyone care about anything anymore?  The world is meaningless, life is meaningless, the end is coming.  Your existence is pretty futile, too.”
 
I look up at the stars.
 
“It’s a pretty big universe we live in and none of it even matters.”
 
He says: “You’re an idiot!”
 
“Prove me wrong,” I tell him.  “What gives you meaning?”
 
He looks at me.
 
I continue: “For me …”  I stop.  “For me it’s this bottle,” I say, indicating the 20 oz. bottle of coke in my hand.  “You want some?”
 
I hold the bottle out to him.
 
“You’re an idiot,” he says again.
 
“Okay, where’s the party tonight?”
 
He unzips his hoodie and shows me his T-shirt.
 
“Okay,” he says.  “I teach mixed martial arts.”
 
“You’re a fighter, huh?”
 
“And you’re an idiot.  I’m gonna get my smokes now.”
 
“Bet I could kick your ass,” I say.
 
He continues to the door.
 
I hold on to the side of the building so as not to fall off the face of the earth.  The ground is moving.  The few cars in the lot seesaw with the drifts and drafts of the concrete ocean swirling like a stormy sea.
 
He continues to the door.
 
“When you come back out,” I say from behind him, “I’m gonna smash this bottle over your head.”
 
It doesn’t take long for the explosion to erupt.  So fast I fall and smash my chin on the ground.  He is on me.  I can’t see anything but red.  The shattered parking lot moves so fast around me as I get tossed about like a dirty heap of clothing.  My head cracks the concrete as it is lifted up and shoved back down.
 
“I’m gonna fuckin kill you!”
 
“Why?” I scream through tears and blood.  “Why are you so mad at me?”
 
“I will kill you!”
 
I feel a hand in my hair, and I glance over and see the Indian store clerk standing out there; he’s laughing and looking at me.  He turns and goes back into the store just as my face is pressed against the ground again.
 
“I’m gonna fuckin kill you!”
 
I hear the tearing of tires, the roar of an engine, and a strong, confident voice.  A man’s voice, coming from afar.
 
“Get off him!”
 
I see another pair of feet, feel two hands lift me up, and I get pushed into the back of a taxicab.
 
“I’m calling the cops.”
 
I see through the blood-soaked window as the boy takes off running.
 
The driver gets in and says: “Who was that?  Why was he doing that to you?”
 
I start to cry.
 
“It’s okay, son.  Where do you live?”
 
I don’t say anything.  My face aches, my head throbs.
 
I can’t speak.  I swallow a gulp of blood.
 
“It’s okay,” he says again.  “I’ll give you a ride.”